Civil War: Rogue Dungeon Book 2 (Chapter 3 - 4)

Chapter 3

Market Run

“…and the skewers!” Kaz said, clasping his wide belly as he gazed fondly into the dancing flames of the kitchen’s hearth. “So juicy and yet so crisp. It was that moment that Kaz fell in love with food,” he concluded bobbing his oversized head enthusiastically.

“Love at first bite?” Zyra offered.

Roark chuckled as he equipped the Ilexim Royal Guard Helm the huge Thursr had looted from his latest turn at griefing. On their first trip to the Averi market, Kaz had passed himself off as a hero, hiding his face behind a menpō faceplate from the boxy wooden O-Rogiri armor. Too small to do the same at the time, Roark had posed as Kaz’s unique Changeling familiar. Now, however, as a Jotnar, Roark was tall enough to pass for one of the pale elves. He hooked the black veil across the helm’s opening, obscuring his nose and mouth. An over-gangly and very pale elf, true, but still passable.

So long as no one looked too closely.

“Are we ready?” he asked, eyeing Zyra and Kaz in turns as he pulled the Town Portal scroll from his Inventory. He cracked the seal with a razor-sharp thumbnail and tossed the parchment to the flagstones. A shimmering violet portal opened just this side of the rough-hewn table.

“Yes!” Kaz lowered his menpō into place with a clunk as though gearing up to go into battle.

Zyra hesitated, fiddling with her hand wrappings. “On second thought, I’m going to stay here. Catch a couple more rounds of griefing.” She shrugged, doing an appalling job of projecting indifference. “I’m not too far from level seven. And with you two out, someone’s got to keep an eye on the Citadel. Make sure none of the Changelings burn the place down.”

“But Zyra has to come!” Kaz protested. “The marketplace is full of the strange and wonderful. So many sights Troll eyes have never seen before, so many smells Troll noses have never smelled—”

“So many places Troll guts have never been spilled …” Zyra offered, tugging at one of the snowy ringlets spilling from beneath her hood.

Roark opened his mouth to reassure her, but before he could, Kaz settled a hand as wide as a stew pot on Zyra’s shoulder. 

“Roark was afraid the first time he went to the marketplace, too,” the mighty Thursr said. “But Kaz explained to Roark that he only had to pretend to be like everyone else and the heroes wouldn’t even notice him—”

Roark raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“—and now Roark’s not afraid at all,” Kaz finished.

That wasn’t entirely true, either. Experience told Roark that the day he stopped feeling anxiety at walking through the streets of a city where most of the populace wanted him dead was the day he would end up with his head on a pike at the gates. But the benefit of this trip far outweighed the risk.

“No one will recognize you for a Troll,” Roark said, gesturing toward Zyra’s hood. The Reaver took a step back as if he had tried to pull it off. “With that, some mage’s robes, and a pair of gauntlets, you’ll look more human than two-thirds of the heroes out there.”

The shadowy hood swiveled back to stare down the shimmering portal. After a moment, Zyra sighed. “Which one of you has mage’s robes?”

Roark opened his inventory and pulled free Robes of the Acolyte—the fabric silky smooth and of the deepest purple, edged in loops of silver. They looked custom built for the Reaver. He tossed them to her with a flick of the wrist and a lopsided smile. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped them into place. Once they were all properly disguised, Roark led the way into the portal. The black veil over his nose and mouth fluttered as an icy breeze blew across his skin. Goose bumps prickled down his back and arms, and then he was stepping out into brilliant yellow sunshine.

A great stone fountain stood just ahead at the center of a cobblestone plaza, spraying diamond-clear water into the air. Surrounding the fountain were dozens of shimmering portals with heroes stepping into and out of them, chatting to one another or laughing or inspecting wounds and battered armor as if they’d just escaped a harrowing battle.

Once again Roark marveled at the ease of portal travel here. Back in Traisbin, the mildest side effects one might expect were vomiting and blinding headaches, and portals frequently spit the traveler out in unexpected places. Half in half out of a stone wall to die in agony, at the bottom of the ocean to be crushed under billions of tons of water, or a few miles from the intended destination to be slightly inconvenienced if it happened to be inclement walking weather. Roark would’ve given the skin off his back to know what it was about Hearthworld that made portal travel so reliable.

The gentle tock and clunk of wooden armor behind Roark let him know that Kaz had made it through the portal in once piece. Together, they turned and watched the portal for Zyra. Just as Roark was beginning to think she’d gotten cold feet, the hooded Reaver stepped through, the purple robes fluttering behind her as she moved.

She glanced around the fountain court at all the heroes, then raised a leather gloved hand to the sun even though its light didn’t appear to pierce the shadowy depths of her hood.

“It’s bright out here,” she grumbled.

Her fingers were trembling just slightly.

“Even Infernal chimeras need a little sun once in a while,” Roark said, hoping to dispel some of her unease with a little needling. He nodded his head in the general direction of the marketplace. “Come on, we’ll want to be quick. We should be fine, but no point in overstaying if we don’t have to.”

They followed a cobbled street away from the fountain court, double and triple story buildings raising up around them. The crowd wasn’t nearly as thick this time as it had been on Roark’s first trip to Averi City. The three of them were still surrounded on all sides and occasionally had to shoulder their way through particularly dense bunches of heroes clustered around stalls and street performers, but more often than not they were able to walk abreast down the street, boots clacking on the cobblestones below.

As they drew closer to the marketplace proper, Roark caught the scent of roasting meat, baking pastries, and fresh fruits and vegetables. On his right, Kaz kept licking his lips and drinking in great lungfuls of air. To Roark’s left, Zyra seemed to be trying to look in all directions at once and listing closer and closer to his side, which wasn’t entirely unwelcome. If not for the likelihood that she would misunderstand the gesture and poison him, he might’ve taken her hand to reassure her.

Soon they had come to the outskirts of the sprawling bazaar. The whole place was a haphazard warren of shifting, narrowly packed alleyways, composed of wooden stalls with colorful awnings, casting shade over the cobblestone streets. Humans, dark and light elves, and muscular rogs wandered between impromptu shops and stacks of goods laid out on vibrantly colorful tarps. The low roar of hundreds of conversations was punctuated by the shouting of merchants hawking their wares—blades, spices, armor, charms, healings—loudly flattering customers, or bullying passersby who didn’t give in and stop.

“A spice seller!” Kaz exclaimed, pointing a fat finger at a striped red and orange canopy over shelves filled with glass jars, wooden bowls, and copper-ringed barrels. “Roark, Kaz has to visit the spice seller! Salt is a good spice—maybe even the best—but Kaz has also read about garlic and paprika and many others besides.”

Roark scrutinized the vendors surrounding the striped tent. A stall stocked with weapons and armor caught his eye; presiding over the little shop was a familiar merchant with a too-wide grin, who was haggling amiably with a rog over a battle axe.

“Looks like our old friend Variok’s here, too,” Roark said. “I’ve got a few items to sell before we head over to Mogrifa & Mogrifa. You might as well see what the spice seller’s got to offer in the meantime.”

The Thursr bounded off toward the spice tent like an overgrown puppy. Hopefully he wouldn’t break anything in his eager rush—they were blending in but couldn’t afford any extra attention.

Still, Kaz’s simple enthusiasm for life—and food above all—was joyous to watch. Smiling behind his black veil, Roark headed for the weapons and armor stall at a much more reasonable pace with Zyra trailing just behind him like a shadow. The rog was just leaving one battle axe richer as the two of them stepped up.

“Ah, my friend,” Variok boomed cheerfully. “You have come just in time! I am desperate, absolutely desperate to rid myself of this Unique Kite Shield of Elemental Fury. The price I am asking is ridiculous—cheaper than the air we breathe. Something must be wrong with me to part with such a unique item for such a paltry sum. You simply cannot afford not to buy.”

“Actually, mate, I’m here to lighten my load,” Roark said. “And I think you’re going to be impressed with how little I want for such quality workmanship.”

Variok threw back his head and boomed a laugh.

“Come,” the merchant said, slapping Roark on the back. “Let us haggle together.”

While they dickered over the extra ring mail shirts and set of Fulgurite Gauntlets Roark had brought along, Zyra stood close by watching the crowd as if she expected someone to leap out of it and accuse them of being Trolls. At one point, a mage in a shining silk kimono wandered a little too close and a poisoned flechette appeared in the hooded Reaver’s hand. Without pausing in his haggling, Roark reached out and closed his hand over hers, pushing it down. Reluctantly, Zyra made the flechette disappear again with a little flourish of one hand.

When the last of the gold and armor changed hands—at a price that would’ve done Roark’s Lyoku traveler mother proud—Roark dipped his head to the grinning merchant. 

“I’m afraid you got the better of me,” Roark lied. “Next time I’ll come better prepared for your tricks.”

“You rob me blind and slander my good name in one day!” Variok shouted cheerfully. “I cannot afford another visit from you, my friend.” As Roark left the stall, the merchant called, “You come back to Variok any time you are in Averi City,” after him.

Zyra fell into step beside Roark.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” he said. “We’ve got a little extra gold for books, and you didn’t have to poison anyone. That’s what we call a win-win from where I come from.”

“And where is that exactly?” she asked, voice low, but tone indicating she was genuinely curious. 

Roark paused, grimaced. “I hail from the city of Korvo in a land called Traisbin. It’s a beautiful place, similar to this in some ways, though different in many others. In my world, there are no Trolls, no chimeras. It was a free land once, until the Tyrant King, Marek Konig Ustar, rose to prominence and power.” He reached up, running his fingers over the World Stone Pendant, tucked away beneath his armor, pressed up against his pale chest. What role did the strange Pendant play in Ustar’s rise he wondered for the hundredth time since coming to Hearthworld. “In that land, the monsters rule with an iron fist, while people like me grasp to whatever glimmer of hope we can find.” 

Roark fell silent as they stepped into the spice seller’s tent. Kaz was inside, listening enraptured to the dark elf behind the table.

“And he defeated every single Infernali and Malaika who came to take it,” the elf was saying. “And fixed himself up delicious and diverse meals the likes of which no man had ever yet tasted. Meals so divine that they gave him powers of strength and speed like no man had ever yet heard.”

Kaz ooohed with wonder. “Where can it be found?”

“Well, I got this moth-eaten old rag about it.” The elf held up a crumbling book with water-stained pages. “That is, if you’re interested and you’ve got a little gold burning a hole in your pocket.”

“Kaz has plenty of gold! Please, take it! Take it all,” the Thursr said, holding out both hands filled to overflowing with gold pieces.

Roark shouldered in between his friend and the suddenly very cheerful spice seller.

“He’ll give you two gold,” Roark said, eyeing the battered tome with exaggerated disdain. “And that’s being generous.”

“Roark, no, it is worth all the gold in the world,” Kaz hissed in a whisper that could’ve carried a rural mile. “This book tells of a legendary weapon and cooking utensil known as the Meat Tenderizer, which turns any food you touch into a Gourmet feast!”

“Two and not a cent more,” Roark said firmly.

“I couldn’t take less than five,” the elf said, lovingly caressing the disintegrating cover. “Do not let its humble appearance deceive you. It isn’t the book that’s of value, you see. It’s what’s inside.”

“Damn it all,” Roark cursed under his breath. The old bastard sure knew how to twist a book-lover’s heart. “Four—and that’s highway banditry of the highest order.”

Roark thought he heard a choked feminine laugh behind him, but when he looked back, Zyra’s hood was facing away, supposedly watching the crowd. He returned his attention to the elf, who was still hemming and hawing over the new price.

“Oh, I suppose I could give it away for that,” the elf finally said.

Kaz whooped with joy and shoved his gold at the spice seller.
 

Chapter 4

The Weapon Trainer

Roark stopped outside the spice seller’s tent, looking for the fastest way across the marketplace to the arcane bookshop. Kaz barreled into the back of him, nose buried in the decrepit book.

“Kaz is sorry,” the Thursr apologized, looking up from reading. “But Roark has to read this. Look!” He held the book out. “It was written just for Kaz!”

As Roark leaned in to get a closer look at the text, a box appeared before him.

                                                        ╠═╦╬╧╪

                                                    In Good Taste

Gourmet foods provide a range of temporary boosts to the body and mind, but not everyone who can stir a stew possesses the necessary culinary acumen to become a Gourmet. To prove you have what it takes, locate and gather these exceedingly rare Ingredients:

(2) Saffron Crocuses

(4) White Truffles

(2) Buzz Fish Caviar

(4) Chocolate Orchid Bean Pods

Objective: Gather the Ingredients before time limit

Rewards: The Legendary Meat Tenderizer, The Gourmet Troll’s Cookbook, 100 gold, (1) kilo Salt

Time Limit: (1) month

Failure: Fail to find all Ingredients before the time limit,

Or gather the wrong Ingredient (for example: coquelicot crocuses, black truffles, sawgar caviar, vanilla orchid bean pods)

“It takes a discerning chef to taste the subtle differences between a good meal and a Gourmet meal.”

– The Flavor Text

                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Roark dismissed the box, then immediately leapt backward, startled. Kaz’s nose was an inch from his face. The Thursr’s black eyes shined with excitement over his wooden menpō.

“Kaz has to complete this quest, Roark. Cooking food is a good and noble calling—Cooking with Gry Feliri said so—and no Troll has ever had such a calling before. But to become a Gourmet,” he whispered reverentially. “Kaz has never wanted anything more in his life.”

“I’ll help if I can,” Roark said, slapping the Thursr on the boxy wooden pauldron, surprised to find that he made the offer with complete sincerity. Just a few short days ago, he would’ve brushed off the errand as a silly waste of time. Having friends had a strange way of shifting one’s priorities, it seemed.

“Roark.” Zyra’s leather-gloved hand touched his elbow. She nodded toward a pair of heroes standing in front of a nearby stall that sold nothing but enormous wheels of cheese. “Listen. Sound like anything you’re looking for?”

“—had to clear Eternal Rest Overlook and bring back this sword,” a human wearing bulky silver plate mail was saying, raising the pommel of the heavily notched shortsword resting on his shoulder. “It’s way worth it, though. Once you’re in with the dude, he’ll train you in basically any weapon.”

His rog companion gave a low whistle. “If I didn’t have so freaking many quests active right now …”

“It won’t hurt anything to pick up one more,” the human said. “And it’s usually just a simple fetch quest someplace close by. Total cake walk, broski. I got this done in like an hour. I have to log out pretty soon, but I’m headed over there to drop this off first, if you wanna come with.”

“What the hell,” the rog said with a shrug, “I’m not getting anything else done today.”

The pair of them turned and headed into the hustle and bustle of the crowd, quickly swallowed from view by the press of bodies.

Cogs whirled in Roark’s mind. A combat trainer who would take on multiple students at a time would be infinitely more valuable than a single-use enchanted skill book. Probably easier on the purse than buying books for each Troll on the first floor as well. And if there was a chance this trainer could help Roark unlock his Melee Skills, then it would be well worth the time spent finding him.

“Quick, we need to follow them,” Roark said. “Without attracting their attention.”

Zyra’s hood dipped in a nod. “Then you need to follow me. Try to keep up.”

She sank into a crouch and took a step into the shadows of a nearby tent filled with rolled carpets. Wisps of black smoke curled up from where she’d been standing.

Roark jerked his head at Kaz. “Come on.”

They made their way through the marketplace throng, catching glimpses here and there of Zyra’s back as she stepped between shadows. None of the heroes milling around the stands and booths paid the Reaver any attention except the few who clutched their purses close and snapped at her to keep her hands off.

“Kaz and Roark should sneak, too,” Kaz said as they left the bazaar behind. “It will help us blend in with Zyra.”

Roark shook his head. “At our size, sneaking isn’t bloody likely, mate. If anything, the pair of us trying to tiptoe around will only draw more attention.”

But Kaz was already hunched over and creeping toward the street with exaggerated care. His boxy O-Rogiri armor clacked and rattled like wooden wind chimes as he moved. As Roark had suspected, the Thursr made more noise sneaking than when he walked normally.

Just ahead, Zyra showed herself long enough to beckon them toward a side street, then disappeared again. Kaz nodded emphatically at her, then looked over his shoulder, wheeling his arm wildly at Roark with a sound like a wine barrel full of stones bouncing down a mountainside. The heroes and merchants at the edge of the bazaar stared as the Thursr in disguise threw himself into a graceless roll down the side street.

Roark sighed and followed, standing upright, trying his best to ignore the legion of curious stares and barely concealed laughter.

Their slow chase wound through a narrow alley, then doglegged off between a series of leaning, decrepit buildings that stunk of liquor and rotting fish. When Kaz and Roark turned the final corner, they found Zyra leaning against a cinder brick building down the street. Over her head hung a wooden shingle with the picture of a face with stringy black hair and a pair of ghostly eyes poking out of what appeared to be murky water.

The Sulky Selkie

Seeing her, Kaz threw himself into another tumbling roll across the street, then bounced to his feet and pressed his back up against the wall beside her with a wooden clatter. Roark shook his head, lips pursed into a thin line, and walked across the street.

“Your heroes are inside,” Zyra said matter of factly, gesturing toward the door. “They never even suspected they had a shadow.” Her hood glanced pointedly in Kaz’s direction. “Well, not a Reaver shadow, anyway,” she amended, picking a nonexistent bit of dirt from the sleeve of her mage’s robes.

Roark tried and failed to suppress a smile. “No one likes a showoff.”

“Tell that to your face,” she said as she pushed away from the wall, “because your grin says otherwise.” She opened the cockeyed door studded with rusty rivets and made a flourishing bow. “After you stealthy gents.”

Inside, the Sulky Selkie was just like many another little back alley taverns Roark had frequented back in Traisbin. Dingy, smoke-filled, and loud, but a good place to while away an hour or two eavesdropping on local news or meeting up with other Resistance fighters. A musician with a long-necked sitar plucked out a sharp-sounding melody in the corner while a drunk swayed mostly against the rhythm nearby. The majority of the patrons were clustered together in twos and threes at rough wooden tables scattered around the room, all wearing the drab colors of hard laborers. 

The heroes they’d tailed to the Selkie were easy to spot—they were the only ones in the tavern wearing armor. The pair had taken a seat near the bar and were chatting with a pale, grizzled-looking man with a leather eyepatch and a ring of wiry gray hair encircling a shiny pate.

Roark led Kaz and Zyra to a table by the wall. Though their armor would mark them as obviously not locals, Roark slouched into his chair as if weary from a hard day’s work and signaled the doughy bartender. Nothing was more suspicious than sitting around in a tavern without a drink. Zyra and Kaz were drawing enough attention—one coiled tightly enough to spring on the first person who walked by and the other with his wooden faceplate deep in a book that was nearly disintegrating in his oversized hands.

Up by the bar, one of the heroes they’d followed pulled out the battle-notched shortsword and handed it to the grizzled old man.

“Well, now, there’s a sight for a sore eye,” he said, his gruff voice cutting through the sitar music like a gnarl-toothed hacksaw. He raised the blade to the light, turning it this way and that, the edge gleaming in the dull light cast by wrought iron wall sconces. “Never thought I’d see this beaut again. ’Course, I haven’t much to repay you with. Gold’s hard to come by for an old arena hand. But if you’re interested, I might be able to show you a move or two with that warhammer you’re wearin’.”

The bartender brought their drinks and slammed them on the table, foam sloshing over the sides. Zyra jumped at the sound, but thankfully didn’t stab the man in the neck.

“That’ll be a gold apiece,” the bartender said, hooking his thumbs in his belt, which struggled mightily to hold his pants up.

Roark handed over the coins, eager for the man to get lost so he could go back to eavesdropping on the conversation at the bar.

But as the bartender turned to go, Kaz stopped him. 

“Dude sir,” the Thursr said in his best attempt to sound like one of the heroes. “Do you know where Kaz can find a saffron crocus, white truffle, buzz fish caviar, or chocolate orchid? They are for a quest.”

At the bar, the grizzled old fighter took a few demonstrative swings with the hero’s warhammer, cords of wiry muscle appearing in his arms. His movements weren’t the feeble motions of an old man past his prime, but precise and deadly. Experienced. Not a bit of energy wasted.

Roark tried to listen past Kaz and the bartender, but couldn’t hear what the old man was saying as he handed the weapon back to its owner. The hero gave the warhammer a swing, mimicking the trainer’s motion.

“Well, I don’t know nothing about any truffles or orchids,” the bartender was saying, wiping his hands on a rag stuck in his belt. “But me mam used to gather crocus flowers off the slope of the Hearth. They won’t grow nowhere else. And you’ll find the buzz fish spawning not far away—down in the mineral hot springs. They like the heat.”

“Thank you,” Kaz told the bartender, dipping his head graciously. “Pwned it.”

The hero and his friend were leaving, their business finished. Roark scowled behind his veil.

“You come on back anytime you get a bit of spare coin,” the grizzled fighter said, waving a calloused hand. “Ol’ Griff’ll be happy to train you again any time.”

“Wait here,” Roark whispered, grabbing his tankard as he stood. Then he stopped and nodded at the untouched tankard in front of Zyra’s tensely still form. “Drink your ale and try to breathe a little, Mistress Stealth. You look like a stone statue.”

Her hood turned to him in what Roark felt certain was a glare, then Zyra picked up her tankard and took a series of spitefully large gulps. Slurps almost. For a moment, the huge mug pushed back the bottom of the Reaver’s hood, and Roark found himself mesmerized by a glimpse of a midnight blue chin and cheek amidst the snowy curls.

Then she slammed the empty tankard on the table and let out a loud burp, the hood falling back into place.

“Better?” Zyra asked.

Roark had to scramble to figure out what she was referring to. His comment about sitting still as a statue. Of course.

“A bit,” he said, fighting to sound glib. “Though somewhere in the middle ground between stock-still and ale-guzzling might be preferable.”

“Gry Feliri says a satisfied expellation of gas is one of the highest complements a brewer can receive,” Kaz said without looking up from his book.

Zyra raised one gloved hand as if to say, There you have it.

Roark shook his head and offered the two of them his back. The grizzled old fighter Griff had returned to his stool at the bar, the shortsword tucked safely away in his inventory. Roark slipped into the seat beside him and gestured with his tankard.

“Can I buy you a drink, mate?”

The old man chuckled, and gave him a sidelong glance—a tricky thing to accomplish with only one eye. “I wouldn’t spurn a scotch if you’ve got the gold.”

Roark nodded. The bartender hustled over to the shelf, pulled down a dusty green bottle, and filled a short clay cup. Rather than drop this onto the bar as he had the ales, the bartender withheld the cup, and proffered an empty, expectant hand, waiting for Roark to pony up four gold coins. A near fortune, really. But the fighter’s services would be priceless, so Roark happily forked over the coins. Once payment was safely in hand, the bartender eased the cup gently onto to sticky wood surface, placing it down carefully. Almost reverently.

“I thank you, friend,” the grizzled old fighter said, toasting Roark before taking a sip. He grimaced, then sighed with pleasure. “Mighty fine. That’ll buy you a sympathetic ear and a closed mouth about the three of you bein’ out on the town.”

“Excuse me?” Roark said, feigning ignorance. “Why shouldn’t we be in town?”

“Nobody’s judgin’ nobody here. I’ve fought back-to-back in the arena with more mobs than a pup like you can count.” The old man swirled the scotch around his cup. “Folk think chimera are nothing more than mindless beasts, but ol’ Griff knows better. I learned it firsthand. Paid for that lesson in blood and sweat.” He scratched at the wiry gray hair behind one scarred ear. “What I can’t figure is why a group of your kind would be wanderin’ around Averi City.”

This was certainly unexpected. Roark looked down into his ale to cover his surprise and found a strand of hair the same pale yellow as the bartender’s stuck to the lip of the glass. Rather unsavory, that.

“Lest you’re with that Troll outfit everybody’s been flappin’ their gums about of late,” Griff added, not quite hiding his knowing grin behind his own cup. “The dungeon that isn’t actin’ like a proper dungeon anymore.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Roark picked the hair off his tankard and tossed it down.

“We’re looking for a Melee trainer,” he said. “I don’t know what your going rate is here, but I can offer you a steady stream of customers ready to pay it. At least fifty of them to start.”

Griff choked on his scotch. The grizzled old fighter cleared his throat and tried to regain some of his dignity with a careless shrug. “Mayhap we could work out an arraignment of sorts, but there’s no way you could ferry that number of”—he paused, dropping his raspy voice low—“your kind all the way up here.”

“Indeed not,” Roark replied. “You would need to relocate for this particular position.”

“The Cruel Citadel?”

“The Cruel Citadel,” Roark confirmed. “But I could offer you a sizeable bonus if you were willing to move. Say, one-percent of the value of whatever we take from the unwanted visitors to our realm.”

Griff lifted his mug, swirling it as he searched the amber liquid as though it might contain some secret wisdom. 

“One percent,” he replied after a time, “but I always get a flat rate, ten gold, from anyone who wants to train with me. And I’ll need assurance. I don’t plan to take up your cause, mind you—for me it’s all about the gold—so I need protection from both the heroes and your folk. My kind, we respawn, but death is no pleasant thing, so I’d avoid it if I can.”

“Understood,” Roark replied with a nod. “All of those arrangements can be made. I’d also like to offer you an opportunity to earn more. We need more specialized workers and skill trainers, such as yourself. So, if you think of anyone and can persuade them to work with us, I’ll reward you with a bonus. Let’s say, an additional quarter-percent share increase for every new member you bring on board.”

Roark could see the wheels turning in Griff’s head accompanied by a greedy glint in the man’s one good eye. “Mob gold spends just the same as hero gold to me,” he said after a time. “When do I start?”