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Magic Brian explains his, uh, proposal, to you and Soup in the cart, because the guy with the ugly jeans and the axe is still in the inn, along with the potato-smeared dwarf who would pay him to throw that axe at you and Soup. But mostly Soup.
Brian’s standing at the front of the cart, trying not to be jostled by the horse’s every footstep. He does an okay job, asides from some sleazy swaying. Soup and you, never to be outdone, and obviously superior in every aspect, lean against the posts on either side of back. Neither of you sway, and you hope Brian notices.
“So,” Brian begins, “I am a… freelancing… Reclaimer, let’s say. And that's a Reclaimer with a capital ‘R’.”
This… isn't exactly what you were expecting, but it's… okay, so far. You wish he would skip to the part where he gives you and Soup money, but you suppose you can tolerate a little build up.
“Mm-hm, mm-hm,” Soup says, nodding along, allowing you to stare judgmentally at Brian’s spider tabard. It’s really a hideous tabard.
“Right,” Brian says, flashing a bright white smile at the two of you. “So I Reclaim, right? It's what I do. It's in the name.”
“Reclaiming pal, got it,” you say, and flick your eyes up from Brian’s (horrible, tasteless) tabard.
“I’m glad.” The New Elfington accent is really seeping into Brian’s speech, and it may be the only thing capable of redeeming him from the horrible act of wearing that tabard.
“Unfortunately, I’ve run into a small problem, concerning my former employers and the axe wielding, ripped orc woman my employers employ.”
“Y’know, I’ve got to say,” Soup comments “ripped orc women sound like the least problematic thing I can think of.”
Brian hums thoughtfully. “You would think so,” he finally says, eyebrows slanting up into a dramatically mournful expression. You've seen funeralgoers with less tragedy. “but, alas! I am tragically to be married.”
You have enough goodwill towards elf-kind to hope that the poor soul Brian is marrying is handling the clothing scheme for their wedding, because clearly, even handling casual dress is too much for him.
There’s an awkward silence as Soup ponders the best way to steer the conversation back towards where it's supposed to be (money), so you take initiative and step up.
“Right, right, right,” you say. “So the ol’ boss hasn't taken your absence gracefully, huh?”
“They’ve tried to kill me seven times and counting,” Brian cheerfully announces.
“Bastards,” Soup drawls. “So you want us around to, uh, y’know…” and makes a wiggly hand movement mimicking setting someone on fire.
“Exactly!” Brian exclaims.
There’s a lot that Brian… hasn't covered- what he's reclaiming, just whom the fuck are his ex-employers, what season his wedding’s in. Important things, probably. Payment hasn't even been discussed, and neither has the duration of whatever the fuck he wants you to do. Agreeing to this, without even knowing what ‘this’ is would be the height of dumbassery. Stupidity at its finest.
Soup wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at you.
You wiggle yours back, and her face splits into a grin with the shape and spirit of a ghost pepper.
“We’re in!” she announces, and spreads her arms out like a magnificent peacock capable of lighting so much shit on fire. You cross your legs, and tilt your hat lower over your eyes. You're sure that nobody has ever seen a greater sight than the two of you.
Brian’s smile widens. “Fan-tas-tic,” he drawls, with a proper New Elfington accent (thank god you’re among people with normal vocal cords once again.)
Brian brandishes his long, carved staff. It's pretty ugly, you note. Maybe he's going for a matching outfit. “I suppose we’ll be off, then, darling minions. We’re going cave-hopping.”
You don't appreciate being called a darling minion. You are an icon of style, of cookery prowess, (of murdering dozens, dozens, of people who trusted you. You haven't picked up a pan since you met Soup.)- nausea twirls in the pit of your stomach and you start to distract yourself by listing the ways Brian sucks. (#1: his tacky and overdone purple eyeshadow.)
What feels like days later (in actuality 3 hours, according to the position of the sun and Brian’s tour guide-like nattering), you have come to the surprising and informed conclusion that Brian’s worst quality is, by far, the quality of his cart. And that's hard to do, considering your list of Ways Brian Sucks reached #46 in less than five minutes.
Brian’s cart, in short, is shit. It is the shittiest of shitty carts, the metaphorical devil’s dick of transportation. Even the original cart you traveled in wasn't as discreetly rickety, or outrageously bumpy as Brian’s cart. It reminds you of the long, lonely days of jumping from one caravan full of uncaring strangers to another. The axle is crooked, and anything set down on the floor is destined to slowly roll over to the left side of the cart. The entire situation is horrendous (except for Soup, who has just launched into her 29th rendition of ‘Fantasy Toxic’ by Bridget Swords. Both Bridget and Soup are legendary.)
You sigh, and chuck another foraged nut at a stray squirrel. You nail it, and the squirrel flinches back, and scurries down the tree, anxious to escape anymore headshots. Soup pauses between ‘intoxicate me’ and ‘I think I'm ready now’ to congratulate you. Brian doesn't even pause in his speech on his fiancee’s hair. (Brian’s a bitch-ass son of a cheap whore.)
The cart runs over a small twig again, and you're pretty sure you have the world’s largest collection of brutally unfair bruises, accumulated through means of stupidity and incompetence by now. Fuck this entire job.
2 hours later, when Soup has moved on to ‘All-Star’ by Fantasy Smash Mouth, Brian clears his throat and claps. Then he starts saying something, but you don't start listening until Soup, in a move that amounts to practical treachery, kicks you in the ribs. You had been developing a- in your opinion, which is the only opinion that really matters- habit of not listening to Brian, and there goes all your progress, right out the window.
“And here,” Brian is saying “is where I must make an ieensy-weensy stop. I promise, it will be very quick, I'm only here to suborn a gang of… goblins? Bugbears? I don't know, I wasn't really listening when I was being told about them. I like to focus on the bigger picture you see.”
You don't see, and you don't really want to, but for the sake of getting Brian to shut up you nod. “Yeah, totally man. Go do your thing,” you tell him.
“Ex-cel-lant,” says Brian, and your head throbs. Loup jumps up, which would cause some alarm if you did not know that Soup was entirely capable of handling herself in a reasonable, self-preserving manner.
“Goblins sound so punk, I am 100% in with you, Brian, my pal,” says Soup.
Or not.
“Uhhh,” you say.
“Marvelous!” Brian says.
(You disagree; you disagree very much.)
You don't know how kindly Soup would take to you tackling her back down to the bottom of the cart, but you can guess. You guess Soup would fireball your ass, and as she currently happens to be your first and only friend in like, your entire life, actually, you would rather that didn't happen.
(It's probably only expected that you have had a grand total of one, singular friend, that you're probably going to lose soon anyways, no matter how attached you happen to be getting. You're stupid enough that the world could fly by without you noticing jackshit, even though you happen to be on the world. You're narcissistic and self centered, and the last time you had a kind thought was when you were seven. Really, the fact shouldn't hurt you as much as it does.)
“On second thought,” you announce “Taako’s down for goblins.”
That was the most poorly thought out, impulsive thing you've done in the past twenty four hours. Considering all the poorly thought out, impulsive things you've done in the past twenty four hours, you'd write that down as a fucking achievement.