Chapter Text
"I tell you - he killed the Prince!"
Half the tavern immediately erupted into renewed shouting and laughter at the rather brazen statement.
"No, no, consider it!" Even the man who had uttered it was laughing, gesturing with his tankard like a bard - or perhaps a jester setting up a fantastic joke. "Prince Vash hasn't made public appearances for years now. Delicate constitution this, nervous disposition that, lingering injuries - I saw him at the Mayfeast celebrations when he was a child, hanging off the hand of Good Queen Rem (God rest her soul) and he was just as hale and hearty as his brother, and more sociable besides. And yet, you don't hear of the young prince anymore these days, do you? Nothing proper, nothing formal. Five years ago there was all that talk about marrying him off to the Southern Lands, and then, suddenly! No royal engagement! Nothing! And no more Prince Vash at the Mayfeast, or at the Solstice, or at the High Holy Days. The Prince is dead, no question about it!"
Grumbling, laughter, rolled eyes. The patrons here had clearly heard this far-fetched tale many times before.
"And you say..." a man turned around at the bar, raising his voice over the chatter. "That it's Eriks, the Thievin' Typhoon, the Bandit King, the Angel of Robbers - that it's him who killed Prince Vash?"
"Well, yes, obviously, ah-" the wannabe entertainer's eyes caught on the Pilgrim's Cross propped up against the bar next to the man, and his priestly raiments. "...Holy Father. What brings a travelling priest to these parts!? It's a rough corner of the world, Father."
"Me? Oh, I go wherever the Lord sends me, 'course." The priest folded his hands and smiled, crooked grin spreading around the finely-carved pipe he was smoking. "And He will surely safeguard me from any brigands who're under the misapprehension that a Man of the Cloth has anythin' worth stealing. But you were sayin', about Eriks?"
"Ah, well, he's really risen to fame and fortune since four, five years ago, might be the killing was his first job - and from the first day, the very first, the royal guard has been rabid in how hard they're going after him!" The man continued eagerly, delighted to finally be telling his story to a new victim who had never heard it before. "I mean. 60 Million Double Doubloons! Must be half the royal coffers they're offering, what bandit could be worth that, eh? And all the posters say not to fight him, not to talk to him, only call the royal guard, because they want him alive - why? 'Cause he's dangerous, obviously! A cold-blooded murderer! And they need to interrogate him to know who sent him to do the assassination!"
(The priest puffed on his pipe as he listened, dark eyes glittering with amusement. His other hand was lazily moving, fingers flicking a fire spell into existence in a carelessly-elegant snap, and then extinguishing it again.)
"King Knives won't rest until he's caught his brother's murderer, I'm sure of this!" The man announced dramatically. "And Eriks, this master of subterfuge, will keep evading him. The man who killed a prince - not even a king can catch him, and that's the truth of it!"
"Yer full'a shit, Garth!" Another man shouted from the back, clearly deeper in his cups than most others were at this hour of the day. "You really think they would cover up the death of a prince? Like Hell! We'd have some fuckin', state funeral and day of mourning if the little princeling actually bought it, and-"
"No, c'mon Roberto, I keep telling you, it's to maintain the realm's stability-"
"-every evenin' we get this conspiracy shit, and I'm sick of-"
"-the international alliances, and-"
"-oh, shut up-"
The tavern broke out into shouting again, louder and angrier this time, until the innkeep stepped out from the back room wielding her broom and shouting for order...
And while they'd all been distracted, the priest had tossed a coin onto the bar, and slipped away into one of the back rooms.
"Sick of the crowd, Holy Father?"
The back room was occupied by a single man in a red cloak, smiling impishly up at the priest. His clothes were well-worn, and his arm below his rolled-up sleeve full of scattered scars - but that smile, and radiant blue eyes, gave him a youthful, boyish look, despite the smattering of blond stubble at his chin. His hair, too, was mostly blond, long and pulled back into a ponytail - except some darker, almost black patches at the back of his head. He was wearing glasses, too, a clockmaker's magnifying glass clipped over one lens, which he had clearly been using to make finer adjustment to a human arm made of spellcraft, opened up to display its bonewood core on the table before him.
(It was his own. On the left side, his arm ended just above the elbow in a stump, spell runes tattooed into the skin where the false arm could be attached.)
"Kinda. But I heard an interestin' story, out there." The priest set his cross down at the wall - though always within arm's reach - and threw himself onto the nearby bench, propping his feet up on the table. "Real interestin'."
"Oh?" The other man set down a delicate instrument that looked like it cost more than this entire tavern. Spellcrafting wasn't cheap work. "Do tell."
"It was- hmm." The priest paused, taking out a pouch of tobacco and refilling his pipe. It was a nicely-carved thing, a pattern down its side reminiscent of a leaping wolf. "A story about the Thievin' Typhoon."
"Really now." The blond man huffed a laugh, propping up his one elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand.
"Yeah. Did'ya know, he killed Prince Vash, 'pparently?" The priest lit the pipe with a practised snap of his fingers. "A royal assassin, pursued by Lord Knives to interrogate and hang. Fine tale, isn't it?"
"Very fine." The blond man agreed mildly. He had a sweet smile, almost angelic. "But you really shouldn't take every tavern tale you hear for truth, Holy Father. Especially not where Eriks is concerned, you wouldn't believe the nonsense they make up about him these days."
"I've heard some wild stories, yeah." The priest tapped his pipe against his cheek. "One of 'em even said Eriks was lookin' for protection. Fancy that!"
A spark, then, in the man's eyes, before he glanced away, picking up the tool again and poking about in the arm some more.
"You'd think a man said to have killed a prince wouldn't need a bodyguard." He said, beginning to close the arm up again with practiced movements. "It's all rumours and idle gossip."
"That he killed a prince? Or that he's needin' a guard?" The priest challenged. "'Cause, see, if he does... I specialise in this sort of thing. Spreadin' the shieldin' Hand of God over goodfolk - and the not-so-good-folk too, if the price is right. If Eriks crosses my palm with enough gold, why, I might be inclined to bless him some! Ya never know."
"Hm." The man finished closing the arm, and was now in the process of re-attaching it. "I wonder if Eriks is the kind of guy who puts his faith in God..."
"He doesn't need to. Long as he has faith in me." A long drag on the pipe. "And my ability to guard him from harm and lead him safely through the Valley of Death, and all that shit."
"Mildly blasphemous. I like it." The man grinned, flexing his spellcraft fingers. "Know what? You're hired. I like you, Holy Father. Or, might be I just like your eyes - they're good eyes. Honest. I like honest men."
"Liars often do." The priest leaned forward, extending one hand. "Name's Wolfwood. Father Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Pleasure."
"Eriks Merevas." The Thieving Typhoon's flesh hand was warm, and soft, fingers full of a warrior's callouses, and yet slender and nimble as befitting a thief. "And really, Father Wolfwood, the pleasure's all mine."
"Name your price, then." Eriks collected his tools and instruments, and unclipped the magnifying glass, arranging them in a special-made leather pouch. His clothes were simple, almost ragged, but he clearly spared no expenses on the spellcraft - figured, if he was out an arm without it. "How much will I need to slip into your collection box, hm, Father?"
"Wolfwood's just fine, actually." Wolfwood waved his hand. "'Father' is for my flock, and the odd orphan. And as for the money..."
He named a sum. Eriks' eyes - radiantly blue-green, like a lake in a forest clearing - widened.
"That is..." A pause. "More reasonable than I expected, actually. Is it true, then, that Men of God live ascetic lives?"
"Do I look like I do much abstainin'?" Wolfwood held up his pipe. "Nah, I'm just... a reasonable man. And takin' 50% of every robbery completed with my assistance."
Eriks' wide eyes narrowed again.
"Thirty." He shot back instantly, and Wolfwood grinned.
"Forty-five."
"Thirty-five."
"Forty, take it or leave it."
"Twenty-five." Eriks retorted, and he too grinned when Wolfwood broke into outraged spluttering. "No, no, I'm kidding. Forty sounds fair - but be warned, I don't intend to do much lucrative robbing while I'm employing you."
"Eh. I can live with that. S'like hazard pay, if you get me in trouble, I'm compensated - if not, well, still fine by me."
This time, Eriks extended his hand first, and they shook once more to seal the deal.
"What're you intendin', then, if it's not thiefwork?" Wolfwood asked, leaning back. "Keepin' me in the loop would be appreciated."
"Ah, well..." Eriks rubbed the back of his head, where his hair darkened, somewhat sheepishly. "Funny story. I'm-"
But then, outside the door to their back room, a crash.
Silence.
Harsh shouting, boots on old wood floors, the rattling of metal.
Both Eriks and Wolfwood tensed immediately.
Eriks half rose, but Wolfwood held up a hand to stop him - it was his job now, after all, to deal with threats.
Picking up his cross, he crept over to the door, and nudged it open, just very slightly, to see....
Soldiers.
Not the royal guard but local law enforcement, holding up Wanted posters of Eriks to the innkeep and her patrons. She was shaking her head insistently, but the soldiers were not looking much inclined to believe her.
"Aw, hell." Wolfwood cursed, softly, and drew back from the door, surveying the back room. No other door, no windows - they were trapped in here. Sitting ducks. If the soldiers searched the whole inn - and they would - they'd be found before Wolfwood could recite a single Hail Mary.
"Regretting your reasonable fees already, Wolfwood?" Eriks' voice was very close all of a sudden, a soft whisper by his ear. Wolfwood jumped - he'd not heard even a single footfall signalling his approach. King of Bandits indeed. "It won't be an easy job, keeping me out of the line of fire. Still think you're up for it?"
"Up for it, and then some." Wolfwood smiled his most wolfish grin, teeth bared, and hoisted his cross up under his arm, bringing his hands together to gather magic between them. "You stay here, I'm takin' them all out - and when I'm done, we're runnin' like hell. Got it?"
"'Taking them out'?" Eriks repeated, brow furrowing. "Wait, Wolf-"
"Showtime," Wolfwood muttered, and slipped through the door, glowing palms pressed firmly together as if in prayer.
The soldiers were still arguing with the innkeep, not paying much heed to him; so Wolfwood had time enough to choose the ideal angle, eliminate as many of his opponents in one go with... as little collateral damage as possible.
Now one of them had noticed him, was frowning at Wolfwood's clasped hands - but that was fine. He wouldn't have time to do much about it.
Slowly, Wolfwood drew his palms apart, magic sizzling, biting at his skin, sparks flying. He laughed, wild and dangerous; this was his favourite part, bracing himself for the recoil and for watching the spell tear through-
"NO!" screamed a voice - close by, surprisingly close, fuck how was the guy so light-footed! - and at the very last moment, a spellcraft hand closed with superhuman strength around his wrist and jerked.
The concentrated stream of white-hot magic burst forth from Wolfwood's palms and went wide, narrowly missing every single soldier, and tearing a wide, charred hole into the tavern's northfacing wall - useless. Wasted magic.
Innkeep, soldiers, and clientele were all gaping at the destruction wrought upon the wall... and then back to its source. Wolfwood, with his palms still sparking with leftover magic - and Eriks the Thieving Typhoon, the man worth 60mil Double Dubloons, right there at his side and still holding Wolfwood's wrist.
"Fuck," Wolfwood said, with feeling.
And then he shoved Eriks back behind the shelter of the bar, and kicked over a table, taking cover behind it, throwing up a hasty shield spell - on the other side of the tavern, the alarmed soldiers did the same.
"Actually-" Eriks, the idiot, peeked out from his cover to take aim with a hand-crossbow "-there's one more condition-" he took the shot, a second, a third "-to your employment-" the bolts hit three soldiers’ respective shirt collars with perfect precision, pinning the men to the wall behind them without drawing even a droplet of blood "-I might've forgotten to mention."
He ducked back behind the bar again, Wolfwood gaping at him with no small measure of awe.
"As long as you work for me," Eriks said, very seriously, not a trace of humour in his voice, "you do not kill. This is non-negotiable, Mr. Wolfwood. No killing, no serious injury - as much as possible, I'd like to avoid bloodshed altogether."
He jumped up again, and this time, with a single smooth movement of his hand, a length of magic rope slithered through his fingers, and trapped another soldier in its coils.
"I realise this is an unusual restriction for your line of work, and I'm willing to pay you double if you keep to it - and fire you immediately, without a single doubloon, if you break it. Are you still willing to work for me under these conditions?" Another of those sharp, serious looks. "Wolfwood?"
"I-" Wolfwood swallowed, clutching his cross tightly. Holy Mother of God. "Yessir. Can do. Though, I gotta say..."
He leaned out around the table, and this time he aimed for the ground instead, a wall of magical flame shooting up between them and the soldiers. Just to keep them back. Wolfwood could behave, and was set on proving that to his new boss.
"Considerin' yer a legendary bandit said to have killed a prince, the die-hard pacifism sure is... an unexpected surprise."
"I keep telling you: only the most gullible idiots believe in rumours and hearsay." Eriks shot him a quicksilver grin. "We should probably escape through that window over there while your spell is still distracting them, huh?"
"Yeah." Wolfwood slung his cross over his shoulder, and pushed himself up. "Let's blow this joint."
(He couldn't help but notice that, before Eriks followed him through the window, the man tossed a heavy purse of gold to where the innkeep was cowering in the corner - more than enough for her to rebuild the entire damn building - and cheerily waved to the soldiers.
What a madman.
Wolfwood found himself liking him a great deal already.)