As the sun set bloody against the distant horizon, Hethir sat on the topsail spar. One hand held a line loosely for balance, the other held a piece of parchment. His dark eyes stared unblinking away from the sun, into the deep shadow cast by his ship. Far below him the crew worked in somewhat eerie silence, setting the Storm Hawk at sea anchor. For a long while he didn't move, then he lifted his hand to look at the parchment again.
The delivery of it disturbed him greatly, for many reasons. Foremost among them was the messenger that had delivered it. The small obsidian statuette was unpleasantly cold in his pocket. An hour ago it had been a huge raven, bearing down on his ship with uncanny speed with the parchment clutched in one razor-sharp talon. It had flown straight to Hethir, and no sooner had his hand touched the scroll than the bird shrunk down and stopped moving, becoming a crude statuette on the deck. A magical messenger of that sort--especially one that could seek its target as well is this one--was no small investment, and implied a certain level of power, affluence, or both, that Hethir was never very comfortable dealing with.
Then there was the message itself...
It was written in a strong--almost rough--hand, on some of the finest parchment he had ever seen. It was the sort that wizards used in their books. And the message had been enspelled, revealing itself only when he had spoken his name--his full name in fact, something precious few people knew.
Hethir Tira Modan,
I know who you are, and in fact I know much about you. I know that you are a man of... interesting means, and capable of performing tasks that would be shunned by many others. I have sought you out to give you a job offer that I hope you will not refuse, or else we may find ourselves in the unfortunate position of me coercing your assistance, which is simply less efficient--and pleasant--for both of us.
The job is simple enough, I desire a certain item that is presently being held by one I believe you are familiar with, the Archbishop of Santure. He has in his possession a distinctive set of chalices. The first is made of mithral, and set with a number of emeralds and sapphires. The second is crafted from a strange green metal and is inset with rubies. I believe you will be able to recognize them when you see them.
Should you wish to accept my offer of employment, simply return this letter with my messenger, it will know how to find me. I will return it with a forward gesture of goodwill... and you will retain it until you have the chalices so you may contact me. I assure you that I can be quite generous in my largess to those that manage to please me. Unfortunately I am rather prone to... unpleasantness when I am disappointed.
Please, do not cause me to be disappointed,
-D
Hethir wanted to grind his teeth in frustration. He hated the entire situation. It was clear that whoever this 'D' is, they had enough resources to take him on. And if this messenger could find him in the middle of the ocean, it's unlikely that he could hide. And he was quite familiar with the Archbishop; so much so that he made it a matter of principle never to enter port anywhere within a hundred miles of his bloody temple. 'D' obviously knew of his heritage, and would know what the Archbishop's response to THAT would be. And the chalices...
Hethir didn't have the slightest clue what the chalices did, but he also knew that he didn't rightly care. If the Archbishop was hiding them in his vaults, either they were personally valuable to the man--something Hethir doubted, he took that whole vow of poverty bit very seriously--or they were dangerous, and the church wanted to keep them locked away. Either way... he didn't want to piss the man off.
At the same time, he knew nothing of this 'D', not whereabouts, capabilities, nothing. For all he knew, this letter may have come from some wizard with a knack for divinations and little else. Or it may have come from the crime lord that secretly took over every pirate ship in the sea and if he didn't acquiesce he might as well sink the Storm Hawk now!
He growled quietly, and the tail he usually kept beneath his coat out of casual sight began to thrash. Down on the deck, his crew continued their work. It was always useful, having perfectly loyal crew, but it was also sometimes a frustration. In situations like this, he couldn't really ask for counsel, because they pretty much always agreed with him, and if he couldn't come a definite decision, the consensus among the crew was that he surely would make the right one eventually. The blind obedience was incredibly useful, but also a bit annoying sometimes.
His growl grew to a sudden angry burst, and then subsided. He reached out with his mind and found his first mate, who at the moment was down below examining their foodstocks.
Michael.
Yes Captain?
Check the charts, what is the nearest port with a possible stock in mercenaries?
I will check.
Hethir sighed. He didn't want to bring mercenaries onto his ship, but he had the undeniable sense that he would need them. A few minutes later, he sought Michael's mind again.
Any ideas?
There are two possibilities Captain. One is a city mostly populated by halflings. Last I heard the Swiftstone company were using it as their headquarters.
Hethir pondered that for a moment. The Swiftstones were all halflings, which meant they were easier to fit on his ship, and easier to keep fed, but at the same time they charged a premium for their services. It was usually worth it, they were great fighters, but still.
And the other port?
The other option is the city of Tastrel, it is well-known for harboring a significant number of freelance mercenaries.
He made a face at that, freelance mercenaries were notoriously unreliable, and often prone to betrayal at the first sign of coin. But at the same time, it also meant fewer strings attached the other way, harder to track down, and most importantly they were usually cheaper.
Alright Michael, plot a course for Tastrel, we will embark at first light, and we will just have to make sure that the mercs are never on watch by themselves.
Aye Captain.
The sun had well-fallen now, and most of the crew were done with their work and had moved below decks. With a final look at the dark horizon, he jumped forward off the spar. The magic bound to his feet warmed, and he descended slowly and comfortably to the deck. He was certain that this 'D' was up to nothing good, but getting himself killed over it was not what he had in mind. Pulling the figurine out of his pocket, he touched the scroll to the base of it. A talon seemed to break free of the statue to seize the scroll. The rest of the great bird followed, and with a screech it shot away into the deepening gloom.
Hethir watched it depart and began stalking the length of his ship. There were no torches lit, but he didn't need them anyway; His sight was infernally gifted--another mark of his heritage--and his crew did not put out any lights at night unless he ordered it. He would never understand how he came to be born with such fiendish features; his mother died giving birth, and his father had been slain not long after. Growing up had been difficult, until he discovered some of the gifts that were his, that made it easier. His mind was as strong as a wizard's spells--stronger than a few he could name in fact--and as he had developed it, individuals had appeared, willing and ready to serve and assist him. He had long since stopped asking questions, just rolling with what fate threw at him, and making some coin along the way.
This latest stone would not be the one to do in Hethir Tira Modan... of that he would make certain.
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