𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒕𝒆'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉丨𝔅𝔊3𝔛𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 (𝚙𝚛𝚎-𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚛 two-𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝) pt. 1

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲; was to deliver precious metals from Wyrm's Rock for battle repairs, to your home base. An occasional armor, weapon, helmet repair from a passing Flaming Fist officer was not uncommon, but restless was the Lower City, getting an increase in murder cases, to an increase in overall crime rate. The Flaming Fist didn't have the funds or time to get armor repairs entire fleets and troops.

There wasn't late stage capitalism in Baldur's Gate, but there was classist problems and small chain-less businesses that were highly competitive. Recently, the couple that owned Forge of the Nines had made a personal business deal with the Grand Duke Ravenguard. The Flaming Fist had resorted to pulling dented breast plates with hot water and a plunger, attempting to solder broken wing pieces of helmets together, and overall making more work for themselves. Passing guards were not looking so hot in their homebrew armor. Fennwick and Hangranj Marreous had agreed to fix a breastplate for a copper bit, and sew a dozen leather skivvys for less than a dime.

Overall, this proved to be a busy week, you worked overtime. Though you weren't really paid in anything other than a bed, homemade food, and an apprenticeship, you learned a lot of new skills. In detailing armor, to rust removing, measuring and taking measurement orders, taking inventory, to using a leather sewing machine with a a magic foot peddle. Ravenguard got a cheap deal, business was up, and you were learning the trade.

It was 11am, before the sun started to make the cobblestone on the streets feel like rubber on a fake football field at marching band camp. You were bolting through the streets to Basilisks Gate, one of four entrances to Baldur's Gate's Lower City. The neat stack of breastplates in your hand were shining bright, blinding near by citizens, and yourself. They jostled and clanked, you were carrying them without a crate. About 13 plates high, your arms were burning. The fast the better, the faster the better. You had a written list of the guards they belonged to in your mouth, getting crumpled on the edge and spit dripping off of the corner it's running down.

About 3 minutes into dodging cart and avoiding stepping on street art scams, you'd bustled into the bunk of Basilisk's Gate where the city funded soldiers trained. Your soldering goggles bounced around your neck, your gloves were stank as hell with your sweat, and your undies were riding up. You were ready to be done as a deliver boy. You needed to find a Fist that could reliably deliver these into the bunks of the others. You weren't allowed in there, although they prefaced they didn't mind for deliveries but you insisted on letting them have their privacy, you wanted to give the Flaming Fist a little dignity that they probably didn't deserve.

Trudging a bit faster into the training grounds, you plopped the finished plates onto an empty wooden table for a moment. You wiped the sweat from your temples and upper lip, huffing. Your face was surely reddening with the oncoming heat, you took the paper out of your mouth and crumpled it into your sweaty leather gloved palms. You heard the clashing of wooden swords, the thumping of wrestling bodies, and the clicking of a nice pair of boots from behind your sweaty bod.

"𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠?" You heard a deep posh voice from behind you. You jumped, you weren't ready to be approached yet in your embarrassing state.

"𝙎𝙄𝙍!" you gasped and whipped around, hands behind you holding the table.

It was Mr. Enver Gortash. A cane in hand, without a back up of guards. He was on a stroll around the training grounds. He could've funded the Flaming Fist, he had yet to take action on Wyrm's Rock and step in on his council duties.

He raised an eyebrow and nodded at you. You were in such a shocked state, and you remembered the events of 94' that took place when you arrived.

"𝙃𝙞! 𝙪𝙝𝙢, 𝙮𝙚𝙨, 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨!" you stepped out of the way and gestured to the breastplates.