The Curse of Cal'Riel

First Job

I felt exposed after Song left.

Since the start of our friendship she was a shield. Once she claimed me as her person, the other guildies who respected her skills stopped giving me shit about my lack-thereof. It was like having a popular upperclassman take the new kid under their wing.

I watched the door of the Lucky Clam close behind her and my chest sank. I turned around to seek out the bartender described in my letter and my shoulders tightened. "Gale will provide you with further direction," said the letter's pristine cursive. "You will know him by his long white hair, jeweled eyepatch, and enticing hospitality."

He had long white hair that was more elven than elderly. The letter didn't specify his years but I had a feeling he had a lot of them. I didn't need to see his ear tips to get that ethereal, knowing vibe of the types that walk the planes for a millennia, gathering knowledge without trading their good looks. Gale definitely carried himself like a VIP, someone with strong insight, someone who would wonder why in the hells a glowing rogue fresh outta bootcamp would be assigned to his mission.

I was hesitant to approach, keeping my hood up and my head down. Gale hadn't noticed me yet. I watched him glide down the bar, serving a pair that had been there when I'd arrived. The letter also said there would be other recruits but it didn't give their descriptions. I assumed the pair was not them because one of them was a child. Granted she was an elven child, and she was right on the cusp of her teenage years, but even an elf kid seemed too young for a job they needed an assassin for.

As I approached the three, I heard the kid make a displeased noise as she bit into a street pie. Judging by the smell, it was the kind of pie sold from one of those low rent vendors who'll stuff the pastry with whatever road kill they found the day before. I glanced at the kid's company who should've been ashamed for tricking the naive into believing it was good eating. However, the pie giver's garb said she may not know the difference between good and bad street pies. What little armor she had on could be nice with a heavy round of polishing, but all the cloth beneath it was worn. And she was skinny. Not lean like a lot of half-eves I've seen. She was hungry.

The child's appearance wasn't much better. Her cloak was full of those fuzzy things that hitch a ride from nature trails, and her boots were mud-caked. I couldn't see her face under that bramble of hair, which should've been as white as Gale's on the top half, and pink like Vix's lipstick on the bottom, if it was washed.

"Um," came a little voice from the bramble. "Thank you. I haven't tasted anything like this before." She was trying to sound grateful.

"You got it, kiddo."

The hungry half-elf had a streetwise accent. It reminded me of the family my mother used to work for—the kind of family that'll break your thumbs if you're short on an interest payment. I shot her a side glance that was met with suspicion.

"You must be Inigo," Gale said, wrenching my focus on him.

"How did you—"

"I was given your names with adequate descriptions of your appearance," he informed, wiping the counter in front of me. "Please, have a seat. Let me get you a drink. A hot tea, perhaps?"

"Hot tea is good," I said, unsettled. Gale spoke with an old accent that wasn't elven. I couldn't place it.

The child swiveled to me. "Hi Inigo, I'm Tempist. And that's Astra. We're Gale's friends too."

"I'm not actually," corrected Astra, "friends with him. No offense, Gale. but we just met n'all."

Gale took no offense, smiling while serving my tea. It was the peppy blackleaf blend, Mother's favorite.