Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Semifinals: Iracun Rumpig

It wasn't that Iracun enjoyed funerals, but it hadn't been his first time at one when Jace Beleren's funeral was held. The former Guildpact had done well in his time, but time passed for him as it did for all. Iracun paid his respects as any could have, going to the Church of Deals inside Orzhova, the guildhall of the Orzhov Syndicate. Fancy place, very somber and dry, not much humor. Goblin funerals were a lot more fun, that he knew. Goblin's enjoyed the death as a celebration of a wonderful life well-lived, especially if the death was an accident, for that meant a trial had occurred. Ah, the best of times.

But that day was not a goblin's funeral. So Iracun, being a goblin but knowing those customs were not welcome, denied himself his right of acceptance in the allowance of the greater, more 'moral' in cases, welcomed funeral stances. While everyone had their own ways, there was the commonly accepted one--of course, it was more humane because those greedy ones always seemed to have the best things.

His eyes were dry but his heart still felt the stains of tears. To cry again would be to go against himself, but Iracun wouldn't do that. He had his time for hurt. So he stared at his writing, of which had been pieced together again, and then across at the empty room. It wasn't enough for him. The emptiness was all-confining, trapping the old man with himself. There wasn't a harsher punishment for the elderly, was there? Aloneness wasn't something he was so used to. After all, normally his days were filled with work and talking to lonely people. Talk, talk, talk, talk! It was all he ever did. But no, no, they'd allotted him alone for a week. One week to write. One week of restoring emotions and feelings that he'd never realized were trapped inside. One week that was almost up.

Oh, how time had fooled the old man.

With a long, dramatic sigh that held all of his usual drama and none of his latest sorrow, Iracun stretched and popped every one of his fingers. Just one distraction more, he knew, and the story will be over.

Rows of faces that would normally be smiling were sitting down, and Iracun was a part of them. He sat and pondered and watched, having somewhat of a good seat, but there were no real good seats when the show was death.

He had the best seat in the house because he could hardly see a thing. Just small blobs of people that didn't really exist to him. Just a casket that wasn't real. Just an event that he wasn't ready to be happening yet.

A handful of scattered days could be a lifetime.

It was at this funeral that Iracun got to obtain his signet from the Orzhov Syndicate.

Obtained, such a fitting word for a man like Iracun to use. Yet that wasn't the one that haunted his mind. Bitter spread across his tongue and he tried to wash away the taste with a drink of his tea, having forgotten how bitter it was as well. A cough. Then, Iracun continued, knowing there wasn't anything else to do.

Oh yes, he remembered how they'd approached him. The woman had large eyes, larger breasts, and something out of the ordinary about her hands that he couldn't quite place. "The syndicate sent you, correct?" Iracun asked as she approached him. It was pretty obvious by her dress, and the way she held herself, and the fact that, if he were being honest, funerals weren't the place for men and woman to socialize as so always happened to him.

"Sign a contract," she said, pressing the pen into his sturdy hands. Iracun did his best to ignore the woman's large chest but, quite frankly, his best wasn't counting for the large mole that very well could have been something less user-friendly. "Just one contract and you're done. You have my word."

Iracun, for all his will and smarts, had little confident words for once. Four words bundled in his mouth before tumbling out. "Well, I, well, why?" Do not misjudge him here, dearest reader, for he had just had a long and hard day prior. Let it be known that even the best of speakers don't always speak the best.

"Why?"

"What! I mean, young miss, you can't fool me. To what would I promise? And why should I, when it's so obvious that this is a ruse, rather plainly a bad one," he commented. There was a question, but instead of letting her answer, Iracun kept talking. "Then again, what is business without a cheat? Ah, a life well lived is not one without a questioned morality. Strongly moraled, that is I! I am, after all, for Iracun."

She giggled. Of course, all females failed in his presence. Males as well, but differently. Supposedly. But, why must an old man putter on about the Orzhov Syndicate when such greater things could be discussed?

"Your soul."

Two words spoken from those deeply reddened lips. Those were deadly words, that Iracun knew without a doubt, but he tried not to think too much upon them.

"Not living. For two thousand years after your body is dead and that mind of yours has rotted," she'd promised. "No hassle in life. This is one signet you'll earn easy, Rumpig."

He said yes to her, of course. After a discourse of the period, talking about what would happen if he did, did not, the normal. Iracun was a smart man and knew that it would be good to him. Politically, it would be a great stance for him to great. Just wonderful! So he took it, as all who were smart would.

"I--well--I, I can't," he said, the words sputtering out. "That's my soul-"

"Just a minor inconvenience," she promised.

Her words fell thicker, heavier.

The silence in the room seemed to drape, as though everyone shut up at once. Her voice began to transcend even lower, yet he heard every word clearly. He could see more of her now--rather, less, as he noticed that she was just like the rest of them. A human, as was pitifully common within Orzhov, yet she didn't seem to be one to move about as the rest of them did. She was growing gray, as though magic had worn on her over the past years, and he felt her cold hand gently touch his arm. "Your soul won't bother you there," she said. "A man like you hardly believes in that, does he?"

Now, to truly grasp what Iracun was at in this point of his life, we need to remember three things. The first: Iracun was a young man still, with years left to live, and an expanded knowledge and mind that would only continue growing. The second: Iracun was so close to becoming Guildmaster that he could almost taste it in his mouth. Lastly, yet never too small to be large, the third: Iracun had just taken the Orzhov Signet.

For a little man to accomplish all he did, with only one remaining...it just seemed fantastic. He had reached a fine bargain with the hardest guild to bargain with, which in itself is something notable, yet not something he will dwell too much upon, given his incredible stance and agility of mind. He'd obtained eight signets so far--leaving just two left before he was to have finished these trials. Such a long and arduous task had befallen him, and with such vigor, such strength! Ah, such was that with what he approached the tasks with.

"I...I suppose," he eventually said. Iracun had no calm, no cool. No, that would come later, once he got used to the bargains and corruptions of the world. And that would come, yes, as all things in life come to.

She took it from her pocket with care.

It fell into his lap with such grace.

And Iracun breathed in, out, and looked back to the front of the room, watching as they buried the old. Waiting to see when his time would come to be.

In that great hall, the beauty that was the Church of Deals, Iracun sat and wondered to himself: How many people in here will remember having seen me this day?

It felt as though every eye were on him.

Did they know greatness was so close?

He closed his eyes and held the signet, rubbing his thumbs along the sides to make it real in his mind. Comprehension seemed so far away.

Perhaps, he liked to imagine, no one forgot about the small goblin with the broken earrings and a timid smile. So small, so yet not aware of the world was Iracun. His importance would become more prevalent with time.

Just a little more time.