Rowdy Partnership

Hunters' Den
“Hey waiter, would you bring me a barrel of mead, please?”

A young waiter took Durga’s ordination, his pen jittering over a blank noted book. He gave a polite “yes ma’am” and turned his tail on the lodge to give his order to the bar below. Durga was surprised to find someone so young and oddly polite in the bar of Char Hakas, probably the second most notorious and scum-filled haven in the New World that side of the Stepping Isle. Most likely, the guy had been hired not many days before, his hairstyle was combed in a way that suited more restaurants than holes and his livery didn’t bear enough stains of blood or beer. A complete 180° from the waiter who had served Durga in her preceding drinks, an ugly mug with mustaches so pointy and greasy he could literally stab you with grim.

Dura sighed: at least she didn’t want to break his head like the previous old mug. And the rest of the bar was just as filthy and reeking of bad liquor as one could expect. The sound of broken bottles or a chair bashed on someone’s face cracked at least once in every minute; teeth and curses were flying everywhere like confetti. The only places keeping a semblance of tranquility were those held by the few costumers smart enough to not get wasted on rum or those belonging to the big shots, bounty hunters with a death count measured sometimes in the triple digits whom no one with their wits would ever think to hassle. Within dozens of feet away for Durga, no one was daring to spill a drop of liquor or make the slightest noise, and her size was probably the least important reason.

“The liquor is there, ma’am”.

A thud announced the coming of the barrel, a massive wooden container holding enough liquor to fill dozens of people at once. Durga held it with one hand, like a tankard, and broke an opening with a tap of her finger: she slowly sipped from the liquid.

“His it of your liking, ma’am?” The young waiter stuttered, sweat was already spoiling his hairstyle.

“I have to say, truly excellent” Durga licked her lips. “The alcohol-fruit rate is spot on. Brewing a liquor of such quality in a shit hole like this feels like a genuine waste. Give my compliments to your suppliers”. She rested her finger inside the lodge, the pad upwards: laying on it was a bronze coin, topped by many smaller silver ones “The bill is there in bronze coin, while the silver ones are for you”.

While beaming the payment, the young waiter’s eyes beamed: those disks weren’t perhaps worthy of a fortune but counted far more than just the tip for a waiter: they were like an entire monthly fee. “M-miss, I can’t accept this much tip for this simple service…”

“I think you should,” Durga returned. “This is a terrible place to work in: every table is smelling of vomit, people are mostly rowdy and violent thugs and I can easily deduce fees aren’t worth the risk of being stabbed on your shoulder or getting glass shards embedded in your skull five days in a week. I apologize if I am underestimating you, but you don’t look like someone cut for being a waiter in a den of assassins: too meek, too feeble, polite. So, whatever your relationship with the bar owner is, I suggest you use the money I’ve given you wisely and thinking of what do about your life: either taking a degree, finding a new job or going to a dojo if you’re fully committed to this line of work. I estimate you won’t survive a week here without an intense training regime”.

The woman’s face and tone were completely deadpan: despite the caring intent one could find in her words, she was completely matter-of-fact and that was the rationale behind her words. A core tenet of the Iron Legion was not to let people waste effort in places where they have no talent for and giving them a chance to express their true potential. Durga’s hatred for unfitness, which her father had inculcated her since her womb, was much more obvious motivation than any charitable push.

Regardless, the waiter blushed for the gratitude. He blabbered sincere thanks, bowed down to the mercenary and turned his back. Durga stretched her back in the sofa, popping out a bit of the stress her place was giving him. Barring the surprisingly high quality of the liquor, she couldn’t understand how anybody could enjoy these levels of ruckus. How much she missed turning in her training chamber or reading some book on the quiet beaches of Midium; she had work to do first, regrettably, and the person she searched for didn’t come yet.

Few minutes passed, Durga had finished her liquor to the last drop. She counted the openings and closings of the door to kill some time: one and two, and the person to see wasn’t yet in sight. A third time, and he finally entered. He ordered something to drink and waited patiently on a small table; everyone in the nearby stood up and drifted away from the guy as if he had leprosy. Durga took advantage of the space to saunter with more ease to the man. While giants weren’t that unusual to see in Char Hakas- the inn was built to accommodate people of Durga’s size- she still stood out considerable from the crowd and had to take each step carefully to not cause any noise. No one was that stupid to remain in her way, though.

“Excuse me, mister… Salsanzamorloi?” The name slurred a bit in Durga’s tongue: it was certainly not a word common to pronounce. “Can I disturb your drinking for a moment?”