Landsoftheblacksea:Main Page/players/gunnar
| Races | Religions | Realms | Geography | Organizations | Languages | Time & Calendars |
Return to the Blackport Campaign Page
Touch the beard and I will kill you
Background[edit]
Part I[edit]
His full formal birth name was Gunhr hrü Gynhr Âbükho ghâm Düzïv ïkhâ Fhÿldrm – Gunhr, son of Gynhr Âbükho, of House Düzïv in Clan Fhÿldrm. Of course, most called him Gunhr, or at most Gunhr hrü Gynhr Âbükho on the off chance another Gunhr was involved in the conversation.
His father, Gynhr, had risen to the rank of Ironhand within the armies of House Düzïv, a noncommissioned officer working with a Host Champion in conducting military operations. The Host Champion reported to a Host Lord, who in turn reported direction to Lord Ïkôn Düzïv himself, Lord of House Düzïv.
Lord Ïkôn oversaw all the activities of the families within House Düzïv. Gruff and dour, he was sometimes referred to as “The Everwatching Eye” – he had lost his left eye in battle, and it was said that no one had ever seen the right eye blink since. Ïkôn was the High Lord of House Düzïv, comprised of many individual families, including the Âbükho. Ïkôn and the Lords of the other Houses - Sÿvab, Ihrôpâ, Kÿdüf, Düzïv, Zhüm-Gehï, Mükhâr, and Hrüvÿzh – served under the current High King of Clan Fhÿldrm, Süvü-Kÿdüf Fhÿldrm, sometimes appended with “The Patient”, a nature that had served him well in his rule.
House Düzïv was responsible for the protection of the Great Western Gate of Fhÿldrmüdhrm – sometimes known as The Black Gate, due to the dark nature of the lands beyond, the wild and sinister orc-kingdom of Ûgozh. Protection of their charge was tightly integrated into the culture every family of House Düzïv – from the House Motto, ““No Enemy Shall Pass”, to the House Insignia, A Barred set of Dwarven Gatehouse Doors. The House army was known throughout the üdhrm as “The Fist of Ïkôn” – the instrument of protection and punishment that Ïkôn wielded to carry out his charge.
Gunhr’s mother, Afalüd, was a daughter of the Kir-Sÿkhe family from House Zhüm-Gehï, and in the tradition of her ancestors, she had been a member of the House Court, serving as a translator and negotiator for Lord Ïkôn and his senior staff. Fluent in eight different non-dwarven languages, she was a prominent scholar and scribe known throughout the üdhrm.
Gunhr was raised primarily by his sisters while his father and mother performed their duties for the house: the eldest, Asï, eventually joined the Merchant Brigade and was sent by the Lord of House Zhüm-Gehï to the far-away human city of Tras Veniri to act as the Clans agent with the tricky and serpent-tongued traders of that place; Ebôv, also older than Gunhr, eventually joined The Fist when she was of age, becoming a highly skilled quarreller and then promoted into the sniper corps – two-dwarf teams who used large, exquisitely crafted crossbows and complex optical mechanisms to fire bolts with extreme accuracy across incredible distances. They were used extensively on the West Gate, able to see, target, and kill enemies who thought themselves hidden as they spied on the fortification.
Gunhr for his part joined the Fist in the family tradition. The weight of his father’s achievements and rank bore down on him like a press in the forge, but his grit and determination and talent shown through, and soon enough he was rising in the enlisted ranks to a Forged; with a bit more luck and effort, he might be promoted to the noncommissioned officer rank of an Anvil, where he would start to have leadership roles within the enlisted ranks. From there it was only one more promotion to match his father as an Ironhand, and perhaps surpass him before he aged out.
His unit was commanded by a dwarven officer from the Duzük family in House Düzïv – Ÿhru hrü Ühru, a young, talented, swift, and strong dwarf. Ÿhru’s father, Ühru Duzük, was a Host Lord – a general of the Army under Lord Düzïv himself, and renown within the House as having earned the Order of the Last Shield in one of the distant battles with a troll-clan outside the West Gate – a medal of honor, given to one who held the line when others fell. It was said he single-handedly turned the tide of the battle, with the dwarves winning the day in the end.
Like Gunhr, Ÿhru felt the pressure of his father’s accolades weigh upon him, and he was eager to be on the way to accumulating his own glories.
Ghunr’s last sibling, his younger sister Üza, had joined the Fist as well; but she had been courted extensively and exhaustively by a dwarf of the highly respected Fâhrï family in House Düzïv, and eventually agreed to marry him.
Thus was the situation when his judgement failed him and brought on the catastrophe.
Ÿhru had been pressuring Gunhr to take him out on patrol; he admired and respected Gunhr’s reputation as a battle-hardened warrior who had been in more than one fight with the humanoids beyond the gate. Of course, the request was completely in opposition to regulations in The Fist, to say nothing of the fact that Ÿhru had not been ordered on patrol by his superior. Second, patrols were to be of Shield strength, minimum – ten soldiers plus a commander – no exceptions. Gunhr politely resisted, but he was also sensitive to the fact that Ÿhru was his commanding officer, and his goals for promotion in some part depended on him having a good relationship with the young officer.
The fateful night started with too much to drink in the Cracked Keystone ale house in the village of Pugühr, the farthest west settlement in the üdhrm before the Black Gate. He and Ÿhru had started off discussing discipline problems in the unit and upcoming recruiting activities. But as the night went on, Ÿhru steered the conversation to going on patrols.
Maybe it was the ale; maybe it was the raucous battle-songs that the dwarven bards were singing with the whole place joining in on the chorus; or perhaps it was the same thing that Ÿhru wanted: a chance for glory, something that not even his father had done.
Within the hour, they were walking down the last leg of Vâzhÿl's Road towards the Black Gate.
Getting out was not too difficult - Ÿhru proffered a story that name-dropped his father a number of times; shortly after, the old dwarven Anvil who commanded the troops watching the gate gave the order, and the small portal in the great stone-and-iron gates was opened to allow them passage into the shattered, broken hills of Ûgozh.
Part II[edit]
In the darkest of night, a hidden sally gate by the massive Great West Gate of Fhÿldrmüdhrm opened and two figures walked out. One was a young dwarven noble in magnificent custom-made plate armor. Another was a grim looking myrmidon whose armor was just like he himself was - combat tested and brutally functional.
The humanoid tribes living to the east of the dwarven halls were no threat to Fhÿldrmüdhrm's fortifications but were a constant nuisance to any missions the dwarves did on or through the lands. An occasional culling reminded the humanoids to keep their distance. And provided an opportunity for young dwarven warriors to test their mettle in real combat. The noble was naturally accompanied by a myrmidon to make sure he returned from his first battle.
The young man held the haft of his axe, looking eager for combat - too eager, thought the myrmidon. "There are two rules you must follow," the elite warrior said. "You will do as I say, and not leave my side." The noble nodded earnestly.
The pair walked steadily through the darkness, slowly leaving the gate behind. After perhaps two hours of walking the myrmidon stopped and nodded towards a distant glow. A campfire, clearly visible in the darkness. They resumed advancing, now towards the fire and more carefully.
A hunting party of orcs were roasting their catch, talking and laughing and not bothering to keep watch. With their nightvision, they considered that the night belonged to them and they were the biggest threat around.
Unfortunately for them, the dwarves could see at least as well.
From behind a patch of thorny bushes the myrmidon observed the orcs. Four young braves with shortbows and obsidian tipped spears. A scarred orc with a longbow and a human made longsword, clearly a trophy from some battle. Clearly the leader of the party, and the most dangerous of the orcs.
The young noble beside him gasped as he laid eyes on the final figure, dozing a few feet away from the orcs. A towering, muscular brute with numerous scars, wearing only a loincloth, and a crude wooden but fire-hardened club beside him, so massive that even its gigantic owner needed both hands to wield it.
"Yes, an ogre," the myrmidon whispered. "Much glory in that kill, but that is because it is dangerous. Your armor can easily deflect the spears, arrows, and even the sword, but a strike from that club can crush your bones inside your armor. When we go in, we deal with the orcs first, and then take down the ogre together. The credit will still be yours. And remember - do not leave my side. Understood?"
Once again the young man nodded, not taking his eyes off the ogre.
"All right," the myrmidon said. "We go in on my countdown. Three, two, one..."
The orc leader instinctively drew his sword as the dwarves thundered through the bushes, the thorns ineffective against their armor. For the others, the surprise was total. One did not even have time to turn before the noble's axe cleaved through his neck all the way to the bone. Another did turn his head, and the last thing he saw was the myrmidon's warhammer descending on him. But then the moment of surprise was over.
One of the orcs fell back drawing his bow. Another stabbed his spear at the noble, but the tip was harmlessly deflected by the heavy plate. The leader's sword bounced off the myrmidon's shield but the orc expertly dodged the warhammer.
The orc leader and the myrmidon circled each other, both of the veteran warriors looking for an opening. Meanwhile, the noble swung his axe at his opponent. The orc attempted to block the attack with his spear, but the axe simply cut through the haft, barely slowing, and continued to cut into the orc's ribcage. As the noble pulled his axe free, an arrow bounced harmlessly off his back plate.
Only now did the dozing ogre, woken from his nap, figure out what was going on. He rose to his full height grabbing his club, and let out a mighty bellow.
The ogre's waking did not fill the orc leader with confidence, as most of his hunting party was already dead, and the bow wielding survivor would not be of help against the two dwarves. He launched into a furious attack, trying to bring down the myrmidon before the other dwarf could join in. The myrmidon deflected one strike with his shield, another with his warhammer, and the third did not get through his armor.
But the noble did not join the fight against the orc leader. Shouting a war cry, he charged the ogre, eager to kill the huge brute in single combat.
"Deep Queen's teeth!" the myrmidon cursed, and now it was his turn to launch into a furious attack. The orc managed to parry a wild swing of the warhammer with his sword - only at the last moment realizing it was a feint.
The myrmidon stepped on his foot and pushed him with his shield, causing the orc to lose his balance and fall. Even while falling, he brought the sword up in defense of his vitals, but the myrmidon did not go for his vitals. The dwarf brought the warhammer down on the orc's knee, shattering it. The orc howled in pain, momentarily stunned with the shock, and a moment was all it took. The myrmidon brought the hammer down again, now on the orc's skull.
While the duel had been going on, the noble had charged towards the ogre, ignoring an arrow that once again failed to penetrate his armor. He readied his axe to strike, lifting his shield to block the club.
He made two mistakes.
Running forward, he sacrificed balance for speed. And he assumed the ogre to be a dim witted brute rather than a cunning and battle tested opponent.
The ogre raised the club over his head for a massive strike, leaving his defenses open. The dwarf raised his shield high to take the blow while readying his axe to strike. But the club was a feint.
As the dwarf closed in, the ogre kicked, his foot coming under the raised shield and kicking the dwarf in the chest. Suddenly brought to a full stop by the enormous strength behind the kick, the dwarf stumbled and fell backwards.
Unlike the veteran orc, he did not have the sense or instinct to bring his defenses up as he fell. Instead his arms splayed wide in a desperate effort to maintain balance.
So the ogre brought his foot down on the dwarf's chest and the club down on his head. There was an audible crack.
"I told you not to leave my side, fool," the myrmidon muttered. Then he said. "All right, let's end this," and started advancing towards the ogre. But the myrmidon did not rush, he advanced steadily. The remaining orc, frustrated with the uselessness of his arrows, charged the myrmidon with his spear, but the dwarf did not even glance at him as he almost casually swatted the charging orc with his warhammer, connecting with the orc's temple.
The ogre narrowed his eyes, realizing that this was an opponent to take seriously. He decided to try and repeat his earlier success, but in a different way. As the myrmidon approached, the ogre swung his club low, trying to sweep the myrmidon off his feet.
The dwarf grouched and brought his shield down to touch the ground. The club impacted with the shield with the sound like someone striking a gong, but the dwarf did not even waver. The ogre immediately brought the club back up, anticipating a counterattack, but he did not anticipate how the attack happened. The ogre brought the club up, but the myrmidon struck low, bringing the warhammer down on the ogre's toes and crushing them.
The ogre howled, managing to remain on his feet, but now his movements were impaired. As he brought the club down again the dwarf simply sidestepped and this time struck the ogre's wrists. The thick limbs kept the wrists from breaking but they were still jarred. The ogre's next swing was clumsy, easily deflected by the myrmidon's shield, and now the injured wrists kept the ogre from bringing the defense up fast enough. The hammer struck his ribs.
The ogre coughed up blood, as one broken rib punctured his lung. Realizing that he was losing the fight, he rushed at the dwarf, attempting to barrel the smaller opponent down with his size and wrestle him to death. But the dwarf sidestepped again, striking the ogre's knee, and the giant toppled on his stomach.
There were no final words, no "this is for my lord." the myrmidon simply brought the hammer down on the back of the ogre's head.
The battle over, the myrmidon walked over to the young noble and felt for a pulse, already knowing he would find none. "You stupid fool, forgetting all your training for one pointless act of glory. Perhaps this was for the best. Maybe your younger brother will make for a wiser and better heir. But I won't be there to see it, since I got burdened with you fool!"
He picked up the young dwarf's body and started walking back to Fhÿldrmüdhrm.
After the burial of Ÿhru came the trial.
It was short, and decisive. In the end, Gunhr had two choices.
Remain in the üdhrm, carrying the stain of his dishonor with him. This would impact his entire family – a stain on his father Gynhr’s otherwise spotless record; a similar mark on his mother Afalüd’s status in the court of Lord Ïkôn; implications to Asï’s rank and future in the Merchant Cadre; Ebôv’s chances for promotion and glory; even Üza’s marriage proposal would potentially be in jeopardy.
Or, gulag.
Exile from the üdhrm, carrying the stain of his dishonor away from his family, the House, and the Clan.
It was an easy choice.
What surprised everyone was how he chose to take the punishment.
Everyone expected he would depart by the East Gate, into the human Kingdom of Athervon, a civilized place where there were many opportunities for him.
He did not.
He declared he would depart by the West Gate into Ûgozh.
The place where his sin was committed. The place where his hammer would never lack for blood to sacrifice in Ÿhru’s memory.
Two days later the myrmidon walked back out again. Stripped of his honor, rank and name and exiled. "Right," he said to himself. "There is a human town on the coast. Quite a rough place apparently. My hammer will definitely find work there. But what shall I call myself there? Oh, I know."
The myrmidon started walking. "Gunnar Avalanche."
Part III[edit]
The journey to Blackport was short. But it was extremely dangerous. Triply so for a lone dwarf.
The entire place was swarming with ancestral enemies. And even those who weren't – humans, halflings, gnomes and the like – could not be trusted on this side of the Iron Mountains. He had heard plenty of stories of these lands, starting from when he was but a child and up through the war stories of his unit in the alehouses of the üdhrm.
He made it. The few things he encountered did not. But he was lucky.
Reaching Blackport did not end the danger; it simply changed its nature.
He knew from the stories that one’s value in Blackport was completely dependent on what one could do for its inhabitants. “Crime” in this place meant that someone who had value to someone who had value to someone else who eventually had value to the Sovereign had been slighted, injured, robbed, or otherwise perturbed.
Any such things inflicted on those of no value was not crime – it was simply how Blackport functioned.
He knew his strengths – and his weaknesses. His hammer would be his value.
Within a month, he had signed up as a bodyguard to a petty merchant who was working with the pirates in Crossbones. He had plenty of opportunities there to show what his value was.
Eventually, the merchant got crosswise with someone who hired muscle from The Maw to settle things, in the form of an ogre known as Mangler, who had quite a reputation in the City.
When Gunhr left Mangler dead and bleeding in the gutter, news travelled fast.
He had some choices to make. No doubt that the giant-kin in The Maw would hear of this. He was good, but taking on a gaggle or Ogres (and possibly Trolls) was probably asking too much.
A Dwarf had to know his limitations.
He reported the next day to the Iron Guard, saying he wanted to join up.
They put him through the tests, which even he had to admit were brutal. But there was no physical challenge that he couldn’t overcome.
What he wasn’t ready for was the vetting by the Shadowatch.
Endless interviews. Questioning. Cross-Questioning. Hypothetical encounters with no obvious right choices.
But in the end, they took him.
And as a member of the Iron Guard, he was beyond the touch of the street gangs and hoodlums of Blackport, solving that problem.
But, like everything in Blackport, there was no free lunch. Now he had to deal with the power structures within the Iron Guard.
Firstly, there was Dô-zah’ûkû, the hulking female orc who commanded Gunnar’s unit. It was obvious from day one that she hated Gunnar; but to be fair, she hated everyone else in the unit only slightly less; and furthermore, she knew that her officer, Baz, would punish her if she were to kill a good soldier for personal reasons. The result is that she treated him like others at least in front of witnesses; but she also gave him the hardest and most humiliating assignments. He knew she secretly wanted to see him fail so she could drum him out – or better yet, kill him given sufficient cause. He had seen her fight – it is not at all clear who would win that contest.
Dô, as the troops sometimes call her, was held in check primarily by Baz Lemshi, her commanding officer. A Lieutenant in the Iron Guard over her unit and others, Baz was a brutal and evil human man. But, he followed the laws of Blackport and the Iron Guard; woe unto those who broke them, however. Baz had been very hard on Gunnar as well; but unlike Dô, as Gunnar persevered through the trials, Baz showed a grudging respect from him and his abilities – not enough to dependably save him in a full-out conflict with Dô, but enough that he didn't feel like he was walking on eggshells constantly anymore.
At the top of the chain within the Iron Guard was Lady Sirkku, High Commander of the Iron Guard and personal bodyguard of The Sovereign. Gunnar remembers the first time he saw her exit from The Spire for an inspection of the Iron Guard troops arrayed out in their units in The Iron City. Fully seventeen feet tall, Lady Sirkku was a statuesque, beautiful, and terrifying to behold fire giant. Her body was powerful, bewitching, and majestic; her dark face both alluring and frightening at the same time. Her long flaming red hair was woven into braids that hung down over her black-steel armor as her long legs closed the distance to the assembled troops in three steps.
Gunnar came very close to soiling himself. He was the only Dwarf among the thousand or so troops of the Iron Guard arrayed out on the brown grass of the Iron City courtyard.
This was an ancestral enemy he had only heard of in stories – and those stories were horror stories, typically.
He swallowed and mentally went through all the things he had left undone if this might be his last moments on earth.
When she reached him, she stopped. The huge, black-iron clad boots stood before him, his head not even reaching her knee.
He stared forward, sweating, not daring to break his form. He could feel her eyes burning down on him with heat like molten iron.
And then, miraculously, she moved on, saying nothing.
He later learned that despite her race, she was cold and calculating most of the time. But he also saw her in battle once, when the giant-kin started a riot in The Maw. She released the burning rage and passion inside her, to the downfall of anything that stood in her way. Her burning black great sword swept all before her, leaving piles of cauterized corpses in its wake.
He has been through several inspections since then. She has said nothing to him, done nothing to him, nor instructed anything to be done to him, at least as far as he knows. Despite his own ancestral feelings for giants, he obviously needed to do everything in his power to stay on her good side.
Of the rest of the power-structure of Blackport, he has learned only a little: there is the Jester, of course – Head of the Shadowatch. Gunnar knows very little about him and doesn’t wantto; from what little he has seen, the man is completely insane, psychotic, and fanatically devoted to the Sovereign.
Gunnar has laid eyes on the Sovereign himself at least once. The supreme Lord of Blackport is, from all appearances, an extremely well-conditioned human male, reputed to be master of physical combat as well as the arcane arts. He is accompanied by Sirkku at all times unless in his inner sanctum – and sometimes even then, if the rumors are true. Stories abound that Lady Sirkku is more than the Sovereign’s bodyguard – how such a pairing would work is beyond Gunnar’s mental abilities to visualize, however.
There are other power brokers in the city that Gunnar only knows the names of, but has had no personal interactions with or observations of: Daban Sandha, Commander of the Pirate Navies who rule the seas beyond Blackport’s harbor; Aradus Cormier II, Commander of the inept, incompetent, and corrupt Wardens who serve as the city watch outside of the Iron City; and the mysterious and sinister Sakarbaal, archmage and Head of the Council of the Black Codex.
There are also the Generals of the Armies of Blackport: General Sepp a fierce human Baku warrior, who even as he ages has a reputation for being a match for four or more skilled warriors. He and his army have been barracked in Blackport for some time now – more than the normal rotation between the city's two armies. The reasons for this are unclear.
And General Dayir Dark Wolf, a huge, powerful human male warrior from one of the northern Vulkul tribes. Younger than Sepp, he was originally a captured slave who did well in the Arena and graduated into the army, where he has been a loyal soldier since.
There is no love lost between the two Generals - though they are both professional soldiers and don’t let their personal animosity boil over into affairs of state. The Sovereign has kept Dark Wolf – and his army – out of Blackport on patrol a great deal of late, which has also generated many rumors.
The relationship between the Iron Guard, led by Lady Sirkku, and the Armies of Blackport, led by the Generals, is – as most things in Blackport are – both clearly defined and tense at the same time. The Iron Guard is pre-eminent within the walls of Blackport City, and in particular they are the absolute authority within the Iron City; outside the walls of the City, the armies of Blackport – led by the Generals, have purview and dominion, in the name of the Sovereign. Nevertheless, there are tensions between the organizations – General Sepp, for example, keeps a retinue of regular army soldiers inside the Iron City as his family’s bodyguards, for example, to the irritation of Lady Sirkku.
Thus, it was a great surprise to Gunnar when Baz called him to report for a new assignment: he was being sent to General Sepp to serve as a bodyguard for the daughter of the General’s consort.
Gunnar blinked.
Had the man the brain-worms? Surely he was joking.
He wasn't.
Then: Dô. Somehow, Dô had managed this. She was trying to get him killed. Or at least ruin him.
Feelings rose in him. Feelings he had not had since leaving the üdhrm.
He had to keep this woman alive. To guard her. To protect her.
If he failed this time, he would beg for gulag as they slowly removed each layer of his skin, one at a time.
Gunnar Avalanche meets Mariska the Death Dealer[edit]
"Come on. As one bearded person to another, do me a favor. I am only looking for some Silver Cigars," Gunnar said, the Dwarf glancing curiously at a bright orange wagon parked nearby. The wagon was drawn by an ox. A really long haired one, typical to cattle further north of Blackport.
The pirate with a thick black beard that Gunnar was conversing with shook his head. "Sorry, can't do. If I sell any of the cargo past the captain and quartermaster, the bosun will flay the skin from my back."
"But you do sell directly from the ship, right?"
"To select traders the captain knows, who buy in bulk. Anything else needs to go through the quartermaster."
"Can I talk to the quartermaster then?"
"He doesn't do minor trades. Except for people he knows personally, and those sent by someone important. Look, after the traders have visited, the remaining cargo goes to the bazaar. Visit us there. The best I can do is set a box of cigars aside for you, if there are any left."
"Well, thanks for that. I suppose that is the best I can hope for," Gunnar said, opening his cigar box and looking forlornly at the single cigar he had left.
"Excuse me! Make way! Cargo coming through!"
Gunnar and the pirate took a step aside, Gunnar looking to find the source of the cheerful voice. Coming from the ship, practically skipping in front of pirates carrying crates and barrels - who were overseen by glaring half ogre that must have been the quartermaster - was the apparent owner of the wagon. A Gnomish woman in brightly colored clothes that would have looked right at home in Nyírvan - except for the large, wide brimmed pink hat that looked more like travel headwear to keep the sun and rain away than anything commonly worn in Nyírvan.
"Heavy stuff goes to the middle for balance, lighter things to sides," the Gnome instructed as the pirates started loading the wagon. "And careful with the wine bottles! I already paid for them, and if you break any, I will be upset!" The pirate carrying the bottles swallowed nervously.
Gunnar looked around for the Gnome trader's bodyguard but saw none. Meanwhile, the pirates finished loading the wagon and the Gnome extended her hand to the quartermaster. "A delight doing business with you!"
"Always," the half ogre said and very carefully took her comparatively tiny hand in his.
The pirates headed back to the ship as the Gnome climbed to the driver's seat of the wagon. "Do you need an escort?" Gunnar asked in Zradi, thinking about a Gnome with a wagon full of goods alone in Blackport. "In case of greedy people."
"I am not really worried about those," the Gnome said, but made room next to her and patted the seat. "But hop on! Company would be nice."
Gunnar climbed to the seat, the Gnome made a "tsk tsk" sound to the ox, who started walking. "Mariska," she then said, offering her hand to Gunnar.
"Gunhr," Gunnar said, like the half ogre being careful when shaking her hand.
"New in Blackport?" she asked.
"Relatively, yes. Is it that obvious?"
"It is. No one here offers to help just like that. When someone offers assistance, they always have an agenda."
"How do you know I do not have an agenda?"
"I have lived here a while. I can tell."
"I have to tell you, I was surprised to see a Gnome in Blackport," Gunnar said.
"It was not an easy decision for me to leave Nyírvan," Mariska said. "I really liked it there. But there weren't opportunities for me and what I wanted to do with my life there. So I had to make a decision. Give up on what I wanted, or leave. And here I am. There is so much wrong with Blackport, but lack of opportunities is not among that. Just like everything is for sale, everything is possible here. As long as you pay the right taxes and know the right people. And I have done really well for myself in Blackport." She glanced at Gunnar. "You can too. Your military bearing is obvious, and there is always demand for fighting skill here. The competition is fierce, of course, but that is how it is with opportunities. You have to work for them."
Gunnar could tell that Mariska was an outgoing person as she chatted happily beside her, not giving him an opening to do much more than nod and hmm in response. Then she asked "So what were you doing with the pirates? Friends among the crew?"
"No. I was just looking for some Silver Cigars."
"I have Silver Cigars," Mariska said. "Just bought some, they are in the wagon."
"Really? I don't suppose-"
"Of course I will sell some to you! I will even give you a friendly discount. As soon as we get to my warehouse."
The ox kept pulling the wagon as Mariska chatted cheerfully, occasionally letting Gunnar have a word too. The going was easy as most people gave the wagon a wide berth. Eventually she said "Oh, we are here! This is my warehouse."
Of course it was. The bright yellow building stood out from other buildings like a Gnome in Blackport.
Mariska hopped from the wagon and opened a large padlock holding the door locked. "Can you pull the door open? If you wait out here for a moment, I will park the wagon and get those cigars for you. I will have my crew unload the cargo later."
As Gunnar pulled at the door he heard a groaning sound from inside the warehouse. "Shush now!" Mariska called, climbing back on the driver's seat. The voice went quiet as she drove the wagon in.
Gunnar tried to figure out what sort of animal made that kind of noise, but then resolved that it must be something he was not familiar with.
Mariska returned, closing and locking the door again, and held out a box of cigars. Coins and the box changed hands and Gunnar looked with satisfaction at his replenished supply.
"Are you familiar with The Marked Hour?" Mariska asked. "It is a rather peaceful place as far as Blackport goes."
"Haven't been there," Gunnar said.
"You will soon! I was planning to eat, so I will treat you to dinner there!"
"You don't have to..."
"I insist!" Mariska said and took Gunnar's arm in a way that brooked no argument.
Mariska kept chatting as they walked. Gunnar noted how a patrol of City Guard moved to the other side of the street as they approached. He knew that people were wary of his obvious military bearing, but something felt off.
Eventually they arrived at the tavern. Gunnar felt that the bouncers gave him odd looks as he walked in with Mariska, who walked right up to the barkeep and said "Me and my friend will have steaks. Medium. With vegetables on the side, and warm bread and butter. I will have apple cider." She turned to Gunnar and asked "You will have ale, yes?" Barely waiting for a nod she turned back to the keep and said "He will have ale."
The Marked Hour really was a nice and quiet place, and Mariska was good company. Her constant good mood was catching. And it was easier to have an actual conversation with her during dinner, as she stopped talking to chew. Gunnar didn't think he had been able to relax in that way since arriving at Blackport.
Eventually they finished their dinner. Feeling content, Gunnar thought that this was a good moment to enjoy the last cigar from his old box before starting the new one. "I think I will have a cigar. Do you want one?"
"No thank you, I don't smoke. But you go ahead. I will go pay our tab."
As Gunnar took out the cigar she noted Mariska walk past a group of craftspeople playing cards at a table. The gamblers went quiet as she walked by. Then it dawned on him what had been nagging at him ever since port. The people along the way had not been afraid of him, they had been afraid of her!
Leaning towards the gamblers, Gunnar asked "Excuse me. I am new here, and just met her. Is there something I should know?"
"There most certainly is," one gambler said. "She is Mariska the Death Dealer. One of the most feared necromancers in Blackport."
"She is so frightening she is just about the only person to do direct trade with Ûgozh tribes," another gambler said. "No one in their right mind dares attack her Death Caravan, guarded by terrifying undead and her own potent death magic."
Gunnar looked at where Mariska was happily chatting with the barkeep while paying the bill, and tried to fit the sight with his mental image of a feared necromancer. Without much success. Then he shrugged and lit the cigar. "Well. That does explain a lot of things."