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my-favourite-zhent · 7 months ago

Text

New Tricks - Chapter 20

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes:

Part two of the three chapter split!

I was spamming @fistfuloftarenths bits of this way back in February. We get a little bit of Sal in this chapter, if you wanna read more of him check out her fic de diversis artibus.

Another lovely beta is of course the kindly @dustdeepsea who's Rugan story Gods and Monsters has our dear old man in this cut content bad ending with a very kickass Tav. (Part of the Trouble Will Find Me series.)

And last but not least @captainsigge who is a one woman hype squad. Be sure to check out her tumblr which has an inspiring collection of Rugan video edits <3

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut~

New Tricks - Chapter Twenty

Goulcrest was a small village that sat roughly Northeast of Baldur's Gate. So named for its proximity to the fields of the dead, though it saw little in the way of actual ghouls.

They had made good time on the road from the Gate despite all the mud from spring rains. Thankfully the ground had dried out by the last leg of their journey. Rugan supposed there was something to be said for a small crew. They had made a short stop for lunch. Bellar and Olly had gone to take a piss before they set back out, while Rugan and Sal remained with the wagon by a small copse of trees.

When he was certain Bellar was out of earshot he turned to Salazon.

��Sal, would you send Izzy for me?”

He had planned to leave a letter at the Elfsong before they left for Elturel regardless, but still he was anxious about missing Iz.

“For one hundred tarenths I will.”

“A hundred! Last time it was fifty.” Rugan replied indignantly.

“Yeah well, second to last time I sent you, you told me to sod off.”

“That was months ago, you spiteful imp.” Leave it to a wizard to hold a grudge.

“I've loans to pay off, as you well know.”

Grudgingly, Rugan rifled through his coin purse and began counting out the coins one by one.

Sal let out an exasperated sigh at his slow progress. “Here just let me do it, you're terrible at counting.”

“So you can cheat me more than you already have? Not bloody likely.” Rugan went back to the pile and began counting again from one.

“What are you doing?!” Sal asked aghast.

“You made me lose count,” came the saucy reply.

“Oh for Helm’s sake.” Sal hissed. “Just what do you want to say to her?”

“Tell her I might be some days late to meet her in the Gate on account of the job. But I'll come as soon as I can.”

Sal gave a deep intake of breath and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes. Rugan watched as the wizard's hands contorted into strange gestures as he cast the spell. After several long moments Sal opened his eyes.

“She says she'll wait for you at the Elfsong, she doesn't have any other jobs lined up after this one.”

“She will?” The smile was broad across Rugan's face. He went back to hastily counting the coins, but Sal held out his hand.

“Forget the coin, this is too painful to watch. Just ask her to put in a nice word with Corra.”

“Ah, I can get you talking to a more local girl, but if you insist. Buy you a drink too.”

If Sal was a better Zhent he would've pressed Rugan for more favours while the man was feeling generous, alas he was not.

“It's a deal.”

+++++

It had been another two days' travel before they finally reached Goulcrest. While there had been no proper road leading up from the highway, the paths connecting it to the local farms were better maintained. They followed one of these now to an abandoned farmstead farther apart from the others. Strange place to retrieve a delivery, but coin was coin.

Rugan and Olly were in the wagon today while Bellar and Salazon were on horseback. The group often rotated but Salazon was always given the blue-eyed chestnut mare when riding. The creature was particularly unflappable around casting compared to others of its ilk.

As the party approached they could hear raised voices emanating from their destination.

“Sounds like trouble up ahead,” said Bellar astride his mount, hand already on the hilt of his blade.

Straining his ears, Olly scrunched his face in concentration, leaning forward in his seat at the front of the new wagon.

“I don’t hear any blades.” By now the ring of steel had become an unmistakable sound to the young recruit.

“Nor I,” agreed Rugan from the driver's seat. “Still, best to play it safe.” He looked to a mounted Sal who nodded in affirmation, readying a spell just in case.

As the party drew closer the voices became more discernible.

“That isn't what we agreed upon.” A woman's voice, straining with anger, somehow familiar.

“You've already been paid upfront.” A man's voice this time. Rugan could easily imagine the sneer its owner must be wearing.

“I’ve been paid half upfront as outlined in the contract, and now that the job is done I expect the second half.”

“Work can't be half as hard as you say seeing as you finished early. So you get half the pay.”

“How many antiquarians have you brought down here before me? Ones that didn't even finish the job? At least two that I know of.”

“Isn't that—?” Olly began as they crested the hill, the figures of a dark-haired man and woman came into view.

“Take the reins, lad.” Handing over the leather straps to Olly, Rugan hopped off the ambling caravan and made his way towards the arguing duo.

“Just one of those urns is worth twice what you agreed to pay me. So give me my due.” Her voice was even but Rugan noted that the fingertips of one hand were glowing ever so slightly.

“Don't push your luck, girl. I could bury you back in those tombs and then it would take another three antiquarians just to find your corpse.” The man was snarling contemptuously.

“Luck indeed,” Rugan interjected. “Inauspicious to start a job with violence though.”

Izzy stared at him dumbfounded, rage temporarily forgotten as he approached. Her verbal sparring partner smirked, mistaking her confusion for fear.

Rugan came to stand beside the two with a sidelong look to Izzy before he turned his attention to the man. She seemed to take his meaning, making no move to let show their familiarity with one another.

‘Good, lass.’ He thought. ‘My clever lass.’

“Grim, I take it?” It could have been his real name, common enough among Chondathans, but Rugan had a feeling the man had chosen it to sound tough.

“That's right.” Grim extended his hand to Rugan who took it readily. “You our Zhent escort then?”

“I am indeed.”

“You're early, I like that.”

“Funny, not what you said a minute ago,” came Izzy's sharp tongue.

‘My short-tempered lass.’ Rugan worked hard to suppress the look he wanted to shoot her.

“That the cargo?” Rugan glanced over at a group of ceramic vases and statues clustered under a tarp to the far side of the camp.

“That’s right, we weren't expecting you for another few days, but I can have the boys pack them up in a jiff.”

“No need to rush, it's already late in the day so we won't be setting back out tonight. Wouldn't want anything to break if they’re requiring special care.”

This gave Grim pause, he looked to Izzy for an answer.

“Really?” She crossed her arms.

“Throw in an extra twenty electrum for you, little worm.” Grim sneered.

“That's not even close to–”

Rugan held out his hand. “Perhaps in the spirit of cooperation we should forgive past debts. If we're all going to be on the road together, that is.”

“Fine.” She bit out through gritted teeth.

Grim was grinning broadly, confident ‘his’ Zhent sellsword had cowed the woman.

“We'll help with the loading up.” Rugan turned back to the waiting Zhents with a sharp whistle. “Bring ‘er round Olly!”

“Why don't you show him what needs to be done, Alyssa?” Grim smirked.

Wordlessly, Izzy stalked off to the tarp set-up at the side of the farmstead, Rugan followed one step behind.

When they were finally out of earshot she groaned and braced her arms against an open crate, hanging her head low.

“I'm so bloody sick of dealing with this shite on every job.”

Rugan positioned himself such that the two other tomb raiders milling about the camp wouldn't see when he placed his hand on the small of her back.

“There now, lass, it can't be helped. Thugs like these only respect a sword arm. Business at the end of a blade as it were.”

“I always seem to be getting the short end of the stick on that one.” She gave a shuddering sigh as she tried to regain her composure. Rugan's hand smoothed over her back in a tight circle, easing some of the tension she had been holding in.

“Do these actually need any special care or?”

“Hah, no they're just bloody vases mostly. Some bits of statuary.” She swiped at the sweat of her brow. “I mean, do take more care with them than these damned fools. That one urn there was in perfect condition when we found it and now it's got a big split up the side because they thought it was faster to roll it down the stairs.”

“Thought you liked this stuff.”

“I do.” She sounded mournful, almost wounded. “Just can't afford to be precious about it. These bastards aren't exactly museum curators.” She let out another long sigh.

“This frippery really worth as much as you say?”

“Yes, if you can sell them directly in Athkatla, that is. Nobles there are so obsessed with appearances.”

“Vases get them all puffed up, do they?”

“If it's from some ancient temple or Elven villa? Absolutely. I've even seen people pay decently for known fakes, so long as they thought it would fool their party guests.”

“Fucking nobles.” He chuckled at the absurdity.

“Fucking nobles.” She agreed and gave him a tired smile.

“Feeling better, lass?”

“A little. I'm glad it's you that's come.”

“Someone's gotta keep you out of trouble.” With one last gentle press he removed his hand from her and stepped back. “I'll talk to the lads, get sorted on supplies.”

Izzy nodded in response and went back to inspecting the ceramics as he turned to leave.

+++++

“That your girl, innit?” Bellar's voice was low and conspiratorial as Rugan returned to the wagon.

“Aye, going by Alyssa, and as far as we're concerned she's a stranger.”

“Why's that? I like Iz.” Disappointment coloured Olly's voice.

“Well it's a conflict of interest, isn't it?” supplied Sal. “And we don't need our clients knowing that.”

“Suppose that makes sense.”

“Will it be a conflict though?” Bellar looked to Rugan.

“No need for it to come to that.” Rugan did his best to sound reassuring. “We've come to do a job after all. I've volunteered us to help with the loading up.”

“‘Course you have,” muttered Bellar.

Rugan continued on as if he hadn't heard. “Goods are fragile so we're going to need a lot of straw.”

“I saw a farm with hay back the way.” Olly gestured with his thumb.

“Right.” Rugan retrieved a few coins from his purse and handed them to Olly. “Buy what hay you can off them, and if it's not enough, inquire about their neighbours. Bound to be enough around here.”

“Sure.”

“Oh and Olly,” His voice lower now so as not to be overheard. “Take ‘Alyssa’ with you, see what she can tell you about this crew and their affiliations.”

Olly nodded and Rugan put up his hand to flag Izzy down.

“Guess you want us to help with the boxes?” Bellar sighed.

“I do, but don't go working too hard, it's supposed to be their job. Just use it as an excuse to get to chatting with them.”

“Wasn't planning on working hard at all.”

Sal chuckled before agreeing. “We can handle that.”

“You couldn't handle a paperweight,” Bellar clucked as he and Sal moved to approach the raiders.

“Surprised you know what a paperweight is,” came Sal’s counter.

Rugan turned as Izzy approached, his volume increasing enough that they could be overheard. “Lass, my boy Olly here is going to help with fetching supplies if you could direct him.”

“Of course.” She maintained a neutral expression as she climbed up into the driver's box next to Olly, and they set off without a backward glance. Rugan watched them disappear back down the dirt road, relieved to have Izzy away from this lot even for just a little while.

+++++

As the party set to work, Rugan had made note of the derelict farm's surroundings. The barn was locked up tight with fresh chains, the gleaming metal sat in stark contrast to the many rusted tools laying about. There was also a fresh pile of dirt outside the barn. No doubt the excavation site lay inside.

On closer inspection it was easy to see the farmstead had been built on top of some sort of ruins. Fragments of an old stone wall jutted out from the earth in places, and he recognized those same stones being repurposed in the property's dilapidated farmhouse.

Wandering the perimeter where the length of the field met the edge of the forest, Rugan noticed something else peculiar. A few more short mounds of dirt, these were about seven or eight feet long and five or six hand spans wide. New work, but the dirt had coalesced from the recent rains. They hadn't been dug in the last ten-day, but likely some time this past month.

It had already been late afternoon when they had first arrived, and it was dusk by the time they had finished assembling enough boxes for the cargo. Introductions had been made, and stories swapped between the two groups.

Olly and Izzy had also returned, and both addressed each other cordially. Rugan was glad that while the pair of them were generally terrible liars when questioned directly, they were at least passable at playing pretend.

“Sal,” Rugan called from his position leaning against the barn. The wizard turned to regard him, and he jerked his head to the side indicating Sal should follow. When the pair had rounded the corner away from prying eyes, Rugan slipped into the Zhentil dialect as an added precaution.

“I want you or Olly with Iz at all times.”

“Any particular reason? Besides Grim’s less than stellar first impression I mean.”

“Aye, think I've found their previous contractors buried round back.”

Sal let out a long exasperated breath. “Even when I get put on the easy jobs someone's getting merc’d.”

“Sometimes that's what makes them easy.” Rugan forced a smirk to cover the undercurrent of anxiety he felt trying to fight its way to the surface.

“We can watch her, I'll talk to Olly about it. Sure you don't wanna keep an eye on her yourself?”

“Be too obvious.” He sighed, though he wasn't sure if it would be him or Iz that would falter in the charade.

Sal nodded in understanding, and the pair rejoined the others.

It was an hour or so later when Grim came to sit where Rugan and Bellar were quietly eating by the fire.

“Mind if I join you lads?”

“We're nothing if not hospitable.” Rugan put on his most congenial smile, gesturing to the empty spot on the log beside him.

“Couldn't help but notice your boys trying to cozy up to the little book fucker.” Grim nodded towards the other end of the farmstead campsite where Olly and Sal were quietly speaking with Izzy.

“Ah well, pretty thing like that might make for good company on the road. Can't fault the lads for making the best of it.”

“I'd save my breath if I were them, she's as frigid as they come. Probably as dry as those musty books she lugs around too.”

“Didn't have any luck, I take it?” Rugan chuckled and Bellar watched him obliquely. Though his friend’s face was plastered with a smile, Bellar recognized the anger simmering under the surface.

“Don’t expect anyone to have much luck with a creature more harpy than human. Would you believe she even put traps around her tent at night?”

“You're joking.” Rugan laughed. “I'll have to take you to a proper festhall when we get to the city.”

Grim began rambling on about some misadventures he’d had in the Heartlands over the years. Rugan was only half listening, but he laughed and nodded along in the appropriate places.

Bellar, for his part, was conspicuously quiet, watching Rugan from behind an enthusiastic Grim's shoulder. He didn't speak up until the raider had finally wandered off to chat to his square-jawed compatriot.

“How do you want to handle this?” Bellar moved to take Grim's spot, voice low, watching the raiders as he spoke.

“We're professionals, and we'll behave like it.”

“Will we?”

“Sure, so long as he doesn't raise my ire any further.” Rugan's voice was low and closer to a growl than he would like to admit.

Bellar gave a short dry laugh. “Somehow that seems like a foregone conclusion.”

“Aye, doesn't it just?” A wry smile curled the corners of Rugan's mouth.

+++++

There were no more surprises when setting up camp that night. Sal and Olly dutifully planted their shared tent beside Izzy's and Rugan made a mental note to buy them plenty of drinks at the next opportunity. Grim also seemed to take note of the current arrangement, and while his sour expression gave away his feelings on the matter he was wise enough to not make a complaint. At least not yet.

Watches were organised, and Rugan volunteered himself and Olly to take the last one. Late enough that most of the camp would be deep asleep.

When he felt confident the previous shift wouldn't rouse he turned to Olly for a debriefing of his ride with Iz. He tried to use the coded dialect as he had with Sal.

“What was her read on the group?” Rugan asked, absently poking at the fire.

“She said Grim’s a—umm brag-bragga—? A trumpet?” Olly’s tongue twisting over the words before switching back to common with a frustrated sigh.

“Rugan, can we just do this in common?”

Rugan sighed and rolled his shoulders. The boy was still new to the tongue, and while he understood others well enough his own responses were often stilted and abrupt in this way. They weren't going to get far if Olly stumbled every third word.

“Fine, but keep your voice down, lad. Don't need anyone catching wind of this.”

“Right, so Grim’s a swank.”

“Gathered that much from his tales, go on.”

Olly went on to describe the other crew members. The big meaty bastard with rust coloured hair was Friss. He rarely spoke but was constantly surveilling the others. The scrawny lad was Soren, the youngest of three. Smaller than the others and habitually bullied by them.

Most importantly, there had been no evidence of them being part of a larger guild or network. Rugan considered this a bit of good luck. Less complications if things played out the way he thought they might.

“This group doesn't exactly seem well read, did she know how they found this place?”

“Apparently robbed some noble on the road, and that's how they found out about the ruins. The rich fellow, he'd done some family research and thought his ancestors used to tend a temple here.”

“What happened to the fellow?”

Olly shrugged. Likely dead and Rugan didn't wanna be in the vicinity in case any fancy relatives came looking.

“Right then, I want you to see what inroads you can make with Soren.”

“Me? I'm no spy.”

“You're close in age, he'll want to talk to you. Don't think of it as some daring thing, just tell him some stories so he opens up a touch. Complain about us a bit.”

“Complain about you?”

“Puts folks at ease if you open up first. If he's got issues with his crew he'll be champing at the bit to say so.”

Olly nodded in understanding. “Alright, I'll try.” Then after a beat. “Suppose there is lots to complain about.”

Rugan huffed. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that last bit.”

+++++

It was a small group as caravans went, only the two wagons, eight people and seven horses. Two horses were hitched to each wagon.

Still, the way was slower going now that their numbers had doubled, especially with the wagons heavily weighted down by vases and small bits of statuary.

To make matters worse, Grim had taken a shine to Rugan. The Zhent’s days were frequently spent feigning interest in one of Grim's oft repeated adventures.

“You know I thought of becoming a Zhent,” Grim would say. “Yeah, seriously considered that, but I enjoy being my own boss too much.” Even Grim's own people looked like they had to bite their tongue when that one was repeated. It was true that the Zhentarim recruited all sorts, but Rugan doubted such a loud-mouth would go a month before finding a knife in his back.

“Used to run with the thieves out of Beregost,” Grim stated matter of factly one morning ‘round breakfast. “They were really small-time though. Yeah didn't wanna expand out of the ‘gost.” Rugan had to fight hard to choke down a laugh when he saw Bellar mouthing ‘the gost’ over Grim’s shoulder. Nobody fucking called Beregost that, and if they did Rugan would eat Olly's scarf.

That particular story seemed to set off Sal, who had over the winter become an expert on all things Amnian.

“Small time!” He had whisper-shouted at Rugan during their watch that night.

“They're a branch of the Shadow Thieves of Amn! The very same that Izzy warned us about in Crimmor. This isn't embellishment anymore, it's outright disinformation.”

Rugan thought enduring that particular story was worth it just to see how it frustrated Sal.

Grim's constant hovering also interfered with Rugan's other tasks. It was near impossible to go over a manifest with his constant nattering. His tinny voice followed Rugan as he inspected wheels and tarps. He couldn't even take a leak without Grim sidling up beside him at some random tree.

Worst of all, it made it near impossible to sneak a glance at Iz. The most he got to see of her was when he was sitting in the driver seat of the wagon. She sat quietly beside him while they studiously ignored one another, though on more than one occasion she had rested her hand on his knee when Grim’s crew were preoccupied. He could almost pretend they were alone in those moments, sometimes he even dared to place his hand on top of hers.

It was usually at such times that Grim would come riding up to tell Rugan how the Flaming Fist had tried to recruit him, had begged him to join on bended knee.

“Couldn’t meet my salary expectations though.” Grim would say as Rugan and Izzy surreptitiously disengaged.

At least Olly had made inroads with Soren—the pair often rode side by side at the head of the party, sometimes laughing over some shared joke.

+++++

Rugan was busy tacking up his horse one morning when Bellar spoke up.

“Don't look now, but your best mate is coming round.” He chuckled before wandering off.

Rugan sighed as he finished inspecting his saddle. It seemed Grim was intent on talking his ear off the whole journey back to the Gate.

“Good day to be on the road,” greeted Grim.

Every day on the road with Grim felt like the worst day of his life. “That it is indeed.”

“Now, Zhent, I can see that you're a professional.”

“Aye, that if nothing else.” Rugan agreed with a smile that did not touch his eyes.

“Can't say the same for your lads.” Grim turned and Rugan followed the man's gaze to where Izzy and Sal were brushing the latter's horse. Rugan chose not to comment.

“Now see, I've a little business proposition for you,” Grim continued.

“Go on then.” He said, knowing full well Grim was about to say something he wouldn't like.

“Well…” Turning back to Rugan, Grim lowered his voice and leaned in close. The man was so obvious about what he was doing it almost seemed like a parody of secrecy. “Seems a waste of supplies to have an extra body around when her part’s already done.”

“You wanna dump the girl in Goulcrest?” Rugan hoped that was all, but he knew better.

“Why part with the coin? Overpriced as she was, even at half the contract. Better to just dump the body in a ditch.” He swiped a dark strand of hair behind his ear with a lopsided grin. Rugan imagined himself dashing Grim’s face against a stone wall, till that grin was broken and jagged.

“That would be outside the terms of our established contract.” His voice was silken, even as he felt himself gritting his teeth. “You've paid us to protect the merchandise, no more, no less.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Half her coin is yours when the job is done.”

“Respectfully—” Respect was in fact the last thing he felt for Grim. “No.”

And even if it hadn't been Iz, if it had been some passerby he had no compunctions over killing, even then he would've expected to keep the full purse plus fee.

“Just think it over, it's a good chunk of coin.” Grim clapped him on the shoulder before wandering back to his own horse.

“Still want to be professional?” Bellar, who had of course been eavesdropping, appeared at Rugan’s side. “Not particularly, but we’ll see if he drops the issue.” Rugan tried to shake out the tension in his shoulders as he said it. “Doubt it.” Bellar chuckled before mounting his own horse. Rugan had a feeling Bellar was right and a vengeful part of him looked forward to it.

#rugan #bg3 rugan #rugan bg3 #zhentarim #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 rugan #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #new tricks #bg3 fanfic: new tricks #bg3 oc: izzy #izzy x rugan #rugan x izzy #bg3 fic: new tricks #my writing

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my-favourite-zhent · 7 months ago

Text

New Tricks - Chapter 19

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: When one chapter becomes three. The main scenes for the next two upcoming chapters were written way back when I was struggling with chapter six. It was meant to be chapter eight but the plot got away from me a bit. This chapter started out as a little extra tidbit at the start but ended up growing into its own thing and for once I didn't delete an Izzy POV chapter.

Thank you to @fistfuloftarenths, @captainsigge, @dustdeepsea for always being my wonderful betas and providing me with encouragement. If it weren't for you all I think I would've deleted this chapter.

Dust also had the great suggestion of including the clip from Izzy's notebook and showed me how to do all the lovely formatting you will see in this chapter <3. (Check the AO3 link for that and additional footnotes as it's not in the tumblr post)

Also a shout out to @coreene for having such a treasure trove of lore on her tumblr! Always super helpful for fleshing out the background world lore.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut.

By now rotten luck had coloured most of Isolde’s life.

It seemed to her that it had all begun after her parents' untimely deaths when she was sixteen.

What had begun as one bad year became two, with her exile to some gods forsaken farmlands and her first heartbreak at seventeen.

The following year had appeared to break the trend—she had been offered the position of sizar at the university where her parents once taught. Only in reality it had simply been a year spent building the framework for a truly devastating nineteenth year and an end to her academic aspirations. Her first lover came and went. First friends came and went. Corra was the only good thing to come out of her short-lived scholastic career.

The jobs had been like that too. Someone would turn traitor or stupid. Load bearing beams would give way. Priceless urns would be full of fucking venomous spiders. Only now she had been prepared for rotten luck. Moulded by it.

Now she always slipped a spare trinket under her blouse or in her boot just in case the job didn't pay. Now she kept her valuables in a safe deposit box on the off chance her room got ransacked again. Now she slept in her road breeches with a knife under her pillow, and while she'd never been trained to kill, jabbing someone who wasn't expecting it gave you a good head start on an escape.

Seventeen years of bad luck had taught her to be prepared and to be persistent. She had survived and even sometimes thrived because of it.

So now, as she watched the sailors drag her chest up onto the deck of the ship, she felt especially stupid.

“My tools are in there! I've paid you good coin to transport those!” She screamed, but her voice could barely be heard by the man next to her over the crashing of the waves.

The ship rocked under another violent tumult of wind. The tempest had come upon them without any warning, clear blue skies had become turbulent greys streaked in black and white in mere moments. There wasn't even supposed to be storms like this on the Sword Coast for another month. It was just her luck.

Distantly she heard cries to cut the main sail.

The sailor looked as contrite as one could in the midst of a squall. “Sorry lass, bitch queen needs her offering!”

And despite the pelting hail and whipping winds it was the word lass that made her flinch.

‘Should have never gotten aboard a ship out of Neverwinter,’ she thought bitterly as she watched them tip her chest into the sea.

The contract she had taken in Baldur's Gate was an easy forgery job. She could've sat nice and safe in a room at the Elfsong scribbling away before meeting Rugan. She would've made a mint for doing hardly anything at all. But now her seals were gone and with it the contract.

Standing on the docks, Isolde weighed her options. It was alright. This was manageable. She still had the clay impressions of her fake seals in her pack. The sheep’s bladder she kept them in had protected them from any water damage from the storm. A half-way competent smith could recreate the seals from the pressings easily. But just how much would halfway decent cost her? More than she had left, it turned out. Most of her coin was now at the blacksmith's, and that was only the first half of the payment.

Her hand strayed time and again to where her insurance necklace would be, but she had pawned it. Pawned it for the same reason she had come to the city. The same reason she was flat broke. At least she could make that bastard buy her a drink. Blame him heartily for her misfortune. And if he smiled at her even once her fool heart would find the whole venture worthwhile.

“Sorry, miss, believe his caravan is on the road right now. Haven't seen him in a tenday.” The man behind the bar at the Elfsong shrugged.

It was just her rotten luck.

In weaker moments of her life she had considered leaving offerings to Beshaba at those little roadside shrines made of antlers and twigs. But no, fuck that deer-headed bitch. And fuck Umberlee too, while she was at it.

The barkeep looked apologetic, just as the sailor had, but that wasn't going to help her out in any way, shape or form.

She would need to find another job to take on. Isolde considered the other local contract she had ignored on account of the risk. There was nothing for it now. She leaned back in her stool and sighed. So long and low and frustrated that the man gave her another sympathetic look.

“Drink might help with that, miss.”

She opened her coin purse and eyed the few bits she had left.

“Give me the strongest thing you've got for two silvers.” She said sliding the coins across the table.

The man nodded and exchanged them for a pitcher of wine and a tall glass.

“If it's not a pressing issue,” he added as he poured the first glass full for her. “Could leave a letter with me if you like. He's in here every night when the caravan’s not on the road.”

Isolde perked up at that. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Half the point of an inn is to have a place to send letters. I even mail some out if you've got a coin for the ship’s captain.”

Isolde almost took out her pen and ink right there, but then thought better of it. No sense trying to hastily scribble a note at the bar where some other patron would knock their elbows against hers and make the barman regret his offer.

Scooping up her glass and pitcher, pack slung over her shoulder, Isolde tipped her head in thanks and made for one of the alcoves at the far end of the taproom.

The Elfsong was much nicer than she had expected. The floors were worn but well-maintained, the drapes were not frayed and had minimal patching. She had been told more than once this place was a tourist trap, but when Rugan had called it his local she had presumed it to be something more akin to a dive bar. Had that been unkind of her? The Blackstaron and the Prow in Waterdeep had both been nicely kept inns, even if they had managed to get themselves kicked out of the first one.

She was broken from her train of thought when another patron collided into her, the wine from her glass sloshing over her hand.

“Sorry, love.” The man offered though he didn't even bother to meet her eyes as he and his date brushed past and grabbed the seat she had been eyeing. The date gave her a look that was half amusement, half pity, and Isolde muttered a curse under her breath as she stalked down to the next alcove.

Carefully she placed her wine down on the table, mindful of how it still undulated in its confines. With her clean hand she withdrew a rag from her pack and wet it with her waterskin, wiping clean the other before finally seating herself.

As she unpacked her writing tools she wondered idly if this was the same seat Rugan liked to frequent. Would he have a regular seat? She should've asked the barman. No, on second thought that was a terrible idea. Isolde had seen and chosen to ignore the pitying look the man had given her when Rugan's name had slipped her lips. Didn't need to let him know how badly besotted she was, admitting it to herself was embarrassing enough.

She drained her first glass before setting pen to paper. This one was easy enough to write, and feeling a bit bold she applied a thin layer of vermillion to her lips as the ink dried. She marked the page with her lips and hoped it would make Rugan suitably unhappy about standing her up.

There was another letter she should write, though she wasn't too pleased about it.

‘It might not be necessary.’ She tried to tell herself.

She pulled out her leather bound notebook. It was a tiny thing, worn at the edges, about as wide and long as her hand but maybe two finger-span thick.

The contact information for the job had been hastily scribbled on one of the thick pages, just in case.

It had been Isolde's father who had taught her how to bind books, but it had been her mother who had taught her how to spot traps.

There were many things to take into account, but it came down to a few large considerations:

Was this culture known for booby-trapping tombs? Was this a place or person of importance?

An Imaskari noble would have a much more dangerous mausoleum than a Tharrian peasant.

Was there irregular wear on the ground that might suggest its builders walked a specific, safe path?

Pressure plates were a simple trap and thus effective trap. They stood the test of time better than more complex machinery.

Were there intricate patterns on the structure that could conceal glyphs?

Metal lasted long but magic lasted damn near indefinitely and could do far more damage.

One should be wary on any job, but if the answer to any of these questions was yes then doubly so.

Isolde had a similar list of tell-tale signs when it came to selecting jobs.

Was this client known to her network?

One tended to see the same familiar faces handling these operations. Sure muscle and labour would be locals, but the showrunner was usually one of two dozen folks who had the training to identify a site or the connections to fence the goods. Some characters were more trustworthy than others.

And no, the folks named here were not known to her or anyone she had asked.

Was the site near a city centre?

They oft times were—cities tended to grow on the bones of their forebears, like Luskan and Illusk. This meant more secrecy was necessary, but also less violence. Harder to hide a body and its eventual rot. Out in the wilds you didn’t even need to bury a corpse for it to never be found.

This job was definitely not near a city.

Was the pay reasonable?

Too high meant this was a con, you were lucky if you only came out empty-handed. Too low meant whoever was in charge didn’t even know what their goods were worth, if anything, and they didn’t know the running cost of a black market archaeologist.

Too low, far too low.

She had already known all this, but somehow had hoped the details might have changed since she last looked at the notebook. Isolde groaned and threw her head back against the wall of the booth. She was going to have to write the second letter.

Isolde poured and downed two more glasses of wine before she was sufficiently over her shame of having to ask Corra for money. If the forgery job was still around when she returned she’d pay Corra back two-fold.

Maybe she could just wait till Corra’s letter of credit came through, there were cheaper inns in the city, certainly. Gods, maybe a flophouse? But no, after hunting around the lower city and Norchapel it turned out Baldur’s Gate was almost as overpriced as Waterdeep.

‘Should’ve sent the letter and waited before paying for the tools.’ She thought dejectedly.

There ended up being roughly enough coin for a night or two in a flop house, some food for the road and a ride on a caravan heading west. So that was what she resolved to do.

Hopefully, stupidly, she looked for his face amongst the various caravans on the morning she made her way out of Baldur's Gate.

The wagons outside Basilisk Gate were packed end to end—or end to horse as it were. Some people pushed handcarts, perhaps to visit the nearby farms. She also saw oxen hitched to sturdy wagons loaded down with heavier goods. Merchants with lighter goods like the one she accompanied had horses to carry them along faster.

It was a decently nice carriage. Nothing fancy like the wooden conveyances that nobles used, but it had a sturdy canvas roof which was more than most.

The air by now was rank with the dung of a hundred beasts of burden, idling while their masters impatiently waited behind the traffic of a several dozen handcarts.

‘Just like Crimmor.’ She thought with an amused sort of wistfulness.

Isolde noticed then a group dressed in that familiar black and yellow, and her heart struggled to break free from the confines of her ribs. She leaned out the back of the wagon to get a better look. Though she squinted hard there was no one she was acquainted with. Just some red-head with clownish hair, though he had a familiar sort of chin.

“Don't want to be looking too long, dearie. Not a friendly bunch.” Warned the old woman across from her, not unkindly. The merchant’s mother as she understood it.

“Of course, my thanks.” Isolde bowed her head and sat back down on the wagon floor.

They began moving at last, just as the dawn's early light was obscured by heavy soot coloured clouds. A wry smile twisted Isolde's lips.

“Something funny, dear?”

Isolde turned to meet the woman's gaze. “Just my luck, that’s all.”

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