A few weeks after the Whalestone Jail job, Adrix’s squad was tasked with guarding a merchant’s warehouse until his ship returned to carry the goods off toward their destination. Then a Company ship would guard the vessel all the way along its voyage. For the next month, Tirak worked the beat, patrolling the warehouse during his shift and carousing the bars and brothels with his comrades-in-arms during his downtime. In the evenings, Tirak went out in search of trouble.
Usually, he could find someone in need of a beating—a pickpocket, gambling cheat, or even an attempted rapist. Sometimes, he’d have to pick fights with barroom drunks to get his action. He always kept an ear open for mentions of Numa tribes and Elder Coast villages. Occasionally, his fellow mercenaries in the squad would comment—the day after—on his bruises or gashes, though they were all minor.
Diggs—despite his recovered wounds—did not return to duty. He couldn’t bear to face a similar mission again any more than he could bear to live in fear of further injury. Tirak understood—not all were cut out for this line of work. As a replacement, a man called Hob was assigned to Adrix’s team.
Hob was a little more seasoned. He explained the nature of his nickname by its origin, Hobble, which had been assigned to him for the limp he had once walked. Long-healed, the moniker had been abbreviated to Hob. When Tirak pressed for an explanation as to why a fresh recruit had not been assigned to the squad, Hob told them his story: a few years on duty as a town guard north of Eastpoint, a night of drunken brawling, a leg injury, and the loss of a job. He had joined up with the East Storm in search of good pay.
The weeks dragged on. Then, early into the 11th Moon, Ralist disappeared. When Tirak’s friend had failed to show up at the Red Seal Tavern for a routine meeting, everyone had assumed he was sleeping off the drink. When no one had heard from him the next day, Marako had gone in search of the missing mercenary. His brother, whom he lived with, had not heard from him and had assumed he was simply working late hours.
As the mercenaries that weren’t on shift began asking around about him, Tirak’s nightly skulking of the streets took over more hours from his sleep. Though his knuckles would beg otherwise, his efforts did not produce fruit.
One evening, well after the middle of the month, Tirak staggered out of the street in search of another drink. On the edge of the slum called Harane Low, he ordered a drink from a tiny bar and rested his head on one hand.
Looking down the bar, Tirak spotted a bedraggled fellow wearing a blue badge bearing the familiar coiled-lightning insignia of the East Storm Company. Not wanting to strike up a conversation, he raised his glass to his peer. The man mimicked his gesture, but the flick of his eyes seemed to be lacking some confidence.
Tirak shuffled down the bar to the man’s side. “How’s it been, friend?”
“Fine,” the man mumbled. “…just ‘bout to leave…”
The stranger stumbled off his barstool and grabbed the bar for support, then trudged toward the door. Tirak watched him go, wondering what was pulling at his gut. This wasn’t a usual drunken mercenary. The man looked back as he passed the window, but didn’t notice Tirak watching him.
After he was out of sight, Tirak followed. He kept to the shadows in the street, even hiding in an alley once or twice. It wasn’t hard—the man was plastered. Then Tirak watched as the man pulled the blue badge off of his coat and slid it into a pocket. Now Tirak was wondering why this drunkard would impersonate a Company mercenary—it wasn’t like they got a bar discount out here on the edge of the Low.
Tirak watched man reach his home, well into the slum, and drop his key in front of his door. Cursing, the inebriated man eventually got his home unlocked and lurched inside.
Peering through the corner of a window, Tirak ground his teeth. If this fool was hiding something, he’d pay dearly—but if he was just a drunken idiot, Tirak wondered if he’d have the restraint to not carve the Company insignia into the oaf’s chest just for wasting his time. He watched the drunkard toss his sword onto the table near the door, and, by the torchlight, Tirak caught a glimpse of the rusty, garbage weapon. Any mercenary worth his coin would pay to get rid of such an eyesore.
Tirak moved to the next window, but kicked over a loose brick. He hid for a moment, worrying that the idiot would see him. When he next looked into the dim house, he saw the man passed out on a messy bed.
Groaning, Tirak returned to the street and picked the lock. He wasn’t the best lockpick, he knew, but his mark was certainly not going to notice. He stepped inside and took a look around. There was nothing suspicious about the pigsty amenities—but the lack of armour, weapons, or coin wrapped the truth up neatly for Tirak. This man was definitely not a mercenary.
A fist to the skull jarred the drunkard awake. Before the idiot could open his ringing eyes, Tirak threw him against the wall and pinned him there from behind. “That’s a mighty shit-looking badge in your pocket,” Tirak said. Then, with a tone dripping of sarcasm, he asked, “You got your contract for me to validate?”
“I—easy!—I found it!” the man cried out. “Easy—my arm!”
Tirak didn’t ease up. “Found it? Where? Why were you using it at the bar?”
The man tried to shrug, but couldn’t with his arm twisted around and his chin scraping the wooden beams. “Finally got…a bit of respect around here,” he mumbled. “No harm done, right?”
A heavy sigh left Tirak’s lips. Damn useless drunk, he thought. He yanked the badge from the man’s pocket, then threw the man across the floor. A few kicks to the ribs sent the message. For good measure, Tirak repeated it aloud; “Disrespect the East Storm again and I’ll come for your bloody hands.”
Waste of my evening, Tirak thought, marching for the door. He kicked it open—even though it opened inward. Striding through the broken door, Tirak called back inside, “You better find another hiding spot for that gold piece, you drunken sod!” He shouted it loud enough that anyone with thin walls on the street would hear.
It was a long walk back to Tirak’s bunk in the Storm Fort. He moved briskly, burning off his frustration with each angry step. Another wasted night, without any lead on Ralist or Tirak’s lost tribe.