A Mercenary's Tale

The Griffin's Fury (Part One)

***

It always began in a tavern of some sort, and today was no different for Fith.

She had been thirsting for something strong- a real, hardy drink- to take the edge off for quite a while now. Her most recent job had led her to the bleak outskirts of this forsaken village, hunting down a pack of wolves that had been harassing the inhabitants for quite some time. Out of desperation they had tracked her down, and in return for an agreeable sum of gold, she had accepted the villagers' task.

The villagers had proved themselves quite tiresome. Her questions had been met with short, unrevealing answers, and their description of the wolves gave her little to go on. They had also, whether intentional or not, forgotten to mention that the pack was twice the size of an average one.

While this may have been an easy enough mistake to make on their behalf, Fith had found herself both ill equipped and overwhelmed against the pack's number, and as a result she felt the need to drink away the soreness amassed from the skirmish.

Taking a break from her drink to stretch out her arms and legs, Fith felt a low, dry groan of pain escape from her lips. Clearly, she hadn't drunk enough yet.

So, when the first villager of many yet to come had approached her, she could have cried. After all, she had only been sat there, in her seat and nursing her drink, for a mere hour. Besides, it was only yesterday that she had sorted out the wolves.

With the small wallet of gold that hung across her belt, she was ready to eat plenty, drink lots, and rest until her empty pockets called for her to move onto her next job.

No job would interest her, Fith decided firmly. And so she would decline their offer, no matter how handsome the pay. Not that this deterred the stranger.

"You, uh- You wouldn't 'appen to be the, uh, the mercenary, would ya?"

Fith's grip on the tankard's handle tightened. "Who's asking?"

"You are the mercenary, aren't ya?

She reluctantly drew her eyes from the drink until she was staring at the man who stood nervously behind her. Slowly, as though the effort was not worth it, she turned on her chair to face him.

"You see any other dwarves in here?"

The village, whose name was not worth her time to remember, had been a pain to find. A settlement deep in the mountains like this showed very little diversity; and as a result, being a dwarf made Fith quite obvious. No chance of passing through quietly, it seemed.

He shook his head stupidly. "No, no, I s'pose not."

She turned back on her seat, ignoring the man's fallen expression. Taking the cup back into her hand, she knocked the drink back, finishing off the last of her ale.

"You see, we 'ave a problem."

He was persistent, then. Fith shrugged. "Most people have problems," she answered simply. "Doesn't mean you have to come to me to sort them out."

"But-" he gestured to the quiver on her back and the sheaths placed on the seat beside her where her swords were kept, "-you do sell your sword?"

By now the tavern's music had died down. Where it was once difficult to be heard, things were now silent as the building's inhabitants tried desperately to overhear their conversation. Fith's eyes flickered over the curious expressions.

"I do."

The man's face formed a relieved smile.

"But that doesn't mean I'll help."