SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 1

AN:

Next update will be on Tuesday, 2/6.

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Bront Stonebin belched from his position at the bar inside the Gilded Mare. He was relaxing after a long, hard day of standing around and looking tough as a bouncer for the tavern.

It was what he was best at.

If you asked him, he had never been the brightest coin in the pouch, but he didn’t need to be. From young age, Bront had been the biggest dwarf on the block. A Rhoscaran native, Bront had grown up on the outskirts of the leatherworker’s district. That was near the docks that lay on the banks of the Fiume d’Oro, one of the largest rivers in the Principality, and definitely the main way that Rhoscara transported its goods.

Way safer to brave the waters, than risk overland trade.

Most of the time.

The humes sure had some weird pirates.

It was a common saying in Rhoscara, at least among the real muckity muck nobs, that the reason the leatherworker’s district stank so badly wasn’t because of the tanneries. No, it was because that was where the poor of the city gathered.

And Bront had definitelygrown up poor. Still, even with the black mark he had on his record for being dishonorably discharged, Bront thought he hadn’t done too badly with himself these days. His Ma’ was talking to him again, he was saving coin for the future, and Marva Kegborn had even smiled at him the other day!

As far as dwarven courting went, that might as well have meant they were married.

Hell, he had a real job now, too. Bouncing agreed with Bront, and not just because of the work. At the end of every shift, he was guaranteed both a meal and a mug of decent ale, on the house.

Which is what he was waiting on right this very second.

Bront had just finished a shift, and ordered what was owed to him from the barman. Reliable Ol’ Ricklan, the bartender, had obliged him and wandered away to fetch his meal. Soon, Bront would be enjoying a hearty bowl of fish stew and a mug o’ golden, before wandering back home in order to do things all over again tomorrow.

At least, that was the plan.

Bront was puzzled when he heard the front door of the Mare slam open behind him. The tavern was closed right now, after all.

He sighed. Had some drunk bastard just wandered in after hours? He stood up with a disappointed groan, ready to throw them out on their ass. He may have been off the clock, but he wasn’t going to shirk out on a little extra work.

“Oi, we’re closed, ye-” He started to say, turning around. He stopped, though, when he saw who had just stumbled into the Gilded Mare.

It was his boss, Fanziel Brightbrew.

Only…

The dwarf didn’t look so good. His normally impeccably dressed and presented boss was looking a bit punch drunk. He had blood streaming from a cut on his forehead that was crusting over his left eye, and was clutching his arm in pain as he staggered into the tavern.

That arm looked broken, to Bront’s eyes.

The bleedin’ hells had happened to him? Last Bront had seen of the dwarf, he had wandered out to go pay the usual protection fee to Ol’ Don Thraggec. Everyone up and down this block knew that they needed to pay up to his La Famiglia dei Martelli, if they didn’t want to get their knees blown in by a bunk of hammer crazed Mafia types. The Rhoscaran underworld belonged to the Martelli’s, ever since they’d driven out those La Mano Nera crazies.

Most people were happy about that. Plenty of people remembered the bad old days when waking up to a black hand painted on your door meant you had to either flee the city, or die horribly.

“Riiiiiiick!” Fanziel whined almost drunkely into the air of the deserted tavern. While Bront was staring at the injured tavern owner in shock, Ricklan hurried out of the kitchen at the sound of name. He took one look at Fanziel and cursed, tossing the bowl of soup he’d been carrying carelessly onto the bar. He took a box out from underneath the counter, and withdrew a small glass vial filled with a red liquid.

A healing potion.

Brightbrew had staggered up to the counter by now, and he fumblingly took the potion from Rickan’s hand. He popped the cork and chugged the potion desperately. It started working immediately, the cut on his forehead closing and his arm visibly straightening.

Bront fought back a whistle. That was a strong healing potion. Nothing like the weak garbage he had been issued back in his army days.

Fanziel set down the empty potion bottle with a relieved sigh, while Bront and Ricklan hovered over their boss anxiously.

Ricklan was the first to speak. “Fan, what happened?” He questioned worriedly, before paling. “You…didn’t piss off the Don, did you?”

Bront gulped at the thought. The Martelli’s might have been better than the Black Hands, but that didn’t make them nice.

Fanziel was quiet for a moment, eyes flickering from Ricklan to rest on Bront. He shuffled awkwardly under the scrutiny.

What was thatabout?

“It was the Don’s men, yes,” Fanziel confirmed quietly, ratcheting up the tension in the room. “But…,” He paused for a moment, before turning back to the bartender. “Rick, can you leave me and Bront alone for a moment? I have something I need to talk to him about.”

Ricklan looked confused at the dismissal, but did as he was told anyway. He wandered back into the kitchen and shut the door behind him, leaving Bront alone with his boss. As soon as the bartender was out of earshot, Fanziel rounded on Bront and cuffed him over the head.

“Ow!” Bront said, clutching his ear in pain and shooting Brightbrew a wounded look. “The hells was that for?”

“I don’t know what the hell you did to piss him off,” Fanziel hissed at him, ignoring his question. “But you’ve got a hit out on you now, Bront. He paid the Don for it.”

Bront felt the blood drain out of his face. A hit? Who the hell was this He Brightbrew was talking about, anyway?

Bront didn’t get a chance to ask any questions. Fanziel just kept talking. “The Don told me about it when I came to pay my dues. Stupidly, I tried to object, only to get this,” He gestured to the blood that was still drying on his face. “For my trouble. So screw the both of them.” Fanziel urgently reached out to grab Bront by the shoulders. He met his eyes. “Bront, you need to get out of town tonight.”

“Or you’re going to die.”

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