Remember I said something about backstory? Well, here it is. Sorry for the length - I wanted to get over with it as soon as possible.
...Morning coffee at eight-thirty, dropping by editorial office at nine, print shop at nine fifteen, having a short chat with elder sis at nine-thirty, getting yelled at by the boss at ten. In short, t'was a standart schedule for Rifa Inkfeather, a humble newsman for Onol Ashok, probably the least most respected sheet of the Mountainhome and beyond. The day would have been dull at very least if it wasn't for the upcoming interview with someone so well-known around the country, and, apparently, with someone special for Rifa herself.
The multiple prints she found in many an old paper depicted said man as a rather short but stout dwarf. Certainly, a dwarf of action (judging by the muscles clad in white shirt with wrapped sleeves and sharp trousers held by suspenders), but also a refined, thinking individual. Dark brown eyes glanced at the reader from under a vintage hat, with a spark of good-natured irony underlined with a heartful smile surrounded by a braided chestnut beard.
The headlines and articles below told truly unbelievable stories of a single dwarf busting some of the largest cartels and criminal organisations. Anarchists, drug dealers, even the feared clans struggled to hunt him down - only to fall to the detective's charming manners and superior intellect, while those who rose again, met their end in jails of the reformed fortress guard. Of course, the truth might not be as splendid as press reports, but even for the minor confirmed part of those archievements he deserved some respect - and that's why she was so willing to prove the sceptic from the editorial wrong. That, and also her not willing to ruin her chilhood memories and dreams... Even thought leaving it as it was might have been a less unpleasant option.
In five minutes she was approaching the Rampart, a less than decent housing block on the outskirts. That meant nothing, Rifa thought, as she reached the dusty stairs. I was natural for a detective to live close to the shadier places of the town. Inkfeather came up to the door and knoked cautiously, trying to think of some words to start the conversation. "Strictly business" approach sounded good enough, especially with a slight tone of fangirling at the end.
It took five good minutes for the homeowner to approach the entry. After some clatter and a series of muffled strong language, the door cracked open with a loud creak.
"Who's that?" The dweller asked in a raspy voice, holding the door thightly. "I didn't order no sweet pod cake today!"
"This is Refi Inkfeather of Onol Ashak". she replied, trying to sound as professional as possible. "We had an interview arranged for today, hadn't we?"
The homeowner puffed discontendedly. While used to being held at bay all the time (given a natural mistrust of dwarves towards her kin), Refi did feel uneasy standing at the dark sleasetown stairway.
"Gah, a pressman. You may come in now, please." The angry dwarf mumbled, and she was finally able to enter the famed detective's dwelling (closely avoiding hitting the doorjamb). The apartment greeted her with a stale smell of cheap goblin takeaway. Longland noodle boxes and "Miner's Delight" bottles covered the floor around the old sofa which took up the room centre. Bins and bags piled up everywhere, some of them sticking out of the overstuffed closets. Two unfinished sweet pod cakes lay on large table, along with a couple of quiestionable journals (which the homowner covered with a threadbare leather coat as soon as she entered).
The homeowner himself looked a bit like the famous detective, though obese and incredibly messy. He was wearing a well-worn bathrobe, with his large scruffy beard covering his front. Unlike on the prints, he did not smile, and neither his brown eyes gave a his tired face a cheerful look.
"Care for some wine? Tea? Mogjuice?"
"Why thank you" Refi replied, smiling weakly. "Let's get down to business". "Well then". the detective fell on the sofa and yawned. This was starting to get awkward for the elven reporter, as now it didn't seem proper to ask the probably retired gumshoe about his current state of affairs. "So... Any interesting cases lately?"
"Nah" said the detective. Rifa sighted. It seemed that the crime-fighting hero was a hero no more, indulging himself on fast food and booze for the last ten or so years.
All of a sudden, a sharp smirk crossed his face. "I got something to tell you though" he continued, getting from the sofa in one swift movement. "Just hold on, I'll get my papers". The surprised reporter followed him with her eyes as Mr Croc pulled a large notebook out of the drawer and presented her a small piece of paper.
"What is that?" She wondered.
"A sensation, lassie". The detective snickered. "Braveworks".
"Excuse me?"
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Topic: Spearbreakers II "The Return of The Mug" - Braveworks [43.05] (Read 88334 times)