DAO Challenge: Assassin
Title: DAO Challenge: Assassin
Characters: Zevran and some scrotes.
Rating: T
I'm really not very happy with this at all, but I wanted to try and wrap my head round a scuzzy world, and the use of accents in conversation. The accent I'm aiming for is Amaranthine aka Northern England.
So here it is. All criticism will be welcomed, even adverse, as this was very much a learning experience.
“So, I ‘eard you ‘ave a proposition for me. Spit it out then, lad.”
The elf smiled; the gleam of his teeth almost as bright as the glitter of his amber eyes, the gleam of his pale hair. It made Bossman sick to look at him. Little runt like this couldn’t know the streets, ain’t never got ‘is hands dirty. “C’mon, wot y’after? Want us ter pull a job fer yer? Name yer job an’ I’ll name me price.”
“Ah, you misunderstand the situation. I have no need of your services.” His voice was like melted honey, his accent strong. Some bloke’s little rentboy mebbe; sent wi’ the message cos ‘e knows a load o’ breakteeth words. “I am here merely as a courtesy. It is my intention to set up business in this fine city, and I wished to meet my neighbours.”
There was a murmur from some of the lads in the room, a rustle of words that contained some menace. Bossman stared at the visitor, dumbfounded. Poncy foreign elf turns up on me doorstep, alone, sayin’ he’s settin’ up shop? Oo does ‘e think ‘e is?
Redfred, his second, spat on the floor. “Wotcher settin’ up as? An ‘airdresser?” A sprinkling of guffaws greeted this.
The elf turned slightly, with the grace of a dancer, and inspected Redfred from his flaming hair to the scuffed heels of his boots on the table. He raised his eyes back to Redfred’s face, and nothing was visible in those golden eyes except faint amusement. “I can see that you are in sore need of one, my friend, but, sadly, today you are out of luck. No, I have noticed that a very professional service is currently being offered only by amateurs. A sad state of affairs; and one I intend to rectify.”
Bossman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, aye. So wot you floggin’? Tarts? Management o’ t’ Pearl’ll ‘ave summat ter say about that.”
“No no, where whores are concerned I am strictly a consumer. My trade is convenient death; assassination.”
The murmurs in the room were louder this time, and there was the snick of weapons being quietly drawn. Bossman couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re tellin’ me that yer invadin' our patch? You have the brassneck ter stand there an’ say that we’re not pro’s?”
The elf maintained his unruffled calm, although his eyes hardened with a hint of contempt. “I have no doubt that you make excellent footpads, sneakthieves, cutpurses and pickpockets. But assassination is not for such as you. It is an art, a craft that takes years to learn. But I have no quarrel with you, my friend. So I have come to introduce myself, as is courteous.” He bowed flamboyantly. “My name is Zevran; I am a former Antivan Crow.”
The murmurs in the room changed in nature. The word Crow was being bandied from mouth to mouth, but so were the words Blight and Archdemon. Bossman paled as the whispers found their way round to him. That honeyed voice continued. “I offer you a very fair deal. I will not engage in the petty theft at which I am sure you all excel, and you will not engage in the trade at which I most definitely excel. That way we all prosper.” His gaze swept the room, weighing up the occupants. “If any of you truly cannot bear to give up the excitement of the kill, let me know. I am recruiting, but I warn you, my training was harsh, and if you pass my tests, then yours will be too. If you don’t…” he shrugged, the implications fairly clear.
Zevran stood before Bossman and his entire cohort, having just told him that he was taking half his business and offering to poach his employees. He appeared perfectly relaxed. The room was silent now.
Bossman swallowed hard and nodded once, jerkily. And that was that.
“Buono. I am glad that we could come to an arrangement.”