Journalist at Sea - Part 1
#1 of Moorgate
Here is a story I've been working on for some time now; I'm hoping to flesh it out to 200+ pages and am aleady quite a few in, so please do have a read and let me know what you think!
The synopsis is basically Dragunov, a tenuously employed journalist, has gotten himself on the wrong side of a very powerful family in the region he's been hiding in for some time. Rather than risk a cut throat, and with the idea of more work to follow if he's a good boy, the wayward rat sets out to prove himself to his employer but generally ends up cocking it up something awful.
I am hoping his mistakes and exploits are amusing and fun to read; it is set in a pseudo-1700s sort of place with various fantasy stuff (think Pirates, but with magic sometimes too,) and if I had to categorise I would have to say Adventure, Humor and maybe a bit of drama in there too for good measure.
TL;DR I ripped off Terry Pratchett for 30 solid pages; have fun!
If any cared to look at the monotone slab of a building squatting amongst equally stout fishermen and ship hands milling about their business below, they would have noticed absolutely nothing. The keen eye may, however, notice that despite all evidence to the contrary the hollow brick was occupied in some capacity. One room in particular was listening very strenuously to the murmuring of the sea and the froth of maritime conversation. A segmented blind, affixed by the grime on the window panes, was disturbed from within; slowly a slat was pulled lower at one corner to reveal a triangle of darkness beyond, growing larger as the observer gained confidence, and finally breaking entirely from the frame as decades of neglect crumbled into action. Finding himself sprawled on the floor, the presently buried tenant of the room made several unsuccessful attempts to free himself from the odd smelling apparatus. With gargantuan effort and the help of a nearby fireplace, the matter was permanently settled. Brushing the dust and suspicious little black bits from his waistcoat he sat back down in front of the window, taking stock of the room now that the light was allowed to pour in. Unfortunately, he mused, there were some benefits to being kept in the dark. The autumn afternoon splayed out before his now uncovered window with the diluted winter sun, and grudgingly he focused again on the anonymous throngs of industrial life carrying their businesses out. Here and there he would catch snippets of conversation, flies whispering past his ears, though nothing of any interest presented itself to him. Not that it mattered anyway, this was more a matter of practice.
He sipped his drink as the minutes passed, and despite the chill of the building he was nicely toasted by his nemesis as it sputtered and popped it's way into oblivion. With a hazy cocoon of inaction shrouding him until the second or twelfth jolt into temporary consciousness, a desperate grab for any kind of entertainment arrived in the form of a sloop manoeuvring it's way past the shallow menhir-strewn hillsides that petered out into the ocean and toward the cobblestone dock. He noted some excitement from several of the crowd, and as the stick-figure urchins scrabbled into position at the edges (and in several instances toppling over the edges) of the quay Dragunov Brevich sprung up as excitedly as the rotten floorboards would allow and wrenched a haggard brown 'fabric' coat around his shoulders. He crossed the room and walked into the door as it refused to yield to his push, the handle oblivious to any direction he could force it. A slightly damaged shoulder later, and with the renewed stench of rotting squid and crab invading his olfactory he wrenched the door closed behind him and trotting along the gantry that served as a hallway to the second floor rooms. An indifferent looking group of shrews passed their eyes over him on his way, darting the navigable planks and skipping down to the well-worn stairs of the docklands. The ancient stone and granite bowed smooth and laminated after centuries of footfalls and was comfortingly warm to the touch after the heat of trade.
Moving closer to the dock it became apparent he would have to wait some time before he knew for sure if getting up had been worth the effort; neither the crew of the vessel nor the crowd waiting at the moorings were happy to let the other move by first, and before long several of the more drunken among them were staging bumbling altercations on the gangplank, each successful shove usually knocking the aggressor into the oily water before their target. Sighing and fumbling around in his pocket he turned from the scene, a small metal pipe with a wooden bowl appearing twiddled around his fingers, thumb clasping a matchbook to his palm. He sat on a collection of buoys and rope that seemed relatively clean, or at least dry, and after a few strikes of the gnarled twigs of matches he had found in a dresser before his arrival here he was happily dragging smokefuls into his lungs, eyeing the passengers on the boat that stood motionless and unimpressed on the starboard side. One in particular caught his eye; quite a young lad, a ferret by the look of him, shuffling nervously among the grizzled hedgerow of beer soaked muscle of the crew, clutching a small leather satchel in both hands and attempting to stand as though the contents were not worth his life in gold. It was another few minutes before the clamour had died down and for a moment Dragunov lost track of the ferret's features amongst the now-moving throng. Squinting, he spotted the boy's fevered eyes wandering as aimlessly as the rest of him onto the quay, inadvertently becoming a bollard that diverted the flow of bodies on their way to the tavern. Dragunov heaved himself from the coil of rope he had sunk into and paced toward the boy.
"Hey! You there!" He shouted, cupping his hands despite the relatively small distance between the two; the ferret's face snapped toward the sound in a mix of expectance and terror, focusing on the lanky rat moving toward him and beginning to back away instinctively. Dragunov smiled and raised his palms as he approached him, trying to keep a steady pace despite his excitement. "It's okay lad," He said calmly, "I'm guessing you're here for me, yes?" This triggered some reflex in the ferret, who by now had frozen almost completely. "M...Mr, uh - Brevick?" He managed, shuffling away some of his paralysis. "Close enough," Dragunov smiled, "how would you like to do this, payment first?" He felt obliged to lead this transaction for the poor thing; sea travel and strange shores did not seem to bode well with him, though travel must have been half a day at best dependent on the weather. The boy nodded, gaining confidence, and held out a slim hand expectantly. Digging around his coat lining that served as a very large and cumbersome pocket, Dragunov eventually wrapped his hand around a small pouch. With a sudden "aha!" that made the ferret squeak nervously and jump backward, he placed the pouch into the boy's still outstretched hand, and spread a few coins onto the boy's other hand with a smile. The boy's eyes widened considerably and he grinned his thanks, turning to run back to the boat before receiving a tap on the shoulder and, face red, handing Dragunov the sealed envelope from his bag. With a smile and a grunt, Drag waved the boy off and began pacing back to his lodgings with the letter in hand. He turned it over in the light as he rounded the stairs to the gantry, humming unmusically as he inspected the package; sealed in ruby wax and catching the pink rays of the fading sun trawling over the bay, laid a single embossed letter: "A".
It almost seemed a shame to open it, he thought as he sat down at the moth eaten bed and slid his claws under the slip; with a wince of regret the seal shattered and he settled himself under the lamplight of his bedside. Unfolding the envelope and brushing a stray few hairs from his face a small charm fell from the paper and slid from his leg to the mattress, it's delicate silver rope piling atop it; it looked nothing more than a modest piece of jewellery, but on first impression he was still pleased to have been sent it. He placed it on the table beside him and began to read, all the more intrigued by this new trinket:
"Mr Brevich,
I am pleased to hear of your arrival at Moorgate, as per instruction; pending your performance on the matter in question I may have further use for you. I would ask you to conduct an interview with an associate of mine, a local shipping merchant by the name of Castoone; I have no doubt the ease with which you can find and approach this man, he is for the most part amicable.
You will find enclosed a small necklace that I have spent some time preparing for this meeting; I would ask that you wear it throughout the interview, the reasoning behind which should become apparent in the course of your work. Castoone cannot learn of myself, nor my associates; I remind you of this strictly for your benefit, I assure you.
I need not remind you of the consequences of crossing this house Mr. Brevich; I expect your reply within the week.
-A"
He placed the letter on his lap very carefully, letting out a long sigh and attempting to comprehend the situation. This was unfortunately difficult work when faced with the memory of his first and only visit to House Ven, but considering his proximity to the ocean and his vivid recollection he was relieved at the milder discomfort he felt now. He crossed his legs and fished into his coat for the pipe once more, filling it and lighting a match on the lamp before blowing a plume of purple tinged smoke into the chill of the room; it was approaching twilight outside now, and to his annoyance the window was now completely bare as well as ajar. Before too long he had rigged his coat up to the remaining wall hook in some vague semblance of a curtain, and closing the window he returned to his bed and scooped a notepad from the floor; the desire to note down some ideas for tomorrow was fleeting however, and before long he was unbuttoning his waistcoat and checking the timepiece nestled in it's breast pocket. He was amazed to find despite all evidence to the contrary it was mid-afternoon. Perhaps he could play a practical joke on his future self, he thought; those were always good for a laugh. Sluggishly undressing, he spotted the necklace knocked off the table by his underwear and scooped it up, curious as to it's function now. This Aikidu character was a very talented enchanter, but though he was the first to admit his ignorance over such matters it still seemed very... mundane to Dragunov's eyes. Ah well, his eyes were weighed down substantially right now, perhaps he would see things more clearly in the morning. With one final scan of the room he slid under the covers, and drifted to more vibrant pastures.
Sunshine did not come softly through the windows of Dragunov's room, which he found to his dismay upon rousing; each rude clouded droplet struck the panes like a lump of copper. An exclusively coastal depression had swept the bay over the night and saturated the once desiccated corpse of Moorgate; even from here, the stench was almost palpable. A near black and bulging titan of cloud chuckled it's way over the bay, grimacing a rictus of lightning at pinpoint intervals. Dragunov promptly buried the blanket in his face and groaned a gamut of notes as he attempted to will himself out of his dreams once more; he always seemed to bring the weather with him, insofar as a stalker is considered company. There was though, much as he hated it, a job to do in this piss. Kicking the covers off with as much malice as he could muster and gesturing crudely at his still unwound watch, he swung his legs over the bed and hauled his suitcase from the dark abyss. A bare minimum of clothing presented itself to the rat; two 'white' buttoned shirts, a pair of ragged brown trousers, several pairs of underwear in various colours and some meticulously well-kept dress clothes, for special occasions. Also present were a few toiletries, a bag of various tobaccos, a trashy paperback he had found on the boat to the province and a pair of very loose fitting comfy-trousers for days off.
He gazed for as long as he could stand at the trousers before selecting the best (and incidentally worst) of what his 'smart-casual' look offered him and laying it haphazardly on the bed. He hobbled to the window, expression visible from the cobbled path leading to the docks as he could tell from a few empathetic glances in his direction. He dug his knuckles either side of his lower spine and stretched with as much force as he could muster, sighing as he heard a crunch and crackling his eyes open to see a small crowd still staring at the lower portion of his window. A few of the patrons chuckled as the exhibitionist seemed to vanish almost instantaneously; the damp thud that followed jolted one of his windows open, and now privy to the laughter of his fans the wayward rodent crawled onward to the adjacent bathroom. Swearing to no-one in particular, he hoisted himself up on the door frame, preferring to keep as much of himself as he was planning to wash away from the tiled floor. Once the shower was reliably tepid he had forgotten completely, working the tension and groggy lock from his muscles and bones with what he assumed was soap, or at least functionally intended as such. Once his fur, hair and skin were respectable he wrapped a towel around his midriff and flung himself into a sideward roll on the mattress, splaying out as he slid to a halt and sighed in the comfort of a gradually receding storm.
As the sun poked it's way through Dragunov coiled his fingers in the dust specked sunlight, enjoying the heat running through his palms. The surroundings weren't up to scratch and the nights were best experienced asleep, but despite the salty rot of the town this moment was golden as any back home. He stretched himself more openly on the bed and knocked the thin silver chain of his new necklace with a stray foot, the tinkling barely managing an echo in the damp monstrosity of the table. With an amused snort rolled over and picked up the pendant, slipping his fingers to the clasp and undoing it with much difficulty. After a length of time best not left to the imagination he had managed to re-fasten the necklace around his shoulder blades and was now enjoying picking it up to have it drop back on his chest with a satisfying 'thunk'. Comedic timing it seemed was not in short supply; a hollow barrage of thuds jolted his senses from their reverie and a similarly hollow voice rang out "Breh... um... blue 'aired forrun woss-name! I need that cash you been goin' on about!" With a right-angle tensing of the limbs Dragunov stared at the door, processing this new threat; he really did not have the money he needed to spend at this moment in time and - yes, the horrid creature isn't going away...
He crossed to the door and attempted to fling it open, eventually doing so with help from the owner. The beam of fast receding sunlight was enough to blind any eagle, let alone fatigued and sleepy rat; it was some incredibly awkward time before Dragunov managed to crawl out of his cringe to focus on his financial aggressor; he thrust his hand out as soon as he felt half way able, startling the squat man. "Mr...! Uh..." There was some silence between the two, promoted by the dismally blank expression on the inn-keeper's face, still focused on the outstretched hand. A series of defeated gestures by Dragunov eventually solicited his name; "Fal-Veren" Mumbled the stocky badger, mind as sharp as the wooden club he held in his hand. "Fal-Veren! I have your money in a client I'm supposed to interview today; if you wouldn't mind keeping this room under my name..." "Piss off rodent, I'm running a business 'ere and you're staying in one of my lovely suites," he burbled spitefully, waving his cudgel, pride sharpening to a point as jagged as his facial hair. To this effect he attempted to puff his chest out as much as his stomach would allow, managing only to collide with the doorframe and stumble in shock, pin wheeling his arms like steamed asparagus. Dragunov grabbed a flank of forearm, gripping his towel with his other hand and teetering dangerously toward the still-flailing club in the badger's other paw.
"ur... 'fanks," Fal-Veren mumbled quietly to his chest as he averted his gaze, very focused on straightening his shirt and checking neither shoe had somehow been lost in the struggle. Dragunov smiled behind his lips and attempted to look as kind and deserving a soul as this bouillon cube of a man could wish for. What he experienced next however defied all expectation; As the gent locked eyes with Dragunov an almost palpable cloud of fug slopped over his own, dropping his expression nearly to the floor in it's apparent weight. This floppy visage appeared to burst suddenly and snap to normality as his functions returned to him; glancing about in abject confusion Fal-Veren focused once more on Dragunov, smiling graciously. He even clapped him on as high a part of the forearm as he could nonchalantly reach. "That's fine sir, you jus' come see me when yer' done and we'll say no more about it, aoigh?". Perplexed as Dragunov was by the change of heart and the bizarre cryptic sound the badger seemed to regard as a question of agreement, he nodded quickly and shook Fal-Veren's now outstretched hand, seeming to satisfy him. "Werl, I'm off," He chimed happily, "See yer tonight Mr Br... ur..." He paused at the foot of the stairway, shrugged dejectedly and plodded his way down without bothering to finish. Dragunov was plainly delighted, and stood staring in astonishment before the chill of the morning set about his form. Now this was definitely a turn up for the book. Exuberance clamped hold of his happy new situation, and skipping inside he transferred this joy into an exceptionally flawless spate of clothes-donning; dashing as he looked, or so he thought as he regarded himself in the mirror, he wished sometimes that a more useful task were in his grasp when such moments overtook him.