Posted by Scourge on February 8, 2010
The missus whined and scolded a bit, as she always did when Harlon excused himself from one of these society dinners. She knew him well enough by now, surely, to realize he had no intentions of going to any of them. One thing you could say for the old girl: she could make excuses like the best of them.
So, while she donned a ridiculous turquoise gown and stuck an open fan in her hair – the latest fashion in Barend – he, pulled on his unpolished boots and planned how he was going to find the flamboyant stranger.
He was out the door in time to swing open the door to the coach grandly. “Make my apologies,” he said to a purse-lipped wife. The instant it rumbled out of sight, he turned the other way and headed over to the Corpulent Frog.
As expected, Stinky Delfarthing was at his usual spot, tucked up to the bar in the Corpulent Frog, and easily on his fifth or sixth drink of the night. Harlon strolled up and eased onto the stool next to him. “Hey Del,” he said, and the older man swung his head toward him cautiously, as if he expected it would fall off if he went too fast.
“Whosa talkin to ol’ Delfarthin tonigh’?” he blared. “Someone wan’s a lickin’?”
Harlon shook his head. “Its Harlon. I have a question for you.”
The drunk lowered his voice. “Questions cost.”
But Harlon was already pulling several coins out of his pocket and laying them on the bar between Del’s many empty glasses. The bartender – who actually looked exactly like the name of his establishment – sidled off and became interested in something on the other side of the room. He was a man more interested in booze and snack-food than questions.
“Whaddya askin’?” It appeared that Del had forgotten to swallow his last moutful and some of the drink dribbled out when he spoke.
“I’m looking for a new man in town. Colorful chap, runs about with a big orc.”
Del took another drink and Harlon watched him swallow carefully this time before replying. “Ah, yes.” His tone was suddenly quite clear and even lower than before. “I saw them. Odd fellow. And that orc! Warhammer?” He quirked his eyebrow at Harlon and shook his head. “Makes a man curious to be sure.”
Harlon nodded and slid a few more coins across the bar.
“He took a room in Lady’s Ansul’s boarding house. The orc went in with him, and two-three trunks of luggage hiked up on his shoulders – along with that warhammer big as a gnome – like they were nothing.”
“You’re a pal,” Harlon said, standing up. He clapped Del on his back. His mind was whirring again. Lady Ansul’s house. The same place Celiaria was staying. Odd, he thought, as he turned to leave.
“Sure,” Delfarthing replied, and tucked back into his cup. His free hand swept the coins off the bar and made them vanish inside his coat.
Something suddenly popped into Harlon’s mind and he turned back to Del. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late. Stinky Delfarthing had succumbed and was now lying on the floor, one boot still propped up on the barstool, in a pool of his own vomit.
Posted by Scourge on November 16, 2009
The first thing running through Harlon’s mind was pretty much the same thing that ran through his mind every morning of his life. “How on earth did he end up with a slowly-spreading woman who cared more about an obnoxious bird than him?” It wasn’t as if he didn’t love his wife in some… well, yeah… it kinda was like that, actually. 
Thirty-two years ago, his parents had some rather odd ideas about ‘marrying below his station’ and ‘ensuring top-quality offspring.’ They would not be pleased to know that the only offspring who sprung from Harlon’s loins was a degenerate artist who currently lived with a rather successful theif in a cave outside town. It was a nice cave, dry and furnished with expensive (stolen) goods, but it was still a cave.
The second thing running through Harlon’s mind was what, exactly, he was going to say to Celiaria when he surprised her at the boarding house in less than ten minutes. He couldn’t accuse her of anything. It would probably have been easier if he could.
He was still mulling the problem over when he found himself standing on the stoop of the boarding house, frowning. Lady Ansul, the proprietor of the house – one of the only reputable ones in Barend – opened the door and stood there, eyebrows arched and waiting. Harlon hadn’t even realized he had knocked yet.
“Might I help you, Captain?” she asked in a bored, cultured voice.
He stood up a little straighter. “I’d like to speak with Celiaria De Prisk… immediately.” He added the last to sound official.
“The Demi-Duchess?” she said in a way that made Harlon feel a bit like something trod under a shoe. “I will see if she is available. Wait here.”
He hardly had any choice. She closed the door in his face.
Five minutes later, Lady Ansul returned. “She will see you in the back garden.” Her eyes told the rest of the message: and you are very lucky to get to see her at all, maggot. Harlon might have imagined the ‘maggot’ bit.
He thanked the Lady and took the stone walk around the back of the house. There was a small grassy yard and some flowers, and Celiaria De Prisk, looking rather stunning in a gown of white and blue.
“You wanted to see me, Captain Harlon?” she inquired.
Harlon tried to suck in his gut as he walked over to her. “Yes. I did, in fact.”
And then silence reigned for a long moment. He found himself wishing the walk over to the house had been longer.
Posted by Scourge on November 2, 2009
Captain Harlon kept an eye out for Celiaria over the next couple of weeks. From the beginning, she seemed to do everything a highborn lady who ran away would be expected to do: she set up in an exclusive boarding house, introduced herself to all the other ladies of quality in the city, had a tea party by the frog pond behind the boarding house and bossed her servants around something awful.
It made Harlon suspicious.
“Someone who just ran away,” he mused quietly to himsefl over his porridge one morning, “should not be as pleasantly sociable as Lady De Prisk.” He swiped a glob off his chin and wiped it on the tablecloth. “She should be… in hiding or something.”
He turned to the magpie that the missus kept in a gilt cage near the window. “Shouldn’t she be nervous someone will come looking for her?”
The magpie cast a disdainful eye at Harlon before turning back to look out the window again.
The missus came gliding into the room, twittered at the magpie and then slid over the rub Harlon’s chin with a damp cloth. “How you will make a mess, Harl!”
“Dirty pig,” the magpie agreed, shooting a splat of guana at the cage floor.
Harlon sighed and pushed back his bowl. “What do you think about this De Prisk business, dear?” he asked, squinting up at his wife.
She flapped the towel and rolled her eyes. “I think you’re too old and too married to be thinking much about it, dear.” Her tone had ice at the edges.
He waved her cattiness away. “No… no… I mean, don’t you think she should be laying low? Being as she’s on the lam and all?”
“On the lam? Oh Harlon, a young lady can travel these days, you know. Really!” Chuckling, she swished back out of the room with another twitter at the bird.
Harlon stood and pushed in his chair. His wife might think the girl was simply visiting Barend – for what reason he couldn’t imagine – but he knew different. Something stunk about it. He carried his empty porrige bowl to the sink dutifully and sloshed some soapy water over it.
“Thatta boy,” the magpie screeched and then went back to watching the street.
In two minutes, Captain Harlon was striding purposefully up the cobbled street, two things running over and over each other in his mind.
