Private know a guy

When it came to the shadier side of life, everyone knew a guy. And this guy knew a guy. And that guy had a bud. And his bud knew a man. And this man had friends who knew yet another guy. Unfortunately, for whomever was knocking, that last guy had been Edd.

But one does not dwell on misfortune when there was money to be made.

He'd been paying people to forward him leads for weeks now. Had nearly started to give up. But never due to the quality of the con – perhaps only the work ethic of those involved. Sure, he'd given Jemmy and Remmy (who totally weren't twins, go figure) some coin to lube up the enterprise... but it never quite panned out.

So when someone finally knocked on the doors of his most definitely not condemned building whose lease on life surely didn't expire by mid next week... well, he was positively flushed. With alcohol, mostly. Emotion too, but that seemed of a more secondary nature.

He quickly slapped himself with some coals from the hearth. People found it easy to believe in seers who looked like they tumbled with the pigs. Not drunk ones, though. Never quite understood that. Apparently even getting scammed had a dresscode.

He'd kept whatever random decor the room had and left it all in the wrong places. Where the boots go? The window of course. The table had been turned upside down and mugs hung from its legs. The carpet was rolled up, around a dresser. It was important your seer was a bit... eccentric. Really sold the whole, communion with beyond vibe.

There were only two chairs in the middle of the room, facing each other, settled on opposite sides of the biggest, dirtiest and most cracked mirror he could get for what coin he was ready to spare. Still smudged with soot and spit.

„You may enter.“ He called out as soon as settled in the chair further from the door. Wrapped in a blanket that hid that he had a knife. Would've probably been a better story if he was able to set up the door to creak away slowly at the first knock...but after that last orkin fucker, the door could no longer be trusted to perform such tasks unassisted. And he was no assistant.

He was the great seer whathisface, of this place.

*

Well, this was a...development. Prettyboy noble waltzed right in. But it was a good vibe, because it smelled like money. Smelled like old socks too... no, wait, that was probably the blanket. He really needed to wash that thing at some point. Ah, the things one must sacrifice in service of greatness. Or the work. Same thing, really. Felt great when it went well.

Blondie was better looking than half the girls Edd would pay to unwrap. Looked rich, too. Such an injustice upon the world! While others had everything going for them, he had... hm... what did he have?

The desire to take it all, of course.

„Yes yes. I've been expecting you.“ Spat onto the mirror on the floor. Wasn't really part of the act. But whenever he spat on the floor back home, he'd get his ears boxed. Well, not anymore! And there was some justice in that.

Wondered if he could spit twice into the same spot. Or would that be overdoing it? He was definitely selling the strange bit. But overselling. Real risk, one all great merchants faced.

„Communion with the beyond is difficult, you must understand.“ A shake of head, a sigh of breath. Most upsetting. „But surely you've brought coin to ease the passage.“

*

Armed.

Of course he fucking was. He didn't like 'em armed. Just like rabbits didn't like snares.

Coin was a very reclusive thing. A hermit that kept away beyond seven seas, seven hills... probably seven mountains too. The road long and treacherous. Littered with many little fuck yous, waiting in ambush. At least the stranger was nice enough to reveal the first among them. People got real killy and stabby when they realized they'd been conned. So, yeah, he'd likely be closing up shop the second the deal was done. If it went well.

„No need to look into the back of my head, buddy.“ Voice grogspiced, but not yet slurred. Needed some level of confidence if he was gonna talk to the other side. Wherever the fuck that was.

„Now, shake some of the shinies right there into the spit.“ Figured if the coin went to spit, they might be too disgusted to pick it up if it all failed. A win-win, really.

„Beyond responds well to sacrifices.“

*

Edd was satisfied ten coins ago, but best not to make the clientele flinch when they were counting in your favor. Noble fucks – god bless 'em. All that welltodoness left them very loose with money. He'd heard of this martial art before – way of the open palm or somesuch. Because why do shit yourself, when you could get others to do it for you.

Careful not to drool over the coins too obviously, Edd held his dirty left out.

„Toll is considered paid. Gimme the paw.“ Fingers twitched in invitation.

Edd had as much shroud as a doorstop, but there were some unique benefits to his elven blood.

*

Soon as the grasp was final, what fingers Edd had left felt the inside of the man's hand. Too soft for a brute, which wasn't a surprise. But not enough comfort was left between those fingers to suggest a life of leisure. No, this fucker probably knew how to use those stabbers at his sides.

Edd let go of his own weapon, letting it slide further into the folds. If he was lucky, it wouldn't cut his ass. But he'd met the type before – armed nobles with a hero complex. He wasn't going to provoke the fucker. He'd just pack real quick, at the first possible opportunity.

Liked grabbing fuckers with the chopped up hand. Really sold the whole wrong bit. And if it made people uncomfortable, only really added to the experience. 'Sides – losing a hand to ghosts was a much better story.

Took all his effort to focus what little shroud he had into the hand he grabbed with. Started rolling his eyes like one of those doped up fuckers he'd seen outside. Yes, yes – nearly there.

The pooled nearpuddle of shroud did the one of the few things he knew how to do – it made his hand colder. Cool at first. Then cold. And finally freezing. HA! Get a load of that, my lord. Practiced that shit for seven months before he figured out how. Shroud power proper.

„One of them does not want to be found.“ In that low and slow voice he used to delay debt payments. Pulled in all the sadness of having a sick mother, added a twinge of frustration at the whole fucking year not going his way.

Yes yes, even colder. The rest of him had started to sweat – never nailed down why focusing cold made you boil over. But fuck it – sold the bit.

„The other two...“ Now where didn't they like him? Ah yes! „Havenby! White Cat tavern.“ Imagine the look on the fucking innkeeper's face when a guy sent by Edd showed up – still without his money. Fuck you, Lem!

„You're to ask for Anna.“ Eyes back to normal as sweat dripped from everything but the hand. Was shroudshit supposed to hurt? Coulda sworn he felt that last bit in his kidney. „Lem will show the way.“

Blinked once, twice. Like it'd been someone else who'd been speaking. Back to his usual self.

„That give you what you need, bossman?“

*

It seemed like it had been going well. But then the question came. But he was playing a seer, not a guide – so he needed something seery to say. Problem being... he wasn't that guy. The proper thoughts came difficult. Every ounce of caution coated with an equal amount of bullshit.

It hit him then that he did all of this because he didn't want to break a sweat getting his coin – funny, that it dripped from every ounce of him now.

„I guide through the beyond. Not much for maps and such.“ Looked at the silver vial with the silent certainty of someone who was getting drunk as floorboards first chance he got. When they had to warn you about it, that's how you knew it was good shit.

„Sides, people here still have need of me.“ For however long it took him to get drunk, sober up, and pack.

*

Some men believed in gods. Some found strength in each other. Trevor believed in beer. And ale. Sometimes wine, too. Liquor was a tougher mistress, but he wasn't above it – just a luxury harder to justify than the more usual swill he got his hands on.

Three drinks deep – he'd reached a new level of peace about four gulps ago. He wasn't small or skinny – merely value sized. Bigger men needed more coin to get properly drunk. He was simply the better tool for the job. No shame in it. Plenty of coin, though.

Some newcomer was coming up on old Lem. Asking about Annas and such. And not like Trevor was listening – still heard them, though.

„Sure, plenty of Annas, some Bobs, even got a Jerry.“ Lem didn't appear to be particularly chatty. Yes, they'd just come out the ass end of disaster. And, he'd been cheery a day or two. But today had been a long one, and only tired was left.

„Lets go, Jerry!“ Some drunk yelled back. Plenty of coughing laugh.

„You thirsty or just chatty, stranger?“ kept turning the empty mug between his fingers like it might be weaponized any moment.

Trevor wanted to ask for a fourth drink, but didn't trust the man to deliver into hands rather than the side of his head.

*

Old Lem was already walking around distributing the paid for shots when he heard the newcomer. Set down the drinks at the wrong table and chugged two of them instantly. Moved over, few conspicuous steps, to stand behind the stranger.

„Friend of yours, Trevor?“
„First I'm seeing the fucker. But give it like three drinks.“ Never understood people who got drunk and wanted to fight.
„Well then, stranger. That eightfingered shit sent you here with my money?“

Room got quiet, except for Trevor who started coughing after inhaling his shot.