Andior Story

The Mechanizer

Flindel sniffled at the stench wafting from the docks as the fishing vessels unloaded their day’s catch. As a proper gnome, his interest in bodies of water greater than a still lake disquieted him. Worse, the putrid smell of fishermen and their rotting fish assaulted every breath, causing him to use more will than he desired to keep his afternoon repast below his wide black belt. The mold-crusted streets and weather-worn buildings could have been transported from a dozen other ports Flindel had the displeasure of knowing. The Salty Sea Star was supposed to be an inn of repute though the faded sign was only the first hint that reputation may have been buttressed either by drink or desperation. The porch housing a trio of passed-out drunkards did nothing to calm his suspicion that the inn reflected the questionable neighborhood. “Only half day the day gone yet already toes-up,” he muttered. Upon entering, Flindel noted that the porch was merely an overflow of the inn’s ne’er-do-wells and inebriates who could not remain upright. Boisterous conversations – mostly tales of the sea that never happened – issued from every table. Despite the mid-afternoon hour, there seemed no quarter given to the mission of becoming blind drunk. Sidestepping the many patrons, he moved to the bar lining the back wall. His power all but drained by the long jump to Dorytown, he opted to make the best of it rather than seeking better accommodations. Despite the wearying trip, there was simply no other way short of scant portals that one could use. “Fakking inbred gnomes,” he muttered under his breath, stepping past a dwarf vomiting into the floorboards as he reached the bar. “The name is Flindel,” the gnome said from beneath the front of the bar. “I sent a courier to secure a room last week.”
The innkeeper nodded and pulled forth a book of bound parchments. He sifted through them before stopping on one with Flinder etched in black ink. “Seems close enough,” he said indifferently, leaning over the bar to see the impeccably dressed gnome. From the tip of his conical hat, resplendent maroon jacket with obligatory gold buttons, Flindel was the epitome of what being a gnome was. His beard was trimmed to a very respectable point, as was proper, and his black boots held a shine despite the filth of the streets. “Two nights and board for three silvers,” The innkeeper said. “Need that in advance if you will.”
Flindel took off his hat and reached in deep to his shoulder, and pulled out a hefty bag of coins. He sifted out three silver coins and set them on the bar before retying the bag and tossing it into the hat, which made no outward appearance that anything had landed in it. “I’ll be taking my meals in my room.”
“As you wish,” the barkeep said indifferently.
“If a gentleman by the name of Xandrakus comes in, send him to my room. All others, turn away.” Flindel took the offered room key and made his way to the stairs, meandering around the indolent patrons. “Fakkin dullards and charlatans,” he muttered under his breath. “Why they insist on each vying for attention with no reason for an audience!” He stepped over a human obstacle and made his way up the too-tall stairs.
Reaching as high as his body would allow, he barely reached and turned the knob on the door. The stale air wafted over him, causing his eyes to burn. Beyond the opening salvo of things he found offensive, the drapes on the solitary window were the second indication there were likely more surprises in store; one half was a tattered rag and the other was entirely gone. The bed, likely the hardest-working piece of furniture in the inn, sagged heavily in the middle – it might work just the same as he could curl up in the mattress hole like a nest. The rest of the furniture seemed to have taken unceasing abuse since the business was founded a generation ago. “By my withered testicles this will not do,” he muttered. Tired though he was, a simple spell would make the stay bearable. He reached into his hat and retrieved an ornate metal box. Whispering a few words, his fingers played over the box. He set it on the floor and watched the box grow, flipping sides open and spreading to fill the room around him. The floor and walls shifted and the ceiling of the small room turned into a complex bas relief of mountains and gnomes, setting off a light glow that removed the dreariness. Within moments, the existing furniture became elegant, the bed a place for royalty, and the awful drapes suddenly shaped into ornate window coverings. The smell yet remained but nothing a stout pipe couldn’t set right he told himself.
“I never liked Dorytown,” he muttered under his breath. “Not the best place to pop out, Xan.”

An hour later, a knock on the door startled Flindel. He’d fallen into a trance in an effort to regain some of his waning magics and the intrusion was most unwelcome. He climbed onto a stair, a necessity which had come from the metal box, and unbolted the door. “Come!” Flindel ordered.
A lad of tween years opened the door cautiously. He held an envelope in front of him. “Apologies, master gnome, but my master… er, my other master, forgot to give you this when you paid your way in.”
Flindel accepted the envelope, shooing the boy along. He recognized the seal on the envelope. Orto knew he was arriving, but anything sent such would be of immediate attention. It was not what he needed, Flindel told himself, after such a day. He opened the letter.

Dearest Flindel,

It is with the heaviest of heart that I must tell you that the marquis Haladon has died. Orto could use your counsel.

Mia

“Frail and fleeting,” he muttered, rereading the note. Miarorra had access to all things and all people within Orto’s castle, so it was not surprising her name was on the missive under Orto’s seal. This would move the timetable up, assuming Xandrakus cooperated. Yet mages – and Flindel knew more than most – were an unreliable lot. Something always seemed to send them in one direction or another, one pressing matter followed by another even more serious matter. It seemed in their blood to find events of urgency, or that events found them. Either way, Xan had been missing for nearly seven months and not without something amiss in his travels. Despite the long delay, the portents indicated he would be in Dorytown within a fortnight.
“Let’s get on with it,” Flindel said aloud to himself. He’d gotten used to speaking his thoughts aloud as Clink didn’t hear the silent magespeak. Clink was no more yet habits died hard. Flindel reached into his hat and pulled out a circlet of silver, wide enough to slip onto his wrist but no more. He set it on edge in the center of the room and spun it. As it spun, the circlet widened, filling the room floor to ceiling within moments. “Bazrahael Jagarezthiad.”
The words sparked the circlet, which slowly opened into a portal. A miasma of violet with streaks of silver flecking its way through the mist filled the center. Flindel hated the initial smell of the aether that crept through, yet it beckoned him like a beacon to home. A moment later a man — if such it could be called — stepped through.
“Gnome Flindel,” the creature said, his accent rough yet understandable. He was an armored figure though where the skin ended and the armor began was difficult to ascertain; ruddy and course, bronze. Rough ridges on beaten metal of an undiscernible origin covered his body, foot to fingers, and a helm of burnished bronze sat above ears not unlike an elf’s. His face was a mix of human and elf, with maybe a touch of dragonkind, giving his features sharp edges, both exotically attractive and threatening. He held a sword, seeming of the same makeup as the armor though sharpened to a gleaming edge. “Jagarezthiad, Son of Irindathria, has answered your summons.”
“Jagarezthiad,” Flindel said by way of acknowledgement. “I am honored by your presence.”
“Is this to be a battle?” the warriors asked.
“Not today. My apologies.”
“If service is to be rendered, honor requires payment, nonetheless.”
“Of course. I would not besmirch your reputation by suggesting otherwise,” Flindel said with a bow. The Dindreohn were a proud race though once they accepted one’s friendship, always paid, they were infallible as allies. “Per previous arrangements, I wish to hire your services, of which no other is skilled or able. Do you accept this contract?”
“Before discussing terms, I am required to speak of contract limits.”
“There are terms to all Dindreohn contracts,” Jagarezthiad said, his voice a silky baritone.
“As I would expect.” Despite this being the ninth time Flindel would hire Jagarezthiad’s services, each time required the Dindreohn disclaimer of limits.
“I will not kill children. I will not kill a holy man of any religion. I will not kill a man unarmed through passive profession. I will not kill a man possessed. I will not kill a man whose coin has honed my skills through previous contracts. These are the untouchable tenets of Dindreohn honor and as such, are mine to uphold.”
“Your honor is commendable and all such requests will be within these boundaries.”
“As it must be. Gnome Flindel, what do you require?”
“I don’t need you to kill anyone as the primary request. I need you to contact someone. Not here, of course; a common courier could do that task. I need to get a message to a lord. He won’t wish to hear of it.”
“A kill or a message requires the same coin.”
“Of course.

The Dindreohn warrior was gone, accepted contract and coin in hand. Flindel sat back on the bed, stretching his legs. “Xan, you bastard, you better arrive soon lest I should lose my mind in this fakkin’ fish market.”