When I was 6 years old, my mother would sometimes tell me that if I close my eyes and didn’t open them for long enough, all my daemons would go away. 2 weeks ago, I turned 29 but I still follow her advice. Not because I’m sentimental or really attached my mother or any other bullshit like that. She was not present for 15 years of my life! No, I just really can’t think of a better solution at this point. But to get away of all the demons that haunt Barak-Mhornar, I would need to wear a blindfold 24/7.
The name is Grumbril Runebeard, Endrinmaster, no further presentations are needed. And its another miserable rainy day at Barak-Mhornar.
Normally you would expect a city that is located in Chamon to have an unpredictable, chaotic weather. But not Barak-Mhornar. Here there are three weathers: foggy, rainy and snowy. I personally think those climates fit quite well with the overall depressing feeling that this breed-hole of pirates, criminals, liars and charlatans makes you feel.
I’m currently at the Endrineer’s Guild, hearing the water hitting the window while I work on a weapon shipment for Misthåvn, another shit-hole filled with the scum of the scum. Not that I have any right to criticize them since I’m part of the problem. The sound of the grinding of the machines and the repetitive movement of my work gives me somewhat of an opportunity for actual inner-peace, and once again, I close my eyes, praying to the ancestor gods that all the daemons in my head disappear. Actually, I pray that I could disappear for once. Go to a place where I don’t have to deal with the constant immorality and depravity of the people around me. Go to a place where my friends do not die of overdose at the age of 17 because this city thinks is just ok to let their citizens poison themselves to death. Go to anywhere else but here. But at last, the voice of one of the guild students wakes me up to reality, disrupting my peace and my train of thought.
“Gonna stay until late again Mr Runebeard?” – Said Melga, a student of the guild to which I give some additional classes sometimes.
“Yes, lock the workshop on your way out please, don’t let anyone in.”
“Not even your siblings?”
“Especially my siblings.”
I put my eyes on my work again, hearing her footsteps getting more distant before the shutting of the door and the door lock being closed. I had about 15 minutes of peace and quiet before, once again, being interrupted with the sound of a key turning and the door of the workshop opening.
As soon as I heard the door creaking, I knew exactly what face I’d see. When I tell any student to not let anyone in but someone enters anyway, there is only one man it could be. Rude, arrogant, no warning, grumpiest face in the world. That is Lord-Magnate Gibson Runetaker in a nutshell, aka, my father. His long suit with the fur collar above his Endrinrig, the long thick grey beard, the mists that always seem to follow him around, and, of course, the cigar in his mouth, filling my beloved workshop with the disgusting smell of burned tabacco. My father enters every room like he owns the place, which, to be fair, 8 times out of 10 he does actually own the place. He is the 2nd richest man in all of Barak-Mhornar, even the floor creaks in a way that it seems to be apologizing for being insuficient to the old-bastard.
He never shied away from the good old criminal scheme, it’s like the devil walks behind him. In the novels, you always read about how the villains and criminal masterminds controlling the city play cards with the judges, politicians and guild-masters. My father plays chess with them. In the novels, the villains always walk with a golden cup filled with the most expensive of wines. My father walks with a mug of Bugman’s XXXXXX. And those are the only differences.
“What are you doing at the moment Grumbril?”
“Just finishing a weapon shipment for Misthåvn.”
“Well, cancel this bullshit. I have another job in Shyish for you.”
“But-“
I barely started and he already raised his hand in a sign for me to “shut the fuck up”.
“The Tyvarani need a new shipment of pistols. You are going to make sure that all the products are functional and in perfect shape. You are also going to be accompaning your brothers to the negotiations, do you understand?”
I kept myself quiet. I wanted to Tell him to fuck off. To go ask another one of my siblings to do it. In the past I might have done just that, but after he burned my chest with a cigar and gave me a punch in the face so hard that I almost lost a tooth when I was 15… I never found in myself the courage to do it again. Even after I met her… I am still not prepared to face my old-man.
“I asked if you fucking understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Any problem with helping the Tyvarani again?”
“No sir.”
I had all the problems with that. The Tyvarani are a soulblight dinasty that are quite found of firearms. My family turns the blind-eye, saying that we are not responsible for what they do with those guns, but I think we are. I sometimes wonder if a blacksmith can be considered guilty for the crimes commited with the weapons he forged. If the answer for that is yes, them I might have the blood of tens of thousands of innocent lifes in my hands. On top of that, I would have to tolerate my brothers sour comments about me being a “softy” for not being a cold-hearted bastard that does not give a shit about the consequences of our actions.
“Good. Have everything ready in 5 days.”
He then started walking out of the workshop, but before he fully went away, he took a last look at me, holding the door.
“Clean that blue dye out of your hair and beard. It looks ridiculous.”
He then proceeded to shut the door open with an unecessary amount of strength. And I was left alone in the workshop, alone with my thoughts.
The next 5 days are going to be hellish.