Rorkesh

"Never cared who was right. Only whether we was gettin' paid." —Garroq The Fulcrum was the sort of establishment where everyone carried a blade, but most knew better than to draw it. Such was the scene when Rorkesh arrived to collect on a contract. His client slid into the opposite seat, wearing the strained civility of a man who despised his company but valued its services. "I presume you've brought what I requested." Rorkesh slid a cloth-wrapped parcel between them. "And I presume you've got the coin." Before the client could answer, a shadow loomed behind Rorkesh, followed by a hiss of steel. Without so much as turning his head, Rorkesh caught the assassin's wrist, firmly introduced his face to the table, and let the body crumple to the floorboards with a heavy thud. A serving girl stepped over the man. Someone at the next table asked for another drink. The barkeep sighed, yelled for someone to fetch the porter, and continued polishing his glasses. Acting in defense, Rorkesh had broken no house rules. "Do I look like a mug to you? 'Cause you've picked the wrong one to try it on with." "Are you insane?! He wasn't with me!" cried the client, both hands raised in protest. "Right. Haven't got the stones, I reckon," grunted Rorkesh. Satisfied the interruption had passed, the client unwrapped the parcel enough to glimpse its contents before nodding in approval and sliding a heavy coin purse across the table. Rorkesh weighed it in his hand before tucking it into his belt. Business concluded. The pair stood, spat into their palms, and shook. As the client turned to leave, a cloaked figure staggered into him, spilling ale across his coat. "Oh, terribly sorry..." slurred a white dragonborn, swaying so badly he nearly collapsed into the man again. Rorkesh was on him in an instant. He caught the drunk by the collar and hauled him upright. "Find another gutter to sleep in," he snarled, giving the fellow a rough shove toward the door. The dragonborn mumbled an apology, stumbled a few more steps, and disappeared into the street. The client muttered curses beneath his breath and wiped the ale from his sleeves. "Filthy place," he scoffed, gathering himself as he left. Only once the door had shut did the white dragonborn wander back inside through the rear entrance, considerably steadier than before. He tossed a familiar parcel onto the table, and Rorkesh barked a laugh. "Lady Ainsworth always did say one hand washes the other," Garroq replied with a grin. "You keep 'em lookin'. I keep 'em lighter." Rorkesh cinched both purses to his belt. "Best be gone." "Aye," his brother chuckled. "Won't be long before our friend discovers he paid twice." Such was life in the underworld. Every deal hid another deal, and every partnership concealed collusion. Even blood was no guarantee of trust, though the dragon-brothers had found theirs profitable enough. Yet through it all, the Fulcrum endured as neutral ground for every cutthroat, smuggler, and killer in the city, bound by one simple premise: Fair dealings were never promised. Only equal opportunity to cheat.