by Joey Anderle
“You wouldn’t know, but that bounty was worth a solid week’s worth of work, and for one kid.” Delvar shrugged as he picked out a single fry with his fingers, “sounded simple enough to us.”
Auralee questioned his reason, but continued regardless, “Then what makes him being a Runner all the more difficult?”
Delvar swallowed his fry and cleared his throat to explain to Auralee, “The thing is, he is also not just a Runner. You see there are job specializations for people on the Undermarket and these specs have tiers of skill and at the top are the sort of Bosses of it. These people tend to cost a bit more coin for the job, but they’re known for a reason and the jobs they do deserve such a pay grade. Runner is an open spec, easy to learn, not even that hard to master, the safest of the specializations. Freelancers tend to take some running jobs if they are in need of money.”
Auralee nodded along as the dwarf explained further.
“So, if someone manages to make a name in that line of work, it means they are something special,” Delvar concluded. “Was no wonder why your buddy had us beat, we went up against The Booker.”
“You mean ‘Booker,’” Auralee corrected.
Delver frowned at his meal, a french-fry half way to his mouth, “What?”
“You said The Booker as if it were a title,” Auralee clarified.
“Because it is,” Delvar answered, pointing the french-fry at her, “A bit of an honorary thing amongst us in the Runner Undermarket, but the best on each spec get a title that’s passed either by skill or challenge. He is The Booker, why it’s called Booker and not something cool, I don’t know.”
“And exactly what makes Booker, ‘The Booker.’” The Princess looked back over to Sterling.
“I’m not entirely sure myself, only learned about it after questioning some people who’ve walked in and out during this downtime. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Delvar ate the fry, then attempted to suck the remainder of his drink to little avail, only causing an annoyingly loud noise.
---
Once he split from Auralee, Booker made his way over to the diner bar part of the restaurant, tapping the shoulder of one of the long-time servers.
“Hi, Laurel,” He greeted.
“Hey, Sterling,” The young brown haired girl turned around, having to tilt her head up to meet Bookers gaze.
“I see you decided to straighten your hair today,” He observed.
“Yeah,” Laurel confirmed, she took a step back and looked him up and down, placing her hands on her hip as she pursed her lips quizzically. “Weren’t you, like, just here earlier today?” she asked.
“It’s a small world,” He pushed the inquiry aside, “Now how much would you happen to know about elf-fashion, and hopefully it’s as much as you know about human fashion.” He turned to make sure Auralee was still with the other two before turning back and whispered to her, “Cause do I have the predicament for you to help with.”
Laurel only looked back at Booker with confusion, “What?”
Booker rolled up his sleeve to reveal the leather bracelet he procured while scurrying about Alphonse’s cabin.
Laurel went from looking questionably at Booker to looking questionably at the bracelet, “No way,” She murmured.
Booker responded with some concern, “Is that a good no way, or a bad no way?”
“How did you get your hands on an elvish antique, to begin with?” Laurel asked as she grabbed, then twisted Booker’s wrist to examine the piece.
“I was uh,” Booker attempted to create a cover story, then decided it was easier to remember the truth. “I happened to be up in Alphonse’s attic, stumbled upon the bracelet, thought it went with my shoes,” he looked down and pulled up his pants leg to show her before dropping them, “and here we are now.”
Laurel looked Booker’s attire up and down, “It certainly goes with the shoes,” She agreed, “But the bracelet is also like a…” She tapped a finger on her chin trying to figure the right human word.
“Like a vintage piece?” Booker guessed.
“Like an inspiration,” She sounded unsure about her choice of word, “It describes a story or set of instructions I guess.”
It was Booker’s turn to exclaim ‘no way’ as he started to look for the story on the wrist wear.
“Unless you can read Elvish, you’re going to need help,” Laurel told him.
Booker let out a disappointed ‘aww.’ waiting for Laurel to do the heavy lifting.
“So,” She trailed a finger along the leather as her eyes floated across the etchings, “Roughly translated,” She sighed, “I promise I’m not kidding, it’s a tale of a dragon.”
He looked at his wrist, eyebrows raised, “Sounds badass, I’m listening.”
“This story is set during what my kind refer to as the Last Orc war, the brace tale is centered on a particular dragon. This dragon’s job was to deliver messages with a royal courier, serving as the courier’s protector, while not hindering the speed the courier could deliver messages like a horse.” Laurel told.
“Hold on, how would a horse weigh them down, it’s a horse. Courier’s ride horses, right?” Booker questioned.
“Royal couriers were no joke,” Laurel looked up at Booker, “Even though elves are fast, couriers were quick, agile, young, had superb stamina and were frankly the best. Once a Courier reached maturity, they were often recruited into the King’s Rangers, regardless of class or gender, and if you believed some of the stories, the best of the best was inducted into an assassin’s class.”
“Also sounds badass,” Booker complimented.
“Tell me about it,” Laurel agreed, “Now dragons could also mature, and once that happened they became siege weapons, but according to your story on the sleeve here, this dragon never seemed to grow old, he forever stayed a whelping.”
Laurel now used two fingers to glide across the text, explaining to the anticipating Booker more of the tale, “This little guy was the old elvish equivalent of a flying ace, best amongst those his size and even acrobatic enough to go toe-to-toe with dragons older than him.”
Laurel smiled reading the bracelet, only serving to tease Booker more, “He was renamed Izimandius after some number of trips, which is a sort of bastard way to say,” She rocked her head side to side trying to figure out how to translate.
“Just say it in as many words as possible, I’ll piece it together, and you can confirm it,” Booker informed her, excited to hear the dragon’s translated name.
“An exact translation would say dark storm cloud, thunder of the quickest lightning,” she thought for a second, “which sort of fits.”
“Why is that so damn cool?” Booker questioned softly.
Laurel continued her explanation, “But that doesn’t account for the culture behind the name, I think the author would have adjusted it to translate to be Black Lightning.”
“Still cool,” Booker assured.
Laurel turned his wrist over to continue, “Oh wow, there’s more.”
“Good, I wanna hear how it ends.” Booker grinned, “Maybe he settled down, lived life to the fullest.”
Laurel gave Booker a rather unassured face as she started to translate the rest of it, “Izimandius was once partnered with a prodigy Ranger, Ranquel. They were sent on what was essentially a suicide mission to slow an orc battalion when they passed through one of the Kingdoms forests.”
“Oh no,” Booker moaned.
Laurel nodded, “After some time of seeing nothing of the orc battalion or Ranquel and Izimandius, the King mobilized his defense. The King moved them into the forest where they only found scores of dead orcs marked with swords slashes, bite marks, and various other fatal wounds. But nothing of the orcish warlocks or the Ranger and Whelp, save for some scales and the Rangers armguard, which this,” She lifted his arm, “Is supposed to be representative of.”
“My arm?” Booker frowned.
“No, the bracelet,” She pointed out one of the edges that seemed hemm
ed, “Appears that there is probably a second half, or you just got the end piece. Moral of the dragon’s story being no matter how small you are, you can always excel and be the best.”
“That’s really neat,” Booker smiled at his new favorite bracelet, “Now how do I get it off?”
“What do you mean,” Her hands crawled to the leather strap, “All you have to do is pull this.” Her tug yielded the same result Booker had when he attempted to take it off, which was jack all. “Well, that’s not supposed to happen.”
“That’s what I said,” Booker agreed.
“Have you tried cutting it off?” Laurel suggested.
“I thought about it, but didn’t want to ruin the leather,” Booker admitted.
“You wouldn’t happen to know any dwarves would you,” Laurel questioned, “A bit racist, but they’re known for metalwork for a reason.”
Booker thought a moment, “I do.”
“Great,” Laurel smiled up at Sterling, “Talk to them about it, they might know what to do.”
“Thank you Laurel,” Booker started to turn, “Oh, and a- “
“Sweet tea?” Laurel gave a smug smirk, “On its way.”
“Sweet.” Booker thanked, straightened himself up and made his way over to the booth of friends.
“Delvar!” Booker cheered as he approached the table, “Good buddy, how are you?”
“What do you want?” Delvar questioned, recognizing the pandering.
“Been in the business that long huh,” Booker pointed out, gesturing for the troll to scoot over some to give him some room to sit. “Now I don’t want to be racist,”
Here comes the but, everyone thought.
“But,” Booker presented his buckle to everyone at the table, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about magical buckles, would you?”
Auralee recognized the design of the wrist wear, “Since when have you been an archer?”
“Summer Camp technically,” Booker clarified, “but I also think guns were invented for a reason.”
Mordecai looked up from his basket, glancing at the bracelet. He moved a crumby finger to the arm guard, pointing at the symbols that comprised the Elvish written form.
Auralee looked between Booker and Mordecai, “What’s he doing?”
Delvar frowned, “Ain’t it obvious, he’s reading it.”
“He can read Elvish?” Auralee questioned incredulously.
“And Dwarvish, and Troll, and Human.” Delvar listed off, “And I think orcish, but never had an orc ask us a thing so I can’t confirm.”
Booker arched an eyebrow, “What exactly is Human?”
“The stuff you and I are speaking with,” Delvar answered.
“Boy, do I have some news for you,” Booker sucked air through his teeth before delivering the bad news. “There are lot more languages than English, this continent alone also has French, Spanish, Portuguese, a smattering of Chinese and Japanese, and let’s not talk about all of Eurasia, a few indigenous languages too.”
“How many tongues does one race need?” Delvar sounded astonished.
“I haven’t even brought up the dead languages like Latin, or the previous versions of modern languages,” Booker answered.
“You Humans are so messy.” Delvar shook his head.
Booker shrugged as Mordecai turned over the Runners bracelet to read more.
“Oh no,” The troll crooned softly.
“That's what I said, big buddy.” Booker used his left arm to reach across and gently pat Mordecai’s reading hand.
Auralee tried to get a glimpse of what was going on with Booker's wrist, “What is he reading?”
“The tale of Ozymandias,” Booker informed.
“Izimandius,” Mordecai corrected.
“What he said,” Booker confirmed.
“The children’s story?” Auralee asked.
“You mean, the history lesson?” Delvar inquired.
“No,” Auralee turned to Delvar, “The story given to kids, meant to inspire them.”
“Lass, trust me, we Dwarves know a thing or two about history since most of us have seen it,” The dwarf looked seriously at the princess, “That’s no fake story.”
“It’s been told over a millennia,” Auralee reasoned, “There’s hardly a grain of truth to it by now, really. A Ranger and Whelping taking on an entire orcish battalion, including warlocks? All the kingdom’s banded together could barely suppress the horde.”
She gave a flippant hand toward his wrist, “That bracelet was probably made from a beginner’s armguard and given to his younger brother, not an actual piece of Ranquel’s armor. Where did you even find it, Booker?”
“Al-” Booker began before being interrupted.
“Hardly a grain of truth?” Delvar repeated, frustrated, “My Great-Grandfather fought in that war, he was one of the soldiers that discovered what was in Ranquel's wake, and I’ll tell you when Grandfather Drakvar said his story around the forge fire, there wasn’t a bit of lie in his eyes. Delvar pounded his hand on the table, startling the waitress that was serving Booker his drink.
Booker mouthed an apology to the waitress and gave a comforting smile, sipping slowly on his tea as the Dwarf continued.
“My Grandfather was even one of the lucky few that got to bring back a special piece,” He went on, stopping to reach into his shirt and pull out a necklace, the centerpiece was a dark shard with the string wrapped around it like an arrowhead. “One of Izimandius’ scales, there are 12 more just like it.”
“Even if,” Auralee crossed her arms in a huff, “the story was true, it’s not like it’s any help, they’re dead.”
Delvar had a mischievous grin as he shook a finger at the Princess, “That is where you’re wrong.”
Mordecai twisted Booker's arm a bit more causing pain, “Ow ow,” He looked over and found Mordecai inspecting the leather strap and metal buckle that held it together. Booker took his arm away and awkwardly contorted it, but it was more comfortable. He let Mordecai continue his reading.
“No remains of the two heroes were found,” Auralee leaned into her argument, “That’s one of the pillars of the story.”
“Exactly!” Delvar stated, clapping his hands as if he got a one up on the Princess, “So how do you know they died?”
“Please.” Auralee turned her head to give Delvar a side glance, “What are you suggesting next Dwarf?”
“Don’t get ahead of me,” Delvar gestured for her to slow down.
“Magic?” Booker seemed to wake up and pay closer attention.
“Now I have your attention,” Delvar nodded.
“You can’t be serious Delvar,” Auralee dropped her shoulders and tilted her head, “You’re suggesting that Ranquel and Izimandius used magic to whisk themselves away?”
“Of course, not Princess,” Delvar waved his hand, dismissing the idea.
“Good, now you’re starting to make sense,” Auralee sighed in relief.