Queen’s Foot Talus
Two Hands confirmed dead and three missing. [Flash Fire] incinerated the coded message left on the nightstand. That made for a full fist of them.
Talus used [Mental Note] on his already cluttered mindboard to check the maintenance records to see when they’d last lost that many on what should be a simple assignment. Well, if the Hands can’t handle it, maybe it's time to kick some deathwasp nests.
It helped that the dockside inn he’d been making his residence in as Brighton Bostwick, trader, smelled vaguely of fish. To act so boldly, this would require burning the years-long alias as an intermediary between legitimate traders and gangs in the kingdom’s twin cities.
The gangs in Naewauld were scared of the Terror and would happily travel down to Hazeldown to show the locals that they were the better city. There were also many disaffected laborers upset that much of the foreign business was being directed toward the dead city. The notice that the tribes would be merging was a perfect excuse for them and monarchists to come down and support their new Heir.
When selecting boots to go with his well-worn garb, Talus picked the ones from the unopened box for special occasions, expensive shoes that looked nearly identical to his usual ones, except that steel was incorporated into the tips and soles. They’d need to be broken in, but there were plenty of people to step on and heads to kick in along this path.
Bostwick will even have a good death as a martyr, a monarchist trying and failing to save children from a fire. Maybe succeeding with one or two girls whose parents will die horribly, as they would need to replace the Hands they’d lost.
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