The Shmeet-Up
To keep from having to wholesale slaughter the Gray Cloaks, the Nameless agreed to ambush City Councilmember, Leviathan Hunter super-owner, and their erstwhile bankroller Lord Strangford.
Strangford had been under investigation by the Gray Cloaks JUST before they were wrongfully kicked out of the force, and it was decided that his death would close the book on the gang war.
The ambush was set up in Brightstone’s Unity Park, with cover provided by organizing a fight between noted wrestler Red Hot Dan Houston and teenage dumbass Jeremy “the Shmeek” Pendryn.
Now, sure, the ambush broke down a little. Strangford ended up bringing protection in the form of some sailors, a strange Whisper with a cat spirit (which has since possessed Donovan), and ultimately bribing Houston and the Shmeek to cover his retreat.
But all ended well when Casta, Katya’s situationship-turned-relationship, sniped Strangford through the throat. The other sailors were killed, the Whisper was killed-ish, and both Houston and the Shmeek were folded into V-Sea-W’s good graces.
A Growing Legacy
And now, another edition of THIS DUSKVOLIAN LIFE.
To walk the halls of the Lord Harvo Limelock Finishing School is to have the senses assailed by legacy. Busts of illustrious alumni, portraits of headmasters past, and blazoned awards for academic excellence line the walls of the institution, presenting passing students with tangible reminders of their place within a long line of excellence oblige.
However, to those students in-the-know, a different sort of legacy is growing: the legacy of “the Shmeek”.
“The Shmeek is fucking CRAZY,” enthuses Cole A., an upcoming senior, “I once told him I’d pay him 5 scales to throw a chair at (Vice-Dean) Rowder, and the dude aced him from a second story window! He got detention for like a month over that. Shmeeky’s a legend.”
“The Shmeek” is the moniker of sophomore Jeremy P, a younger son of a noble household. The etymology of the name is mysterious, and no two stories about its origin seem to line up. However, less enigmatic is the meaning of the word: to know “the Shmeek” is to know violence.
“I hear it’s Bloodneedle,” confides a freshman student under condition of anonymity, “He gets Bloodneedle from some Red Sash he knows and injects, like, twenty times what you’re supposed to. My brother said he saw him headbutt a Hull until it broke, but I think he was lying.”
While local legends of hard, borderline-unhinged champions are common among the hardscrabble neighborhoods of Crow’s Foot or Coalridge, it’s unusual to find such a hero in the polished streets of Brightstone. But talk to the students of Harvo Limelock and you’ll find a similar mix of awe and reverence for the Shmeek. “Last weekend, some really shady guy came looking for me, some guy who owned a fight pit in Six Towers, or something?” Cole A. reminisces, “He said he needed someone to fight this real badass dude as a distraction while they did some business . . . Red Hot Dan Houston, I think was the guy? Anyway, Shmeeky took the dude on. THEN, my girlfriend’s dad came up and paid them both to protect him from some kind of ambush or something, real gang shit. And the Shmeek fuckin’ did it!”
While allegations of criminal activity are, of course, merely rumor and heresay, there is no denying that “the Shmeek” is known to Void Sea Wrestling legend Red Hot Dan Houston. The man himself (nursing a leg wound that looks almost like it was gained from a bear trap) will eagerly tell you: the Shmeek is going places.
“RED HOT DAN HOUSTON THOUGHT HE WAS COMING OUT THERE TO (allegedly) THROW SOME PUNCHES, DOWN SOME BEERS, AND TEACH THE KIDS A LESSON ABOUT DRUGS,” hollers Houston as we sit in his V-Sea-W dressing room, “BUT RED HOT DAN HOUSTON HAD THE FIGHT OF HIS LIFE AGAINST THE SHMEEK. AND WHEN LORD S——— PAID US TO COVER HIS RETREAT FROM THE GRAY CLOAKS, RED HOT DAN HOUSTON SAW THE SHMEEK TAKE ON SOME REAL NASTY CUSTOMERS ALL ON HIS OWN. THE SHMEEK HAS RED HOT DAN HOUSTON’S RESPECT, AND THAT’S THE BOTTOM LINE!”
What does the future hold for “the Shmeek”? Are the allegations that he, Red Hot Dan Houston, and an unnamed Whisper served as a three-person vanguard for the notorious Lord S——— accurate? We’ll find out more in the next chapter of “The Shmeek Shall Inherit The Earth”, next week.
A Seasoned Professional
Casta the bounty hunter hasn’t stopped whistling since she departed from Unity Park, her good spirits seemingly bolstered by the half-covered body slung over her shoulder. She improvises a little softshoe routine as she makes her way up the stairs of a derelict building, and raps on the door to the tune of a popular lounge song.
“Special delivery!” she sings out, a smile nearly bisecting her face, “Get it while it’s still warm!”
The door opens soundlessly, seemingly of its own accord. Casta bounces in, cheerfully slapping her burden down on a surprisingly expensive oaken table.
“Here ya go! One city noble, Leviathan captain, and concilmember combo, bolt-skewered to perfection!” she trills at the other occupant of the room, “And, b’cause you’re SUCH a loyal customer, I added a little surprise!”
With great aplomb, she uncovers the bundle, revealing the corpse of Lord Strangford. It is as we saw it last, except seemingly covered in a fine dust of . . .
“That’s right, you’ll be able to feast on him with my secret combination of sixteen herbs and spices! It’s sweet, with heat, for a little treat on your meat!”
She considers her words for a moment, as the second occupant approaches the body to inspect it.
”. . . For the record, that’s not a euphemism. I wouldn’t recommend putting my dry rub on your genitals if you’re gonna-“
“Why did you think,” intones Lord Scurlock, still holding the wrist of the deceased Strangford, “that I was going to eat the body?”
This seems to wrong-foot Casta for a moment.
“Uhh . . . cuz you’re a vampire, right? Ain’t that what you do?”
A deep sigh seems to emanate from Lord Scurlock, who picks up the corpse as though it weighed nothing and begins to recede into the apartment. Casta, nonplussed, does not follow.
“Wait . . . then why did you want the body?”
Funeral at the Docks
The mood is exceedingly somber on the deck of the Titan’s Wake. Dozens of seafarers are arrayed in their (not-so-fine) finest dark clothes, with not a head unbowed nor dry eye to be seen.
The group is gathered around nearly two dozen covered bundles. Each are roughly person-shaped, and draped with the Akorosi flag. At the head of the group, her back to the prow of the ship, Lieutenant Coolidge grasps her cap convulsively in her hands and begins to speak.
“A sailor expects death. That’s the deal we make, when we go out there. We do it cuz the city needs it. We do it cuz we want better for ourselves. We do it cuz we’re all freaks who live for the hunt. But we know we’re facing death to do it, cuz we know that’s what’s waiting out there.
“But that ain’t what claimed our fellows here.”
She stops and reaches into her pocket to look at her notes. When she faces the crowd, her expression is filled with grim resolve.
“These sailors, these salts . . . they ain’t died a proper sailor’s death. They died trying to protect our captain from treachery, from some up-jumped ex-cops who thought they had a right to our blood. And we paid ‘em back! Those of ‘em that’re still living, they know better know. But that don’t mean we ain’t lost in the bargain. These salts gave their lives, fightin’ off the Gray Cloaks, and we’re here to pay our respects just like if a Leviathan took ‘em. They deserve that. They died just as well as any other of us.”
She nods at another figure, and cedes her place to the next person to come up. This man wears a captain’s uniform, and the crowd parts before him respectfully. The only note of color is a red ascot around his neck.
Standing before the assembled mourners, the body of Lord Strangford begins a eulogy for the lost sailors, ambushed by the Gray Cloaks during a covert meet to buy a book of Leviathan routes from an unnamed gang of thieves. Within that body, Lord Scurlock’s spirit barely restrains his glee.