V S M [Quest - Just Business] Dog With a Bone

[Sandor Clegane]

He took a pull of his wineskin, tasted the brackish, sour red within, swallowed, and breathed out the scent of wine. Tendrils of warmth snaked through his chest and down into his stomach, while his head swam in the lake of wine already consumed.

The world rocked gently back and forth, though whether that was because he was in saddle or from the wine he’d swilled he was uncertain. The muffled sound of hooves in sand beneath him and the gentle whickering of geldings about him painted the soundscape of the desert, while the heat provided the tone for the ride. The men he escorted were as complacent and subservient as their geldings, and Sandor was left to puzzle after whether or not he and his stallion boasted the only bollocks of the lot.

The stallion, Stranger, was black of fur and blacker of temperament. Though handsome, the heavy courser took after his owner, and to all but Sandor was unmanageable. Despite this both rider and steed had forged a bond as strong as iron and The Hound gave and received loyalty to the powerful mount that was otherwise foreign to him. The warhorse stood near as tall as a destrier. Coupled with the Hound who towered over most men head and shoulders, broad and strong, the two gave off a fierce aspect.

It was this aspect that made him sought after on Mesa Roja as an armed escort. He’d ridden with outlaws for a time, different bands, and each grew to find his company as sour as his wine over time. Over the years he’d found himself alone time and again, save for Stranger, and that suited The Hound well enough. Words were wind and men were full of them, but lacking in value or substance. Bandits turned meek as field tills when a battle shifted; he’d learned to trust in little and less save good steel and good wine when it could be found, or poorer vintages when it couldn’t. …oft than not it couldn’t.

In larger settlements, in taverns, one might trade good coin for skins of stronger stuff. Stuff they say came from Kraw, where grapes grew as large as a man’s head, or Opealon where learned men kept vines tended by the hand of knowledge generations old and honed like Valyrian steel.

When work was plentiful and coin flowed stronger than any river on this barren planet Sandor enjoyed the good stuff. Those times seemed to evaporate as quickly as the streams in the heat of the badlands these days, however, with the expansion of big business across Mesa Roja. Oh, factions ebbed and flowed to be certain, but few flourished like the rare and few oases the planet hosted.

Plaineview Inc was one such. A magnate, Daniel Plaineview, had the mines and trade of this region by the throat. A lion among men whose regalia were plain values and pragmatism, his empire grew by the day, and a dog knew his place. The Hound tread the wake of Plaineview’s rising star and devoured his leavings. Wherever Plaineview Inc sprouted up, jobs followed, and so did Sandor. The most recent of these was a simple task: escort a flock of sheep carrying some contraband as they made their way to Karim to trade their wares to the blameless nobility. Lately some of Plaineview’s dealings had gone teats up, which drew dogs like Clegane himself by the dozens ready to fill their pockets with a piece of the man’s wealth. The Seven knew he had enough of it, after all, and he knew the worth of a good sword as asset protection.

The hastened sound of hooves behind him prompted Sandor to loosen his sword in his scabbard should he need to draw naked steel; though when he turned his head he found no threat. Only one of the feckless tradesmen. Gelding on a gelding, he thought. When the man saw Sandor’s smirk he paled, and The Hound knew that his face was a frightening thing to behold. In his youth his brother, Gregor Clegane, had planted Sandor’s face into a brazier for playing with one of his toys. As a result half of The Hound’s face was a ruin of burnt skin that wore only the stump of a melted down ear, tight burnt skin that never quite closed on that side of his mouth, and scarred flesh that wrapped around his left eye. Sometimes, when the wine was unable to swallow his dreams, he relived that moment and was reminded of why he hated man.

“Err, Ser,” quavered the man, a chin-less bag of flesh and bones dressed in silks and turban to ward off the sun. He addressed Sandor with the knight’s honorific, though it had been a long time since Clegane had been a knight, and even then the title had been tenuous at best. “T-the…the sun grows l-low…and…the men…the men think…”

“Spit it out,” Clegane’s voice was the harsh sound of stone on stone. His eyes, full of rage, bore down on the man who withered beneath his gaze. “Or have you lost the use of your tongue? Mayhaps I’ll relieve you of it, and shove it up your arse.”

The man’s tongue flicked over his chapped lips, while his eyes flicked to Clegane’s sword hand which rested dutifully upon the hilt of his longsword. The man waned and reined up short, and Sandor had to stop along with him, annoyed.

“The men would like to make camp,” the man spat out all at once.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” grumbled Sandor. “Be about it, then. See to it a fire is started, and get to work on a stew. If I arrive on camp and there’s nothing to eat, I’ll have roast gelding.”

The sheep returned to his flock, leaving Sandor alone at the mouth of the canyon. Though he derived no pleasure in admitting it, it was better to set up camp in the canyon while they could before braving the open desert beyond. Bandits and worse would await them out there, and though he was not green to these rangings, he knew that a man bereft of caution was soon find himself bereft of life as well. He swung both legs from saddle, dismounted from Stranger, hitched the horse to a nearby husk of a tree, and began to untack his mount. He nursed his wineskin liberally while he was about the task, and when he was finished the world seemed to move beneath his feet unbidden. He was not green to this sensation, either. He was taken abed by wine most nights, as she was the only woman who might gaze upon his face without disgust.

He unpacked a pelt from his saddlebags, removed his sword belt and placed it beside the place he’d chosen to bed down loose in its scabbard, and arranged the saddlebags to act as a makeshift pillow. He did not, however, remove his mail. Beneath the airy silk all men of the desert wore, lest they fall victim to the arid climate, The Hound always wore mail unless he was scouring it. Better than a dagger in the belly while he slept.

He honed his blade with oil and whetstone while he filled his belly with wine. After awhile, the sun went down, and when he’d had his fill of a beef and barley stew the sheep had throw together as well as the sour red he always carried, the Hound found himself in fitful slumber, dreaming of braziers and Hellfire.

Quest - Just Business
WC: 1261/5000]

 

[Sandor Clegane]

One morning was much the same as the other. He rose nursing a hangover, made water, broke his fast on a rasher of bacon with oats, filled his belly with a half a skin of wine, then began to tend his steed. He picked Stranger’s hooves meticulously though he’d done the same the night previous, fed the stallion who trumpeted loudly at the sight of oats, brushed him down, then tacked him up. As always the beast pushed out his gut when Sandor went to cinch his girth, and The Hound waited with uncustomary patience for him to let out his air before cinching the girth tighter. Any rider who didn’t do the same would find himself spilled across the ground before the day’s ride came to an end.

He took a horn of ale as the geldings packed up camp. He made it look as if he was paying them great attention, though in truth his attention was turned skyward. On either side of their camp the massive canyon walls reached toward the skies, old as anything, and blocked out the stifling desert sun. Their ride through the canyon had consumed long days and cold nights, and throughout its duration a nagging sensation had tugged at The Hound’s instincts. The feeling was known to him. It was the feeling of watching eyes, predatory eyes, a feeling utterly unlike that of the wary glances cast his way by his tremulous band of merchants. Something or someone was atop the canyon following them step for step.

Sandor had learned much and more of keeping an eye over his shoulder. Over the years he’d scaped and scrabbled his way across the Badlands, drinking and dicing, slaying when it was required. He’d made his share of enemies in that time. One learned to sleep lightly despite the drink, and to keep a sharp eye on the horizon. In this part of the desert, it was a fool who rode the canyons without glancing up.

When his charges’ camp was stowed and their horses bridled and mounted they set off for the day’s ride. The sun was high in the sky by the time they’d left, as it usually was, but they made good time despite that. Airy cloth over his mail kept The Hound relatively cool, wine kept him relatively content, and as they rode his mind wandered…though never far. He knew that, though they’d left the mouth of the canyon and entered the desert proper, their tail would ride only so far behind as to keep out of sight. The promise of banditry was a dagger poised over their small band’s throats and The Hound was the iron gorget that kept their throats unopened. To that end, his longsword was ever loose in his scabbard ready to bare its nude steel to the world, and it rattled as he rode.

He rode far at the head of the column. The others would not approach him – they appreciated neither his razor thin temper nor his sellsword’s black humor. His company was, as always, that of Stranger and Stranger alone. The black stallion breathed in time with his hoof fall and shared his rider’s wary mood. Sandor was certain that the beast was The Hound born in horseflesh, and he shared a kinship with his mount that he’d never shared with his own true flesh and blood.

Unbidden his thoughts went to Gregor the Mountain, his brother, as often they did when he was in his cups. Ser Gregor Clegane was a massive man: hate made human. If Sandor’s temper was black, then Gregor’s was blacker still…a void that swallowed light. The Mountain was renowned for his cruelty far and wide, and feared for his prowess with a blade. The Hound’s brother wielded a two-handed great sword in one fist with ease and it was said that he could cleave a man in two with one well placed swing. The Mountain that Rides remained a recluse in the holdfast that would otherwise be Sandor’s. Three of his wives had gone missing over the years, and countless serving men and women as well. …no doubt victims of the man’s foul mood swings. The enmity between the brothers Clegane was well known, and few had the gumption to mention Gregor in Sandor’s presence.

He'd been grinding his teeth, he realized suddenly. He clenched a mailed fist in frustration and drew long and deep from his skin, letting the red vintage trickle down his chin and drip freely for the desert to sip upon his leavings.

That evening when they set up camp Sandor sent for three of the least meek amongst the merchant men. They were all weak in his eyes…though not a pious man, he imagined that The Warrior - one of the aspects of The Seven faces of the God most men where he was from worshipped - would’ve scowled upon the rabble he’d been charged to protect. There were ten of them, most of them forty years if they were a day, and he doubted any of them had so much as lifted a pitchfork in their lives. Despite this the three he called for answered his summons readily enough, though with all the skiddish disposition of an abused animal. Geldings. Helpless geldings, he thought again.

There was naked steel on his lap, well oiled, and he licked it with a whetstone slowly and certainly. It did not escape his notice that each of the men watched the motion, silent, though the apprehension that hung in the air was louder than any chatter might have been.

“I’ll have you dig some trenching around the camp tonight. Doesn’t need to be deeper or wider than a latrine trench. When the rest lay out their sleeping rolls tonight, you three will stay up. If the morning comes to pass without incident, then you’re welcome to take your slumber, but if a single one of you drifts off in the night I’ll bugger you up the arse with my longsword,” he growled, casting the eye in the burnt socket the merchant men’s way. “You’re to keep watch in that direction.”

He nodded towards the east where the canyon had been a day’s ride ago.

“You want us to ride on the morrow without a wink of sleep!?” one of them exclaimed, forgetting himself for a moment. …then he paled, and took a step back.

“Found yourself a pair for a moment, did you?” asked The Hound, his mouth curling wryly. “Best find that pair again before the night’s out. We won’t be riding tomorrow. There’s a tail on us, and we won’t be leaving until they’re dead to a man. A dog’s got a nose for prey. I’ll let the desert sup on their corpses before the day is out tomorrow, you can count on that. Now scamper off and do as your told, go on.”

He waved them off, and watched them scurry for a moment in amusement. Beasts of burden each one of them, despite their merchant’s snobbery. Not a one of them would know what to do in the face of a foe, and so they needs rely on a dog like Sandor. Plaineview Inc saw the value in The Hound, and Sandor Clegane saw the value in good coin.

That night he did not sleep. He found, in fact, that he had a thirst and slaked it on wine until the first rays of sun bled into the camp. As the men roused, so too did he. The attack would come that morning, he knew, and they’d have need of even the bent-backed old men to fend it off. They might lose some, but they’d escape with their hides – that’s what they paid him for.

Quest - Just Business
WC: 2554/5000

 

[Sandor Clegane]

Though the sands muffled the thundering of horse hooves it could not snuff out the trumpeting of the stallions announcing their approach. They washed over the horizon in an arresting array of color: bay, chestnut, paint, dapple grey, red dun, piebald and palomino, buckskin and brindle. They boasted numbers greater than anticipated, and the Hound smelled loss with the grim certainty of the veteran of many losing battles.

“Positions!” he barked, gesturing in abrupt snapping motions. “Move your arses!”

And so they did. The mercantile company assembled themselves amongst the makeshift palisades and trenches they’d erected. Some of the bolder of them boasted crossbows, whilst the liliest of livers made due with shovels and pitchforks foraged from the horse supplies. They hunkered down in earnest while death or injury on horseback surged every closer. Chatter both nervous and panicked died down as the sorry lot readied themselves.

Those with crossbows loosed quarrels, though scant few found their marks. The foe – heavily robed men better equipped and better drilled than those under Sandor’s unfortunate command – lost three or foe at most and by The Hound’s count they still numbered two dozen strong or more. Some leapt the palisades, trampling merchants underfoot as they landed, while others dismounted and drew weapons with throaty, confident shouts.

The drink showed itself in his lurch when Clegane shifted forward in an unsteady lope. His blade rested heavy in his gloved and mailed hand. He moved quickly but did not run, feeling the weight of his armor and his wine with each step. Before him a lean man in airy silks held a viciously curved arakh over a sniveling merchant, then brought it down in a harsh arc. His blade was swift, but the Hound’s was swifter; steel sang as his longsword turned the arakh. Fluid as a stream, subtle as wind, he merged the motion into a lunging thrust and felt the castle forged steel sink into his quarry’s chest cavity.

He twisted, yanked, and kicked the body off his blade.

“Get up,” he spat at the merchant.

The smell of nightsoil hung heavy, and he wasn’t certain if the merchant had soiled himself from fear or if his foe had voided his bowels on his journey into The Stranger’s arms.

Nearby three of the attacking party fell upon a pair of his charges, arakhs flashing. The piercing cries of the men rang out, and the Hound broke into a run. His teeth ground angrily, his fist clenched white knuckled on his blade, and he loosed a harsh yell.

Something fell over him, then tugged him backward. He landed hard on his back with a grunt, and the remnants of his drunk threw a bucket of nausea over him, though the sand cushioned the impact of his fall. He tried to push himself up but found his arms pinned to his sides – looking down, he found himself bound by a loop of rope.

Thrashing and gnashing, cursing and spitting, he flipped himself over and rose to a kneel then a stand. Another hard yank forced him back down, though, and he stared straight up at the source of the shadow that had just fallen over him. A man on horseback, hood down, loomed high over him with a sneer. He had skin of bright crimson, two horns of deeper red rose from his head in reaching spires, and he had milky white eyes devoid of iris. …Tiefling, Sandor knew. He spat precious moisture onto the ground and snarled.

“Buggered bastard, bugger you, and bugger your fucking piece of-“

The Tiefling cut him off with a harsh ‘tsk’.

“The Devil brings the Hellhound low,” he said, voice harsh and guttural with the accent of Infernal speech. “You’ll watch your tongue or lose it. Know that I won’t warn you twice.”

He clenched his jaw, knowing himself beaten. Two more men, possibly Tieflings as well he figured, approached and bound his hands but not his feet. All around him the sounds of battle died down as quickly as they’d begun. He knew they’d never had a chance, but he’d hoped to make a sport of it, at least. He wondered how many of the sheep he’d led to slaughter, here, and cursed his drunkenness. If not for the wine he may have taken down three or four more, at least, before they’d gotten to him.

They stripped him of his sword belt, and of the blade he’d dropped in the sand whose naked steel gleamed in the morning sun. It was still early morning – the battle had taken no time at all, and he felt the malaise of his restless night, now. Relieved of both dirk and longsword he was now a dog without teeth, and for all his strength, he could do little and less to do help himself or the spineless whelps he was expected to escort. Plaineview would be displeased, he knew, but perhaps there was a way to salvage this…not now, of course, but later. An escape or a negotiation or…
He was lifted to a stand – this took two able bodied men – and nudged forward by the point of an arakh. They led him towards a swaybacked mare, but Clegane scoffed and spat.

“If you want to take me alive, you’ll lead me the my own horse, elsewise you might better kill me here and now,” he stated firmly, and honestly.

The men exchanged looks, their expressions masked by the shadow of their hoods, and made their way toward their Tiefling boss. He looked at them, looked at Sandor, laughed harshly, and nodded his assent.

And so he was brought to Stranger. They tried to assist him, lashed at the wrists as he was, but the stallion’s temper flared and he bit the shorter of the captor’s hard on the knuckles. The man yelled, cursed, and jerked back.

“Mount your own damn horse, then, dog!” he spat out, cradling his hand.

And so he did, with much difficulty. In no time he was surrounded by robed and silken bandits, mercenaries, or whatever the Hell they were, who encircled Clegane and what remained of his miserable merchant band. Each looked more desperate than the last, and many a pleading glance found its way towards Sandor. There was, however, nothing he could do here and now. He knew it. He didn’t know why they didn’t know it. …hope did odd things to sense, he guessed.

And so they rode, Tiefling at the head of the column, an armed following at his back, and the captors behind them surrounding the prisoners.

Of the merchants he’d been charged with only six remained.

Quest - Just Business
WC: 3660/5000

 

[Sandor Clegane]

A teenager swam leisurely through a lagoon, stretching his limbs languidly, moving quickly with a lazy grace that seemed to come easily to him. Even then he was long, lanky, but not yet well muscled.

The lagoon was tucked into the hills surrounded by forest with paths descending down to its rocky shallows. In some places rock walls reached for the sky, some as high as eighty or a hundred feet. In other places deer and horse paths pecked out a trail to the water. The water itself was not quite a calm blue. In some areas it almost was, but in most it was the dark color of cavernous depths or the healthy green of algae. A natural rock slide swung along one of the craggy walls, and the constant stream of water than ran through it from the stream on a level above left the slide smooth and curved. Often times the teen would climb to its heights and ride the slide down, shooting out of its mouth and landing thirty feet below in the lagoon.

It was his piece of paradise, a place safe from the cruelty of his brother, and the realities of the harsh world outside. It was a place nigh unheard of in Mesa Roja, part of a land parcel granted to his father for services rendered by a grateful Lord. He savored his time here, did Sandor, in a way he would pine for in later years after time had dealt him an ugly hand.

As the young man swam, nude, he felt the gentle nip of small fish testing their luck against his toes. The tickle of it teased a rare wry smile from his lips, the left half of which contorted, ugly, due to the scarring that tugged at them uncomfortably. …and from above? From above he heard the quack of ducklings, and then afterwards, another quack. This quack, though, was far more frantic. He pivoted his gaze towards the noise.

A mother duck, tan and brown and resplendent, pretty in her native innocence, shifted and waddled anxiously back and forth on the upper shelf, where the rock slide began. Her babies, however, were siphoning down the slide peeping madly, and shooting out one after another at its end where they’d arc and plummet to the water below. Sandor’s eyes widened in alarm, but they splashed gently down and paddled about, oblivious to the plight of their mother above.

“WACK WACK WACK!” she honked, neck craned, hopping back and forth from one webbed foot to the other.

Taking action, the young man who would be The Hound swam powerfully up to the ducklings. He made a crook of his arm and tucked them in there, one after another, securely but with careful tenderness. Cradling them there, he emerged from the pool and took one of the long, winding paths up to the upper shelf.

He arrived, ducklings in arm, and slid lithely into the stream where he deposited the ducklings. Only…a few feet ahead, where the mother was, there was nothing.

“Gods be good,” he cursed under his breath.

He swam to the slide, hiked himself up onto it, and peered down into the pool. Down below was the mother duck who, at that moment, was frantically looking about for her babies…which were now on the upper shelf. It was face-palm worthy. The young man groaned, and slid down rock slide quickly.

He arrived below, flew up in a shooting arc post-slide, and landed in the water he crested the surface and looked about. Then, he gasped.

Yards away, something terrible had happened. …Gregor, the elder Clegane, had shown up. Nasty as a water viper in temperament, he was best avoided at all costs. It was at his hands Sandor had been scorched by the brazier, and it was at his hands that he would suffer the latest injustice.

Gregor’s massive hand was wrapped around the mother goose’s neck, and she looked concerned.

---

“NO!”

He woke with a start, and everything was black. He thrashed, gnashed, and found that he was bound…the familiar texture of sackcloth clung uncomfortably to The Hound’s mutilated face. His head swam either from drink or from injury and it took a few moments to remember who he was. An imprisoned and embittered mercenary, not a hopeful but downtrodden youth.

KrrCHUNK. WHIRRRRRR..CLINK…CLINK…CLINK…

In the background he heard chattering, some scattered laughter, and the familiar sounds of a gondola shifting into motion. The gondolas, he knew, were used as a means of transporting parties of people into the city proper: basically carriages tethered to cords and operated by technology that was beyond Sandor’s understanding (which wasn’t saying much, he didn’t consider himself much a machinist). If he was on a gondola, that meant the Tiefling and his band of merry thieves were transporting The Hound, and presumably his crew of merchants, into the city. …this made Sandor Clegane smirk.

“Get this sack off me,” he said, jerking his head towards the voices. “I’ve got something to say.”

There was a shuffling of feet, a pause, and then light swam into view as the veil was lifted. He drank in the view – a shifting skyline through tinted windows, walls of deep velvet lined with brass, and bucket seats pocketed closely together. In the foreground of all that, though, a Tiefling hunkered a mere few inches from Sandor, grinning roguishly. He had scruffy facial hair, dark red against his crimson skin, and had peaked horns like those of an antelope. He wasn’t particularly powerfully built, but had the look of a man who’d seen his fair share of bloody scrapes and made his way past them through guile…or something else.

“Finally awake, Pup?” the man asked, giving the scarred side of Sandor’s face two gentle pats…which, with his headache, felt the equivalent of a jackhammer. “Good on ya. Great to hear it! Isn’t that great?”

Two flunkies, cloaked, murmured assent, but an armored woman nearby barked out a hearty ‘hurrah’. The armor she wore was opalescent white, though scuffed and marred with scratches and notches. She wore her dark hair short, not uncommon for mercenary women, but what Sandor decided stood out about her the most was her tail. Long, like a monkey, it fell to the floor and flicked idly as if anticipating. Her face was narrow, thin lipped like his own, but not unkind. He’d seen her kind before, in the low places…the pubs, the dives, and the seedier spots. A Saiyan.

“’Mere, Cel,” intoned the Tiefling, beckoning.

The woman made her way over to Sandor, and stood adjacent to his captor where she too hunkered.

“Our guest wants to parley. Whaddya think?” he quirked an eyebrow, and met her black irises with his own blank canvases.

“Parley? I don’t know what that means!” she chimed in, her voice cheery. Her tail flicked up, once, then thudded against the ground. “Let’s do it, though!”

Quest - Just Business
WC:4818/5000

 

[Sandor Clegane]

They emerged from the tavern drunk as Lords with arms around one another. Clegane, however, wasn’t grinning.

Celipa and Pimordeus were a different story. In broad daylight they burst from the place, arms about one another, and japing freely. Despite his misgivings The Hound found them to be enticing company, and despite their misgivings, they found him the same.

“Then in the name of House Clegane,” and Pimordeus reached across Sandor’s midsection to grasp the hilt of his sword. “We’ll pledge our swords in the name of your banner.”

Celipa giggled, released her hold on The Hound’s backside - he stood a great deal taller then the Saiyan woman - and stumbled away.

Nearby a close set of bushes marked beneficiary territory for her vomit, and she was not one to deny them her mark. Emerging from them, she drew a hand across her lips, and drew up close to Sandor himself. She stumbled, caught herself, righted herself forthright, and then poked him on the tip of his nose.

“In the name of your banner, Ser,” she asserted, then giggled.

Sandor drew back, then instinctively put his hand towards his hip for the comfort of his hilt. It landed on another hand, that of Pimordeus and drunk as he was, his temper flared…then he remembered their agreement and withdrew his own hand.

“The merchants,” growled Clegane, then he flexed his sword hand for want of something better to do with it.

Pimordeus took his hand from Sandor’s sword belt and met eyes with the brute, then nodded.

“Right. Of course. …right. We’ve stored them away, but not far. You might follow us Ser-”

The Hound, whose drunk and whose humor were wearing off in turns gave a low grunt that might be assent or impatience, or perhaps both.

“I might,” he agreed. “I’d see them sooner rather than later.”

Celipa gasped in breathless laughter, and slapped Sandor on the ass.

“He doesn’t know!” she exclaimed.

He followed the pair. They took him down the back alleys of Karim, and for once kept their voices low and their japes quiet. The Hound kept himself silent altogether, and as a group the three swept their way past a bazaar, and into a lower stairway that ended in a broad and unpainted door whose upper section held a single slat.

Celipa rapped. A hoarse voice demanded: “Who goes there?”

Pimordeus answered: “The songbird who will not sing.”

A ‘kch’ and a slide answered them, then the door swung open.

The Hound, who stood a head and shoulders above his prior captors, stepped into the dim light of the room and looked around. The company about him made him look half a noble despite the patina of road filth that lay upon him in a thin layer. Mummers, sellswords, and worse by the look of them by the Hound’s appraisal. That suited him just fine. He’d been in worse company by his account and especially when measuring the worth of a merchant. Prissy salesmen and Lordlings weren’t his preferred company.

Yet, there they were, huddled together in the back of a vaulted room, and sharing desultory glances. The merchants he’d ferried across the desert with naught but his blade and his wine-soaked wits sat clustered amongst grubby tables in the far-most corner of the hovel, and when they saw The Hound himself few seemed to brighten. He was unbound, and they knew that a sort as low as Sandor Clegane unbound amongst thieves wouldn’t mean good news.

“What’s this, then?” the doorman demanded of Pimordeus.

He was shorter than the Hound by a head and shoulders with a keg belly, mismatched leathers, and a greathammer slung amongst his back. He looked at the Tiefling and discounted Clegane entirely.

“He’s ours now. Or rather, we’re his. This man is Sandor Clegane - The Hound - and a knight in his own right.”

A phlegmy sound caught in the Hound’s throat, but he didn’t protest outright.

“Clegane’s Keep,” Pi continued, choosing not to let his pledge fetter him to the Knight’s contempt. “His brother, The Mountain, holds the lands of Clegane’s Keep with a nasty retinue. I’ve reckoned that we’re nastier, and that our Hound here is nastier still. With a little bit of clever marketing, some good swords to his name, and some favor curried to the right folks we might make a press of his claim.”

Sandor said nothing, but met the gaze of the doorman with a look of unabashed brazen discontent.

That seemed to do it, as the doorman grunted in response.

“We’re Clegane men, now,” stated Pimordeus, flashing a rogue’s grin and putting a hand on Sandor’s not insubstantial arm. “All of us.”

The look he cast across the room asked for challenge.

He found none.

And with that bit of business concluded Pimordeus flashed a canine heavy grin through his thin lips that looked almost boyish on his red face, and gestured Sandor towards the back where the merchants huddled in the darkest corner.

“Shall we?”

They closed the gap in the floor between themselves and Sandor’s charges, and as they did so the Hound was aware of a miasma of fear. An almost animal stink of uncertainty clung about the merchants, and any of their chatter ceased as they drew near: The Hound, the Saiyan, and the Tiefling. The aura about the sheep was as black as anything, an all eclipsing fear; it drew out something in Clegane that he was always dimly aware of. Fear in any measure beckoned out his own thoughts on the topic…a penultimate thought over all others darkened his mind, and he was aware of it now as he always was when he caught a glimpse of the torches on the walls in their sconces. Fire. Whenever he saw it, he remembered something primal, and he thought of his brother and the brazier.

Now was not the time for it, though. No time was, really, and he pushed it from his mind.

“Your Lord has seen fit to make terms,” Pi began, breaking the silence over the merchants.

A greybeard made an utterance, and another merchant that Sandor recalled standing nearby during their initial defiance of the bandit’s onslaught wore an ugly expression.

“We’ll deliver you as promised for Plaineview…”

Sandor looked them over and saw they were on pins and needles - in worry for their funds, no doubt.

“Unmolested,” he continued. “...but when the time comes, and it will come soon, we’ll expect you and yours in attendance of a tourney.”

Celipa burst past him, threw her hands in front of her in what the Hound could only describe as a mummer’s farce, and lit up.

“A tourney in the name of Lord Sandor Clegane! Oh, it’ll be an affair alright, and you’ll peddle your wares and shoehorn your influence in the name of it! …or else!”

She lifted her hands above her head, and above her palms two bright orbs manifested. Even Sandor had to turn and look, marvel, and wonder at what sort of sorcery she might be manifesting.

…but they fizzled as quickly as they had come.

“A moon’s turn,” Pimordeus asserted, reasserting his place in the dickering. “And you’ll be grateful for your Lord’s mercy.”

Clegane’s lips drew back, bringing an unpleasant element to his scarred cheek.

“...and the Stranger’s,” he growled.

Quest - Just Business
WC:6039/5000
Quest Complete