((Hey everyone. I wanted to get this jumping because I have always enjoyed the aesthetic of Moonshine Manor. To me, it has always come across as a very "Mos Eisley" type of place that has a cool look while dealing in the skullduggery. Because of this, I wanted to highlight business as usual in that underbelly, and am hoping that it kinda becomes the jump off to people sharing their own stories on the aforementioned place. So, if others want to write their own vignettes or short stories, please, feel more than free to do so.
Shout out to the "Lord" whose permission I acquired, but whose name will remain anonymous. Business is business, after all. So without further ado, the first (and hopefully not the last) Tales from Moonshine Manor.))
A few paces to the southeast of the bar ended his journey, the destination, a dimly lit corner neglected by the entirety of the staff at Plur’s Pub. The sea of well-dressed elven maidens serving their drunken customers paid little mind to the shadowy figure swimming through the teeming patrons. Covered in a silk-lined leather longcloak, he shielded away any contact. The figure dusted himself off upon his arrival and then fell into his seat, wincing at the squishy sound made from old, dried ale.
A mound of parchments neatly stacked the center. On the far end sat a figure, the face obscured by parchment.
The visitor removed his asymmetrical black hat, liberating his long blue-black hair. An ostentatious white stripe parted his scalp at the middle of his head and streaked down his hair’s length. Violet-eyes pierced at the paper covering the face. “Lord—,”
A raised ebon hand silenced the visiting Faendryl, allowing the hustle and bustle of the Manor to engulf the room. Finally, the reading elf spoke in Faendryl, his rich voice cutting through the din of the bar. “I’m quite occupied, Yardie,” He lowered the parchment, revealing his Faendryl face. He doubled Yardie in bulk and towered over him even while seated. He had youthful features like Yardie, matching purple eyes, and black skin. However, the scar bisecting his upper lip into a sneer and the angular face indicated an aristocracy infused with intimacy for war. “This had better be good.”
Yardie adjusted his collar and began speaking in Common, “Hello, I’m sorry to occupy your time; however, I have some pressing business that has called my attention, and—”
“—Yardie, you are interrupting my work,” growled the Faendryl in his native tongue. “Out with it.”
Sighing heavily, Yardie idly twiddled his thumbs. “I need information.”
The Faendryl Lord stacked his parchment atop the rest. Strong, calloused hands handled the documents with care. His face creased, and his eyes narrowed. “And you came to me.”
“I came to the Manor,” Yardie clarified, “The underbelly of Elanthia. Where else would one come to broker deals and gain insight away from snooping noses and watchful eyes?” Reaching into the pocket of his longcloak, Yardie reached for a slim black cigar. “It’s probably the same reason you do your work here.”
“Do not presume, Yardie,” the Faendryl warned. Yardie tensed. He flicked the cigar cutter, clenched it, and the cutter produced a generous flame. Yardie brushed the flame against the cigar tip, allowing the rush to flood his lungs with its soothing flavor. Opposite him, the tower mass smoothed his long white hair, the miniature, obsidian beaded braids hissed like a rattlesnake. “Far as my knowledge goes, gathering information is what you do.”
“I lack your tenure on this side of the continent,” Yardie said.
“And where did your tenure take place?”
Yardie immediately changed the subject, his brow furrowed. “This isn’t a job, my Lord. This is a personal affair.” He puffed a smoke ring into the dull glow of the ceiling. “Try as I have; I’m unable to shake away the eventual confrontation.”
The Lord shook his head. “I do not know if I can help—”
“—she’s Faendryl, sir,” Yardie growled. The Lord arched an eyebrow. “She’s Faendryl. Someone you may recognize from your division.”
The Lord patted his stack of parchments, his intense gaze never leaving the other. “You do realize the ramifications for taking the life of another Faendryl.”
Yardie snorted. “It’s the same ramifications that await me if I do nothing to stop it, sir.”
The larger Faendryl rubbed his chin. “And what do I have to gain from providing you the information that you seek?”
Yardie sighed and leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Remember when I mentioned conspirators?”
The Lord grew solid. His jaw tightened. “You denied any knowledge of it.”
“I deny it still,” Yardie replied with a slight smile. A drop of sweat traveled from his temple down to his narrow chin. “But I can point you in the right direction. As you stated, I acquire information, just like you—”
“—not like me—”
“—and that information is verifiable.” Yardie knocked a clump of ash on the ground. “I have no reason to lie. I just need everything you can provide me to better prepare for Madame, uh, how about I just show you?” Reaching into his longcloak, he fumbled through a note with burnt corners and then handed it to the Lord.
The Lord read the note, his face shifting into a haunting smile. “Hmm, I did warn you about her.”
“You did. She frequents the Manor.” Yardie cleared his throat and rubbed his chin. His shoulders slumped against his chair. “I hope it doesn’t come to this. I hope I’m wrong. However, I don’t see much of an option. If cornered, it’s either her or me.”
The Lord grinned at Yardie like a teacher impressed with a student. “I thought you could not read and write.”
“I can’t,” Yardie confirmed. “Not in Common, Elven, or Faendryl. I am learning, though. Dark Elven comes naturally to me, as illustrated.”
The Lord pressed his hands together, eyes closed, lost in his thoughts. Finally, he spoke. “Okay, Yardie. Return here in three days. I’ll have the information that you seek. In exchange, I expect compensation with the, ah, direction, of your knowledge. In addition, I reserve the right to contact you for a job of my choosing.”
Yardie’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a part of the deal.”
“Consider it an addendum,” the Lord said, “and an incentive for you to return unscathed.”
“I thought you didn’t care about me.”
The Lord shrugged indifferently. “You serve some purpose.”
Yardie took one last puff and then extinguished it with the palm of his scarred hand, wincing from the burn. With a quick nod, he stood up and stowed away his cigar. He retrieved his hat and placed it upon his head. “I thank you for your time, sir.”
“Yardie.” The Lord gazed through him and spoke to his soul. “It would be wise that you avoid complications this time.”
The rogue nodded. “Story of my life.” Quickly, he disappeared into the crowd.
Drowned out by Plur’s commotion, the Lord tapped the note before bringing it to eye level and rereading it. Details on a familiar foe with that same description surfaced, and, given the history, Yardie had come to the right person in the right place. “Interesting,” was all he could muster before pushing the note aside and returning to his work.
