Once upon a time...
A story was told, followed by others.
Each was like a thread that wove together into a single world.
At times, a tale would be retold, each time slightly different from the last.
But how many times can a tale be retold...
...before it becomes twisted?
A story was told, followed by others.
Each was like a thread that wove together into a single world.
At times, a tale would be retold, each time slightly different from the last.
But how many times can a tale be retold...
...before it becomes twisted?
The room was dark, lit by a small candle on the table. In a rustic office, nestled on the waterfront of Ravenport, two world-weary men stared at a job applicant with incredulous scrutiny. Outside, the office sign swing in the wind, a storm was coming or so the darkening clouds indicated. It was just after sunset, the streets of the waterfront becoming darker as city workers prepared to make their rounds to light the street lamp torches. The office smelled of wood, ink, and tobacco smoke. Of the two men, the one sitting at the desk held a rolled up cigarette in his fingers, putting to his lips and taking a deep puff. His partner, a slightly younger man with a long coat wrapped his body, also had a smoke of his own, though his was a pipe. The first man, looking grizzled and in need of a shave, took a deep breath, the sound of it indicating a deep and gravelly voice before he finally spoke.
"So you're the applicant? Can't say I'm relieved, you don't look like much to me." his tone was flat, pessimistic even. Clearly he was a man who always expected the worst to happen. Supposedly there was less chance of disappointment that way, or so he claimed on numerous occasions. His free hand reached over to a glass sitting on the desk. He put it to his lips and took a good swig of the drink, its smell and color indicating a liquor of some kind. After that he began thumbing through a dossier of the applicant that lay opened on the desk.
"Come now, Rolfe, begger's can't be choosers." the other man sounded a bit more hopeful and optimistic, though inside he also had his doubts. His voice wasn't as deep as Rolfe, and no where near as gravelly if at all. In fact his tone and even accent indicated a Middle or Upper-Middle class upbringing, as opposed to Rolfe sounding like he grew up in the streets or surviving out in the wilderness. The two were quite different when one looked at them next to each other in the same room, and yet they appeared to get along rather well, a mutual trust and respect that only two business partners could share.
"So you wanna join the Wolf's Den, do ya?" asked Rolfe, reaching a hand up and brushing his fingers through his rough brown hair with a bit of an exasperated sigh, "Wanna save this city from the filth infecting it?" it sounded like a harsh criticism of the city, and truth be told it wasn't entirely invalid. Ravenport was clean, though that mostly applied to the inner districts where the Middle Class and Upper Class lived. The outer districts and especially the Waterfront were practically like slums, home to the lower class, the homeless, and probably more than a few shady characters. But the way Rolfe talked, it was like the "filth" he mentioned was referring to something other than crime, "This job's not for the faint of heart... or the weak of stomach for that matter. If you're serious about this, then you better be ready for anything, and I do mean anything."
"Right then, I think I'd better take my leave. The case against Ratigan isn't going to finish itself. I'll call on you if I need any extra help." said the younger of the two partners before he pocketed his pipe and stepped out the door. Ominous timing too, the rain was beginning to fall and thunder could heard in the distance.
"What's that? Ratigan? Don't bother, you aren't ready for the big leagues. I'm startin' you out on some of the smaller cases that've been piling up lately. Get some of those cleared up, and then maybe I'll give you something bigger. Welcome to the Wolf's Den, Pup. Now get out there and do some work... and try not to die."
It was raining, yet again. An annoyance, to be sure, but not unexpected. Near-constant rain throughout half the year was just a fact of life for anyone living on the coast. But tonight seemed especially dreary. The rain clouds blocked out the view of the moon and stars, casting the city in an even darker shadow than usual. At the Wolf's Den, the tired and grouchy Rolfe was reviewing all the cases that had been closed that week. It was the usual grind of paperwork that no one in their right mind would find enjoyment in. And yet, it had to be done sooner or later. It also helped that the recent hires made Rolfe realize that the paperwork would only pile up more if they were able to clear up the backlog of cases.
At the thought of the new hires, Rolfe rubbed his temples and let out a low growl of a sigh. He didn't exactly have a high opinion of them, in fact some more than others seemed like the type that were going to instantly grate on his nerves. But the would-be detective grit his teeth and calmed his nerves with a swig of whisky. It wasn't uncommon for him to drink on the clock, in spite of Basil's constant warnings against such behavior. But anyone who knew Rolfe well enough knew that he was a man who could take his liquor quite well... almost too well some might even say. Rolfe had a pair of case files opened up on his desk. They were fairly recent clients that had come to the Den earlier that week. At that time, Rolfe couldn't promise immediate results, but the new hires would theoretically change that.
The first of the cases was a old woman named Mildred. She owned several cats, 12 of them in total, and every single one of the fleabags were missing. The old bat swore up and down they were cat-napped, but that could have also just been the ravings of an old lady worried sick about her missing pets and overreacting. Either way, it was a good enough starter case, so a couple of the new hires were given it as their first real assignment earlier that day. Assuming they weren't goofing off somewhere, they should have been searching the neighborhood for these cats at that very moment. At the very least this would give Rolfe a good idea of how capable they were at picking up a trail around the city, even if that trail in this case was a litter of cats.
He glanced over at the second case, picking up the file to read it a bit more closely. This one was a little more... touchy. Mary Merkle, owner and proprietor of the Crabbyshack Pub on the Waterfront, came into the Den yesterday swearing up a storm about how that slimy-no-good Bludd was trying to sabotage her business. She of course was referring to Isaac Barker, or Captain Bludd as he insisted on being called. He owned an interesting little oddity called the Bloated Barge, a ship converted into a floating inn/tavern. Barker of course themed after pirates and high seas adventures. The old guy even claimed to have been a fearless sailor in his youth, which would probably explain how he came to own a ship in the first place. Barker and Merkle hated each other, competed fiercely for customers. In fact this wasn't the first case with these two at the center of it. Last month Barker came in accusing Merkle of trying to send his establishment out to sea during the night. It of course turned out to be weather damage, but even that didn't seem to convince the salty old dog much. Now it seemed to be Merkle's turn. One of her main gimmicks was keeping tanks of crabs and lobsters that customers could choose to have for their meal, but the feed for the animals had apparently been tainted and now half the stock were either sick or dying. Merkle, naturally, was convinced that Barker was behind it. For this case, Rolfe was actually glad to have the new hires, as he was in no mood to deal with Merkle or Barker's idiotic feud this week. So a couple of the new bloods were put on the case. And at the very least, this would be a suitable test of people skills and information gathering.
The slamming of the front door got Rolfe's attention and he looked up to see an especially frustrated Basil. Basil yanked off his coat and practically flung it to the floor rather than hang it up properly. He yanked off his had and flung down on a nearby coffee table. Rolfe didn't react, clearly this wasn't the first night he'd seen Basil get like this, "Went well, I take it?" he asked, the sarcasm in his tone was pretty evident.
"Another dead end... AGAIN!" Basil slammed his hand on the armrest of a chair that he sat down in, "I was certain I had him this time, certain I tell you! But the slippery bastard covered his tracks too thoroughly."
"Well what did you expect?" Rolfe sounded almost incredulous, "All that wealth and influence, of course he won't leave a trail. Wasn't he recently awarded the Key to the City for exposing a Counterfeit Operation?"
"An operation he started himself!" Basil retorted with anger, "The only reason he 'exposed' it was because I was about to connect it to him and his office! So naturally he erases his involvement AND plays the hero to save face! Bah! I really do hate that man..." by now Basil was beginning to calm down.
"By the way, I gave our new Pups their first cases." Rolfe said, changing the subject and lighting a fresh cigarette for himself, "Take a look."
With a sigh Basil leaned forward to read the files, "Missing cats and..." he groaned, "...Merkle? Again? How many times is this now that we had to keep these two from killing each other?"
Rolfe just shrugged, "Dunno, stopped keeping a count a good while ago. But I didn't wanna give the Pups anything too heavy on their first night, so I figured these would do."
"I suppose so..." Basil had lit his pipe now. After a taking a puff from it he got himself a clean shot glass and a bottle of scotch. He needed a rest. His case took him nowhere and that meant he had start over from the very beginning, but before that he needed a break, not to mention a drink, "They'll work out, I'm sure of it. It was either this or lose clients, and I'm guessing you have no desire to go back to your old life, yes?"
Rolfe said nothing, but he did shoot a glare at Basil, one that told him not to bring that up... and with the smallest hint of a threat even.
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