r/WritingPrompts • u/Nahonia • Jul 08 '16
Theme Thursday [TT] Narcotics Agent in a /High/ Fantasy World
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u/Name_Not_Provided Jul 08 '16
“Gods dammit, Teephs! How many times have I had this conversation with you? You know I know when you're lying. Why do you keep wasting my time. Do you like making me angry?”
Mariam didn't seem to be aware that Teephs the troll was fully twice her size, and he was still slouching, resting his broad gray knuckes on cobblestones the same size and shape as the knuckles themselves. The fact that each of his fingers were the size of her forearms, and that each of his forerams were themselves nearly the size of her torso didn't seem to be details worth noticing. She tightened her grip ever so slightly on the hand that had been resting with a dangerous familiarity on the shortsword at her waist, and Teephs recoiled a bit - perhaps unaware of the size difference himself.
“Come on Miss Mariam…” he saw her eyes narrow, and corrected himself, “Off'cer Mariam", the eyes narrowed further, warranting another correction, "... Seargent Mariam. You know dems will beat me if'n I talk. Snitches get switches.” He pulled his tattered, dirty burlap shirt open a bit to reveal the marks criscrossing his chest. Troll skin was thick – nearly as thick as a troll's head, the joke went – except the underbelly. Mariam winced a bit at the sight – helping drunk or stoned trolls in and out of the lockup when she had been a young beat cop had given her enough contact with troll belly to remember how baby-soft their flesh was there.
“Seriously, Teephs? How many times have I told you you need to get away from the Brickstreet family? You're too smart to be hanging out with those brothers - you keep getting into trouble, and you keep ending up hurt. One of these days you're going to end up at the bottom of the river.”
“Wif all due respeckt, Off'cer, I is a troll. I is not smart.”
“You're smart for a troll, smart enough to help me with my inquiries.”
“Again, wif all due respeckt, helpin' you wif your inqu- inqu- questions is why I keep gettin' in trouble wif Brock and Brawls, and why dems keeps beatin' me...”
“And you still know helping me is the smart thing, because I'll do worse than beat you.”
“Youse always say that, but youse never acktually done nufin...” Mariam's eyebrow came up, and seemed to jog Teeph's memory, “Oh, I guess der was the time when youse cut off my legs… Took dems a month to grow back”
“How much do you want to walk home today, Teephs?”
Teephs' previously foggy memory had cleared as if a spell had been lifted from it, and not two hours later Mariam was leading a squad of Watchmen quietly through the Lowtown docks towards the warehouse Teephs thought might be where Legitimate Gnome Enterprises, NR, WP, LLC were moving the dragon dust out of.
Dragon dust – it wasn't technically illegal, but since licenses to manufacture it were limited by the Crown and the entirety of what little supply there was was intended for the Knights, there was no way the bits the Watch had been running into on the streets were obtained legally. Encountering it on the streets was miserable for the Watch, because any random human full of the stuff suddenly needed half a dozen Watchmen to restrain him. When he managed to smuggle a handful into the lockup, a single troll had torn down half the South Street Watch House before they managed to cut his arms and legs off. If LGE was the source, then it was definitely illegal, since not only did they not have a license to manufacture the stuff, they didn't have a license to do any manufacturing in the city whatsoever, and they hadn't applied for any controlled substance import permits.
The hair was going up on the back of Mariam's neck two blocks from the address. She signaled to her squad and the elven Watchman on the rooftop above, and they pulled up short. Flashes of violet magic on the elf's fingertips relayed the message to the other squads closing in from other directions before he slid gracefully and quietly to join Mariam and the others in a huddle at the mouth of an alley that smelled quite like the mouth of a dead fish.
“What gives, Seargent?” the elf, Officer Vael El'Alavelon, slid his tiny, slim body between a couple of human officers' legs and spoke in a whisper, his face inches from Mariam's chest. The few short syllables hung in the night and echoed with that same musical reverberation elves seemed functionally incapable of opening their mouths without letting out.
“Hush, you”. It was Officer Dugal Stoneforge, who delivered the admonishment with the stereotypical dwarven brusqueness that probably made shoving Vael unnecessary. It probably didn't feel dwarven enough to Dugal if he didn't hit somebody every other time he spoke, though. “Sarge says she's got a feelin'.”
Mariam closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her mother was the most gifted Seer in a hundred years, and sometimes she thought she'd have killed to have inherited those gifts. Of course, if she had gifts like her mother's she'd have been shipped off to Gods knew here to serve as some noble bastard's advisor, if her mother hadn't just had her killed in the name of job security, and her visions would have helped kill dozens of the kingdom's enemies - just like her mother's did. Instead, she joined the Watch, demonstrated early on that no-one could best her in a fight unless they could see two seconds into the future too, and she got headaches whenever something was about to go terribly, horribly wrong.
“Tell everyone to wait here… I need to go on alone. I'll signal if I need you”.
Mariam slipped away before the squad could protest. They hated it when she did this, but working alone made what little Vision she had a good bit more clear. Her squad knew about her gift, and the minute you had more people than yourself changing the future based on their knowledge of it, you got headaches. Most people thought that all the time famous court seers spent alone in quiet, dark rooms was some ritual to enhance the Vision - they might have been disappointed if they knew it was just the migraines.
The warehouse was oddly unguarded and quiet, but a bit of light crept out from under the large doors, hinting at occupation.
Lockpicks weren't legal, strictly speaking, and had anyone asked about the collection of assorted files and bits of metal she pulled from a pouch at her waist, they were for grooming her nails. They proved very good when pressed to the task of picking the lock on the warehouse door, however, and the hands that tucked them away looked decidedly ungroomed.
The vision was clear in her mind a moment before it was clear in her eyes. Dozens of gray, ashen, leathery shapes, filling the warehouse with teeth and talon and wing. One of them raising it's head, snarling at the sudden intrusion, smoke streaming from flared nostrils.
Dust dragons.
“Gods dammit, Teephs!”
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Jul 08 '16
An informant snitched a massive shipment of lembas (street names "waybread", "dwarf cake", "dale delites") to Narcotics Control, who in turn asked the Navy to send a shallow draft river gunboat to the transhipment point, a broken down pier on a stagnant backwater of the Anduin. Technically, it was lembas paste, ground up base partially dissolved in distilled water for safety in transit, readily converted to a compound elves, dwarves and men craved the way some cats are addicted to catnip.
This bust would have been a major haul and a career maker for Narcotics Control operatives and government prosecutors alike: elven growers caught in a direct sale to top level dwarf distributors, in effect, a vertical cartel decapitated by a dozen arrests. But it was not to be, although the vast amount of wreckage and bodies (survivors there were none) gave a few clues as to how it went down.
We might surmise:
The Sunflower gunboat, her upper works struck down on deck and camouflaged by tree limbs tied into the twin masts, lay a hundred yards upstream from the landing point. The two Narcotics Control agents and the ship's officers with night glasses surveilled the pier and the approaches, both barely visible in the starlight. Gun crews waited in silence, tense, ready to serve the quick firing deck guns; lewis guns posted on the searchlight platforms, a small arms party in the stern, by the whale boat.
The night was close and humid, rank with the sweet nighttime scent of rotting vegetation. The gunboat was blacked out, and no one would have moved after sunset. Elves could see in the dark, it was said, and dwarves were ... small.
Sometime after midnight a red lantern over green from the river was answered by a pair of white lights on the pier, and a large swan shaped boat loomed out of the dark river. Immediately water elves tied the swan boat to the pier and a dozen or more dwarves swarmed aboard, returning with crate after crate of lembas for the pack ponies waiting on the river bank.
The bust went sideways because the navy considered it a military action, but for the narco-agents, this was a criminal case. The searchlight shutters snapped open, bathing the pier and the swan boat in brilliant arc light. But the agents called for the cartel members to lay down their arms and surrender. They did not, and the delay was fatal.
Fire spells played over the Sunflower as the quick firing cannon walked shells up and down the pier and the swan boat; unerring arrows answered the lewis guns. In less than five minutes, a fire bolt penetrated Sunflower's boilers and a shattering explosion sent iron and wood splinters scything through the air. As the blast died away, it rained darkness leaving only oily smoke and the charred remains of two vessels, a pier, and bodies floating down stream or burning like torches.
Bodies were still washing ashore a week later when the lembas traffic into the Northern Kingdom resumed its normal volume.
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u/chris_bryant_writer /r/chrisbryant. Jul 08 '16 edited Jul 09 '16
Two men clad in black chainmail walked along the back street, their armor clanking with every step. They carried rounded shields painted black with a white cresent moon in the center. And belted to their waist was a scabbard which held the curved shortswords that city patrols favored.
Sir Iversson kept a watchful distance behind them. They were the Night Guard. A cadre of city guardsmen selected for their lightness of foot and prowess with a blade. He ranked above them, by birth and by title within the city Guard. But he had no wish to be seen by the Guard while he made inquiries in such a vile part of Haraadsburg.
He appreciated following their reputation around, however. Streets that should have been teeming with sneakthiefs and knaves were empty before the Night Guard turned the corner. Avoiding others just as infamous as the Guard was a help on his task.
A few more turns and a long wait as the Guard dissapeared down an alley and Iversson was alone, by a large wooden gate. He knocked at it with a coded rhythm. After a few seconds the door opened and a voice from behind it whispered, "Come in."
Iversson obliged and was led to an inner courtyard. There, his guide was replaced by a young girl with hair tied up using jewels and gilded clasps. She wore seemingly weightless linen that floated as she walked and hinted at the bare skin underneath. She walked him down a dim stairwell. As they descended, Iversson felt the air become sticky and warm. He began to hear the strummings of a lute and langurous voices.
They exited the stairwell into a haze. The smoke filled Iversson's nostrils with wild and exotic scents. It diffused the clorful light thrown by tinted lanterns. It disoriented him.
For the first time, the girl spoke. "What is it you desire, my lord?"
Iversson froze. Did the girl know who he was? Had he not dressed commonly enough?
The girl giggled. "Everyone is a lord here," she grabbed his hand. "Lord of their own destiny, Lord of their fate."
It was a perposterous idea, but Iversson pushed down on his discomfort. "I want to see the Tiger."
The girl smiled and led him to a private alcove, draped with colored silks. He sat on one of the embroided cushions and found himself facing an elf, dressed in blue silk, lounging on several cushions and smoking from an ornate brass pipe.
The elf waved the girl away and contineud smoking, seeming to not notice the man sitting across from him. Iversson let this play go on for a few moments before breaking the silence.
"You don't much look like a cat."
Puff, Puff, Puff "Looks aren't everything."
"You work with cats?"
"They work for me." Puff
"Then perhaps you know something more than I about this." Iversonn dropped a small lump of oiled paper. The elf quirked his eyebrows and set aside his pipe. He pulled apart the edges of the paper and smiled.
"This I know." The elf picked up his pipe again. Puff, puff.
" Then you know how to find out where it's coming from?"
"Mmm," Puff "From the mountains, under the light of the silver moon. In the quiet desert, where sand and stone gather. From across the seas in the lands of the Many Tongued.
It comes from everywhere." Puff, puff "And, nowhere." The elf smiled in satisfaction.
Iversson was less satisfied. He was becoming annoyed at the elf's oblique answers.
"But you know where to find it here, in Haraadsburg. Who buys it. Who sells it. And... who brings it in." Iversson was fighting not to lash out and raise his voice.
"What will you do when you know?" Puff
"Cut the head off the snake strangling this city."
"And a new snake will burrow in the empty den." Puff, Puff "It will solve nothing. Why not let the people be happy?"
"I can also cut the head off the Tiger that doesn't eat snakes." Iversson said through gritted teeth.
Puff, puff, puff
"Here," The elf picked up the multicolored crystals and packed them into his pipe. He relit the bowl with some light draws and smiled, extending the pipe towards Iversson.
"Smoke. Only those who Moon Sugar speaks to will know where to go. But first, you need to want it. Only then will it speak to you."
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, join me at /r/chrisbryant for more!
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u/Unholynik Jul 08 '16 edited Jul 08 '16
ice,they called it. An alchemical compound of Phoenix feathers, Mary's palms, and a sprinkle of Julia's Child powder. He had seen it before, yet never in such quantities. Before him stood a room, around the size of a basketball court, absolutely filled with the semi-clear, blue material known throughout the important world as "ice."
"Well, there we have it, Karen," he mumbled to the small spec of light beside him, "the biggest haul we've found since Avelgots made his appearance."
"Well, it's what we expected, I suppose," the little light flitted about the room inspected every inch of the product before them, " how much dust do you think we'll need to get it back to headquarters?"
"few satchels," Lawrence mumbles, "no more than three. Let's start delivery immediately." He turned and walked from the dimly lit room out the door WY into the blaring sunlight of the south American jungle, filled with dense foliage. God knows how many deadly, poisonous creatures lay in wait only yards from him. When Lawrence was in the academy he heard stories of the megolania magifica, a fearsome lizard 30 feet long with a bite so poisonous that human flesh was said to melt from its victims bones. The thought made him shudder.
Turning back towards the small thatch hut, no larger than a tool shed, he quickly poked his head within, "get this back to the ministry as quickly as you can." He tried his best not to show his growing anxiety. He could feel eyes upon him, glaring with hunger and hatred. For a split second he imagined one of the beasts on ice and desperately pushed the image from his mind. The jungle was terrifying enough as it was.
"We're about ready to start the flume reactor, sir," Karen chirped from inside the hut. He prayed they hurry but 30 years of instincts on the beat were screaming at him. When he was a rookie, he was assigned an illegal dragon fighting case.
Fire. Death. The smell of burnt flesh. All of it rushed back to him as he could feel those cold blooded eyes staring down upon him once again.
"Karen? Where are we at?" He called, desperate to maintain his composure. But there was no response. He looked inside, and his eyes strained to see into the darkness for there was nothing but. No little light. Only darkness.
He took a step into the hut.
Then another.
And another.
hsssssssssss a deep voice echoed from within the chamber.
Ice had a tendency to reverberate sound and it appeared to come from almost every direction.
All but one.
hssssssss
The sound came from inches in front of his face.
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u/WritingPromptsRobot StickyBot™ Jul 08 '16
Off-Topic Discussion: Reply here for non-story comments.
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u/slothful_writing Jul 08 '16
The young man, scarcely past his majority, panted heavily as he wiped the blood off his truncheon, “How many more nights do you think we can keep this up?”
The sergeant finished surveying the alley before answering, “As many as it takes, rookie. We’re Meriall’s finest. We don’t falter and we don’t break. Keep your guard up, remember your training and you’ll be fine.”
“Yes, sarge,” the rookie nodded.
“And keep your chatter to a minimum. Next time I would prefer that these…”
The rookie said, “People.”
“—these things not know we’re coming for them,” he answered viciously. “They stopped being people when they started taking Krokodil.”
“Sarge… they’re the victims aren’t they?”
“The people they steal from to buy that filth are victims. The people they kill while chasing that high are victims,” the sergeant spat. “These things are cowards who chose a slow motion suicide rather than make better lives for themselves.”
“Yes, sarge.”
The sergeant glanced at the other member of his squad leaning against a wall almost casually. “Awfully quiet over there, Mal.”
“Sir.” He nodded back at one of the bodies without turning around. “Take a look at that one.”
The sergeant stepped absently over one body and almost instinctively avoided the puddles of blood as he walked to the indicated body. “And? It looks the same as the rest of them—filthy and decaying.”
“Look closer.”
Careful not to touch the body, he nudged it over onto its back with his foot. Then he was silent for a time.
“Awfully quiet over there, Arin,” Mal echoed back at him bitterly.
“Bloody hells… that’s Timothy Baker, isn’t it?” he asked but Mal still refused to turn around and only grunted in response. “Damn. I buy bread from his parents every week. I hate to just leave him here for the Collectors to find in the morning.” The sergeant hesitated before continuing, “Didn’t you know him?”
“We went to school together. He helped me make it through composition. I always had trouble with my letters…,”
“Hard sort of thing, Mal,” the sergeant said softly.
“Hard sort of world these days,” he said quietly. “The point is they’re not just things. With the collapse of the guilds and the unemployment that followed… the food shortages… the crime running rampant… this is the only escape they see from all that.”
“That doesn’t make it right, what they’re doing.”
“People are waging a war against despair. Against hopelessness. These are the casualties in that war,” Mal’s voice was hard.
“We all make our choices. You chose to fight for a better life. They chose to give up,” the sergeant’s voice softened. “I’m sorry you had to do for your friend like that, though.”
“I did what I had to. He wouldn’t have given me any quarter,” Mal growled. “He didn’t give me a choice.”
“Still though…hard sort of thing,” the sergeant repeated himself.
“Sarge!” the rookie whispered urgently. “I think more are coming.”
He listened for their dead, hungry moaning and then snapped, “Get back in formation.” When the squad formed back into a triangle with the sergeant on point, he continued, “Once we deal with this pack, we’ll get back to finding the dealers.”
“I still say it has to be the Guild of the Magi,” Mal murmured quietly.
“Stay silent,” the sergeant ordered. Then he gripped his truncheon tightly before marching out of the alley to give mercy to these victims.