05-03-2016, 12:48 PM
Paul did not have to wait long, as his entrance and what he’d paid for his drinks with, had been designed to attract the sort of attention that he sought. Paul had only drank half of the glass before him before the sounds of jack boots on wood could be heard piling up stairs and spilling onto the floor.
“I count eight my Duke. Are you sure this is wise?” Gurney asked, not so much nervous as annoyed at the attention their normally stealthy little band had attracted. There was power in secrecy and when their band consisted of a Duke and two of his most loyal military men living on the outskirts of society- there wasn’t anyone with loose lips.
“Eight will do Gurney. Anything less and Paul won’t have the attention he needs. There are power in numbers.” Duncan said sagaciously, though he was easily 20 years Gurney’s junior. The older man crossed his arms at this and tipped back in his chair roughly.
“I still don’t like it Master Paul.”
Paul did not speak, he simply continued to drink his water peaceably while the eight men surrounded his little table in the corner. He looked up, flashing his blue within blue eyes of Spice addiction. There were seven guard, men wearing sandy military armor from a period at least comparable to his. They were wearing low-grade mechanized armor of some sort and even he could see that half the piece that should have moved were so clogged with sand that even an acid bath would do more harm than good at this point. So- they were for show. The final man was in some kind of mockery of finery. He wore a suit, but it was threadbare and dust caked. It might have, at one point, been someone’s pride and joy but now was more or less trash. More to the point it was thick trash, black in color, which was arguably the least practical sort of trash to wear in the desert. The fact that this man was wearing such impractical clothing meant that he had the money to supplement it and the level of authority where no one would question him about it. He was wearing it for show too. Good to know he was playing chess with amateurs.
“This your ring dirt-rat?” The pudgy ork in the threadbare suit asked, a gold ring with a small crest upon it between his sausage-like fingers. There was hatred in his eyes and malice in his heart- of this Paul was sure. Still, the adopted Fremen simply sipped at his water, appraising the ork in a casual way. It was a bit funny to Paul. His Fremen name, Muad'Dib was actually the name of a small desert kangaroo mouse on the planet Arrakis.
“LISTEN UP SHITHEAD! I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!”
Paul didn’t move even as the Ork put his tusks inches from his face. His breath was hot and potent- the vile stench of old carrion invading his nostrils. Still, Paul remained motionless.
“I think it was you who paid with this! And you know who that belonged to?! Red rodger! A man I hired to kill a sorry pile of lies and failure named Muad’dib! Now I haven’t heard from him in a few days and that makes me think he ain’t breathing anymore... you have anything to do with that?”
The ork in the suit’s voice got real soft and even closer. When Paul didn’t react, just taking another sip of his water with a slow smile on his face the ork snatched the glass from his, spit a hunk of discolored yellow phlegm in it, and slammed it back down on the table in pure rage.
The glass slamming on the table was like a race pistol going off. Paul blurred, using the weirding way, knocking two of the mechanized guards to the ground before slipping his crysknife from his sash and wrapping it around the ork’s massive head. At the same time, moving on some unspoken signal Gurney rendered two other men unconscious with a brutal leap that drove them to the ground. Duncan, graceful as ever, drew his pulse sword and disabled the mechanized armor of the remaining 4 guards- a talent his weapon was designed to do- watching them slump to the ground under their weight.
Paul still did not speak, simply keeping the dagger under the large ork’s- against the flesh of his neck. The ork swallowed hard, the razor sharp crysknife nicking the skin and drawing a bit of blood.
“I am a shadow in the desert. If you stand under me I will provide you with shade. If you try to run from me, you will find that I am the shadow of a great bird- one that will rend your flesh from your bones before I move on to cast my shadow upon another.”
The line was somewhat cryptic and more than a little poetic. He was playing to the ork’s sense of self-importance. He obviously felt that he was a proud, intelligent, man (creature) of high class. He’d hired the best guards (best he could) and got the best dress (best he could). He was weak though. The ork smirked.
“Well then humie. I better be staying in the shadow. What can I do fer you?”
Paul’s face was still cold. Somewhere behind him Gurney delivered another savage blow to the head of a guard who had thought it wise to try to sit up. The bar had emptied rather quickly as soon as the skirmish had finished.
“I want to know about the stars.”
‘Stars? There are plenty of them. Which one Mr. Shadow-in-the-desert?” The ork laughed.
“The one that fell from the sky.”
“Oh THAT star. Never seen it me-self.” The ork was begining to enjoy this. Paul couldn’t have that. He used voice on his next line.
“You will tell me what you know about the star that fell from the sky.”
The ork’s body went a bit rigid. Gurney stiffened. He didn’t like the witch-tricks his mother had taught Paul, he found it unnatural and didn’t like when Paul used them.
“The only thing I know is that there is a price on information about it. It’s a Empire contract. They have a garrison of Imperial soldiers in Carrefore. I was going to nab a few of them and see what they had on it so I could re-sell the information to people like you.”
He had sung like a bird. He had no will power. Even a regular man would have been able to resist him a LITTLE. This was just embarrassing for him and it showed on the ork’s face. Paul release him, but gave him one final command.
“Turn yourself in. Confess everything to the Sheriff.”
The Duke of House Atreides demanded, his bene gesserit use of voice was harsh and demanding- playing with the inflections to make the ork do what he wanted. The ork nodded and scuttled off, stumbling as he went, like he was being chased by a dog. Paul had scoped this place out before. It was more or less on the level, if you didn’t count the child slavery ring. They had hit their convoy yesterday. This was just the prize water from the dead.
“Duncan. Gurney. We are headed to Carrefore. Prepare to ride.”
“Never liked those Worms...” Duncan said with an uneasy look back over his shoulder at the guards.
“I count eight my Duke. Are you sure this is wise?” Gurney asked, not so much nervous as annoyed at the attention their normally stealthy little band had attracted. There was power in secrecy and when their band consisted of a Duke and two of his most loyal military men living on the outskirts of society- there wasn’t anyone with loose lips.
“Eight will do Gurney. Anything less and Paul won’t have the attention he needs. There are power in numbers.” Duncan said sagaciously, though he was easily 20 years Gurney’s junior. The older man crossed his arms at this and tipped back in his chair roughly.
“I still don’t like it Master Paul.”
Paul did not speak, he simply continued to drink his water peaceably while the eight men surrounded his little table in the corner. He looked up, flashing his blue within blue eyes of Spice addiction. There were seven guard, men wearing sandy military armor from a period at least comparable to his. They were wearing low-grade mechanized armor of some sort and even he could see that half the piece that should have moved were so clogged with sand that even an acid bath would do more harm than good at this point. So- they were for show. The final man was in some kind of mockery of finery. He wore a suit, but it was threadbare and dust caked. It might have, at one point, been someone’s pride and joy but now was more or less trash. More to the point it was thick trash, black in color, which was arguably the least practical sort of trash to wear in the desert. The fact that this man was wearing such impractical clothing meant that he had the money to supplement it and the level of authority where no one would question him about it. He was wearing it for show too. Good to know he was playing chess with amateurs.
“This your ring dirt-rat?” The pudgy ork in the threadbare suit asked, a gold ring with a small crest upon it between his sausage-like fingers. There was hatred in his eyes and malice in his heart- of this Paul was sure. Still, the adopted Fremen simply sipped at his water, appraising the ork in a casual way. It was a bit funny to Paul. His Fremen name, Muad'Dib was actually the name of a small desert kangaroo mouse on the planet Arrakis.
“LISTEN UP SHITHEAD! I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!”
Paul didn’t move even as the Ork put his tusks inches from his face. His breath was hot and potent- the vile stench of old carrion invading his nostrils. Still, Paul remained motionless.
“I think it was you who paid with this! And you know who that belonged to?! Red rodger! A man I hired to kill a sorry pile of lies and failure named Muad’dib! Now I haven’t heard from him in a few days and that makes me think he ain’t breathing anymore... you have anything to do with that?”
The ork in the suit’s voice got real soft and even closer. When Paul didn’t react, just taking another sip of his water with a slow smile on his face the ork snatched the glass from his, spit a hunk of discolored yellow phlegm in it, and slammed it back down on the table in pure rage.
The glass slamming on the table was like a race pistol going off. Paul blurred, using the weirding way, knocking two of the mechanized guards to the ground before slipping his crysknife from his sash and wrapping it around the ork’s massive head. At the same time, moving on some unspoken signal Gurney rendered two other men unconscious with a brutal leap that drove them to the ground. Duncan, graceful as ever, drew his pulse sword and disabled the mechanized armor of the remaining 4 guards- a talent his weapon was designed to do- watching them slump to the ground under their weight.
Paul still did not speak, simply keeping the dagger under the large ork’s- against the flesh of his neck. The ork swallowed hard, the razor sharp crysknife nicking the skin and drawing a bit of blood.
“I am a shadow in the desert. If you stand under me I will provide you with shade. If you try to run from me, you will find that I am the shadow of a great bird- one that will rend your flesh from your bones before I move on to cast my shadow upon another.”
The line was somewhat cryptic and more than a little poetic. He was playing to the ork’s sense of self-importance. He obviously felt that he was a proud, intelligent, man (creature) of high class. He’d hired the best guards (best he could) and got the best dress (best he could). He was weak though. The ork smirked.
“Well then humie. I better be staying in the shadow. What can I do fer you?”
Paul’s face was still cold. Somewhere behind him Gurney delivered another savage blow to the head of a guard who had thought it wise to try to sit up. The bar had emptied rather quickly as soon as the skirmish had finished.
“I want to know about the stars.”
‘Stars? There are plenty of them. Which one Mr. Shadow-in-the-desert?” The ork laughed.
“The one that fell from the sky.”
“Oh THAT star. Never seen it me-self.” The ork was begining to enjoy this. Paul couldn’t have that. He used voice on his next line.
“You will tell me what you know about the star that fell from the sky.”
The ork’s body went a bit rigid. Gurney stiffened. He didn’t like the witch-tricks his mother had taught Paul, he found it unnatural and didn’t like when Paul used them.
“The only thing I know is that there is a price on information about it. It’s a Empire contract. They have a garrison of Imperial soldiers in Carrefore. I was going to nab a few of them and see what they had on it so I could re-sell the information to people like you.”
He had sung like a bird. He had no will power. Even a regular man would have been able to resist him a LITTLE. This was just embarrassing for him and it showed on the ork’s face. Paul release him, but gave him one final command.
“Turn yourself in. Confess everything to the Sheriff.”
The Duke of House Atreides demanded, his bene gesserit use of voice was harsh and demanding- playing with the inflections to make the ork do what he wanted. The ork nodded and scuttled off, stumbling as he went, like he was being chased by a dog. Paul had scoped this place out before. It was more or less on the level, if you didn’t count the child slavery ring. They had hit their convoy yesterday. This was just the prize water from the dead.
“Duncan. Gurney. We are headed to Carrefore. Prepare to ride.”
“Never liked those Worms...” Duncan said with an uneasy look back over his shoulder at the guards.
![[Image: AXsJ8wI.png]](http://i.imgur.com/AXsJ8wI.png)