Onzell Company Mercenaries

As Vaster’s shoes hit the damp stone pavement, his eyes darted towards a woman on the other side of the landing wearing a wide-brimmed black hat with gold trim, part of the Onzell Company mercenary uniform. Two diagonal stripes denoting the rank of captain were embossed on the front of the hat. Under the brim, Vaster could see a leather eyepatch over her right eye. She stood in front of a food cart near the stairwell with a musket decorated with geometric Rodinian-style ornamentation wedged between the cart and the hook of her prosthetic right hand. She gnawed on a dripping skewer of unidentifiable grilled meat held in her left hand. Smoke from the unlicensed cart kept the landing engulfed in a white cloud that stunk of burning flesh, the smoke blown around by an unbalanced ventilation fan overhead that clunked and groaned every few arcseconds. Getting a whiff of charred skin through the scarf over his face, Vaster threw up in the back of his throat and choked the vomit back down.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The female mercenary captain from earlier, with grease and bits of chewed meat clinging to the corners of her mouth, turned without looking and nearly walked into Vaster.

Vaster nodded to her and kept on walking.

“What are you doing in a slum like this?”

“I live here.” Vaster turned around as his heart flopped in his chest. “I could ask you the same question. What’s an Onzell Company captain doing patrolling the undercity?”

“Waiting for the next war to break out on the continent.” She raised the brim of her hat, exposing an unrecognizable housemark embossed on her eyepatch. “You’re dressed awfully nice for someone who lives around here.”

Vaster faked a smile behind his mask. “I’m thrifty.”

“Do you recognize her?” The captain pointed the barrel of her musket at the girl in the street, who was lying face down in a pool of blood as another mercenary—a large Zeelean man with a white beard—bound her wrists behind her back.

Vaster faked a laugh as he felt another palpitation. “Not sure anybody could at this point.”

The captain laughed as she turned and pointed the musket at Vaster’s chest. “That’s some mouth you’ve got hiding under that ugly scarf!”

Vaster stared down the barrel of the gun as his heart flopped around in his chest. “How do you load and fire a musket with only one hand?”

“Keep on disrespecting me and I’ll show you.”

The captain pointed her hook at Vaster again. “Basco.”

Another mercenary, a slender, tanned man with a housemark tattooed on his cheek and a Seven Sword brand cigarette dangling from his lip, reached out and grabbed the scarf and pulled it down past Vaster’s chin. Vaster coughed as wet smoke hit his airways.

Basco yanked on the scarf, leading Vaster closer to the girl. “Yeah, take a closer look, pal. Wouldn’t want a case of mistaken identity on our hands, now, would we?”

After a few steps, Basco released Vaster. The captain nodded to the Zeelean mercenary, who pulled the semi-conscious girl’s head up from the pavement by the hair.

“Sure you don’t recognize her, pal? Not one of your friendly neighbors down here?”

Vaster took a step closer and leaned down towards the girl’s body, feeling his sweat soaking into the chest and back of his undershirt, making it stick to his skin. He squinted, pretending to scrutinize the bloody, swollen face lit by orange arclight.

“Never seen her before in my life,” Vaster lied. “What did she do?”

“Caught her with some hullgill.” The Zeelean mercenary released his grip on the girl’s hair, her face slamming against the bloody pavement with a wet crunch. “Won’t give up the name of her dealer.”

Vaster pulled his scarf back up over his mouth and nose with a shaky hand. “Maybe try asking nicely next time.”

The captain glared at Vaster from under her hat.

“And you? Holding onto any special souvenirs from the undercity?”

Vaster trembled as he pulled out a pack of Maida Special cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “Just these,” he lied.

Basco’s eyes widened as he stared at the cigarette pack in Vaster’s shaky hand. “Pretty good taste in smokes you’ve got there, pal. Reminds me of home.”

The captain nudged Basco in the side with the butt of her musket. “If he bought them down there, they’re probably counterfeit, dumbass.”

Vaster shrugged. “Everything’s fake down here.”

Basco took a nearly empty pack of Seven Sword cigarettes from his pants pocket. “Looks like I’m almost out, too. Maybe my new pal can save me another trip down there.” He looked at Vaster and grinned.

Vaster smirked back under his scarf. “Do you need matches, too?”

Basco nodded. Vaster fished a matchbook out of his pants pocket and handed it to him, along with the cigarette pack.

“These look genuine to me. Our new pal must have a good hookup down there.” Basco opened the pack and handed it to the captain, who examined it, somehow managing to pull a cigarette out with the tip of her hook.

She held up the cigarette and scrutinized it under the orange arclight. “Or it’s just a fake.” She pointed her hook, the cigarette still speared on its tip, at the Zeelean mercenary. “Ranulf? Gonna weigh in on this?”

Ranulf laughed. “Not a smoker.”

The captain handed the cigarette back to Basco. “Same. Trying to keep what’s left of me in good shape.”

Basco pulled the cigarette from the Captain’s hook and laughed. “What? All that greasy, burned meat you scarf down every arc keeps you in good shape?”

The captain nudged Basco in the side with the butt of her musket again. “I’ll have you know that grilled meggidda belly is an Orran delicacy!”

Ranulf scoffed and turned to inspect their unconscious captive. “Staying out of this one.”