Dinadan Noir VIII: Firefight

I dunno how I keep ending up in dark warehouses, waiting for something shady to go down. But it seems to be a professional obligation. There I was, huddled up against the wall of an Igneous storehouse, feeling keenly that I was one of the few living souls on that blasted chunk of rock. The whole thing reeked of a set-up, but the warehouse smelled more like mushroom spirits. The fumes were doing pleasant things to my head.

Not for the first time, I wondered why I’d even gotten into this mess. Arbonne had been pretty, for sure, but crustaceans were hardly my delicacy of choice. The murder was ugly, yeah, but I’d seen a Gifted One’s share of death, and furthermore there were proper sentinels on the case. The smart thing would have been to hand the statue over to the Guild and let Carnely or Foil or somebody else sort it out. But sometimes smart doesn’t cut it. Or something. So here I was, idiotically loitering in a warehouse I’d broken into on the advice of a pretty girl who’d drugged my drink. Somebody was going to show up, probably with murder in mind, and I was betting that I could not only survive, but get some information out of the experience.

Might’ve been the fumes, but I was having a pretty good time.

There’s only so much a goat can do in the adventuring line of work, and while it’s plenty dangerous, there’s seldom anything personal about it. Fight the bad guys, take their stuff, wash, rinse, repeat. The detective business is more like a game. The problem with Family business is that I wasn’t too keen on the rules. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was playing with Damini, either, but I wasn’t about to leave that table, either. Like I said, good times.

He showed up without me noticing him. One point for the baddy. But I spotted him before he got close. I could tell he was packing heat; a flame fundamental flickered in his left hand.
Pyromancers I can deal with. But pyromantic alchemists in a warehouse full of combustibles? Fool’s odds. Especially when said alchemist is gnome who’s been singed clean of hair and looks just as happy to be roasted as to do the roasting.

“Evening, master gnome. You here for the conference?”

“Tell Aagren we’re sorry he couldn’t make it!” he cackled, and loosed a ray of fire. Hit me, too. Hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t go down that easy.

“Damn, don’t you know how hard it is to get the smell of burnt hair out of silk?” I coughed, ducking behind a pillar. I was glad that stone was so abundant on Crypt. I wouldn’t have trusted the kind of rickety wooden supports they used just about everywhere else. Regardless, the gnome sent more fire roping towards me. The pillar started to get warm.

“I don’t suppose,” I shouted over the crackle, “that you’d be so kind as to tell me what this is about?”

Nobody appreciates refined conversation anymore. I pulled out my panpipes and ducked out long enough to send a sonic burst his way. The fire stopped, but I lost sight of him when I dashed for new cover, screeching as I went. Now, the kind of screech I make when I want to hurt somebody, it makes fingers on a slate sound like the mellowest elven lute. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and somewhere, my keen ears picked up a distinct groan. The smell of spirits got stronger. Broken glass, spilled liquor, fire, and me with burns all over my chest. This was getting better all the time. I took advantage of the lull to do a quick patch job on the burns, fortified myself with a bit of bardic magic, then poked my head out.

There he was.

I sent some nasty noise his way to encourage him to keep his head down as I fished an intact bottle out of a broken crate. Because I was enjoying myself, I took a swig. Gods, it was nasty. The dwarves who moved to Welstar, now they make some damn fine ale. Limit their resources to mushrooms, and this was the swill you got. Strong enough to knock out a titan, foul enough to make a slaad retch. Put some fire in the belly, though. Of a sort more pleasant than the stuff the gnome was throwing at me. Again. Time to chalk this little foray up as a loss. I came out from behind the pillar with panpipes whistling destruction. When the gnome caught his footing and threw more fire at me, I threw the bottle at him.

It broke satisfyingly at his feet. More satisfyingly, the volatile stuff splashed all over the gnome and promptly ignited. I’d expected him to stop throwing fire when that happened. Alas, poor alchemist…his aim just got real bad. He sent fiery rays all over the place. Isolated fires were about to become a conflagration was about to become an explosion. That was my cue.

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

[—*—]

I didn’t spend long at the Wench…just enough time to finish mending my burns and find a clean shirt. Damini had plenty to answer for, and I hoofed it back to my place in a hurry.
She’d slipped the ropes…cut them, actually. I wondered if she’d hidden a blade in her hair or some such. There wasn’t anything missing, though, not even the hideous monkey statue Arbonne had given me. I checked thoroughly, even the few hidey holes that I kept. She hadn’t taken a damn thing.

Check that. She’d taken the firewine, curse her black heart. Now I was really going to have to find her.