Derek Steadyfingers

Derek Steadyfingers (born Dereque Kel’Nestessir) held the last of the highwaymen who attempted to accost him by his shirt collar with the fist of his left hand. He lifted the beaten, bleeding man from the dirt of the dusty road just enough so that his back no longer touched the ground. The man remained motionless as Derek stood, straddling his torso, though he was clearly still alive. His eyes lolled in his head like marbles in a child’s palm. The broken flesh of his lips told the tale of the encounter they had with Derek’s right fist. A tale that was not yet finished being told. 

Thunk! The sound of Derek’s right fist upon the highwayman’s mouth again. His head snapped back for a moment before returning to its original position. More blood upon his lips to wet the crust that had dried there in the moments leading to this latest blow.

“Who sent you?” Derek screamed. Uncontrollable anger was not usually part of Derek Steadyfinger’s emotional repertoire but the elf was finding it extremely difficult after this most recent attack. He knew he was being followed, sensed it days ago, but could not understand who or why at this time. He was a rogue after all, it could be anybody, but Derek was the most careful of his kind, and in over a hundred and fifty years, had never been captured or arrested. Barely a housemaiden had been awakened from slumber during his tenure as a common house-burglar and since he had gotten himself in the jewel trade, well, let’s just say perfect might seem like hubris, but what of hubris if such brash sensibilities about oneself turned out to be true?

Yes, Derek would consider himself the perfect thief, if he considered himself a thief at all. Instead, Derek liked the word rogue and considered himself a freelance procurer of all things shiny and pretty. Offering those things procured back at a considerable markdown from their original prices, and oftentimes even to their original owner. Derek wasn’t particular about such things, and always liked to see a happy customer after all.

“Piss… off…” Was the whispered, blood mist response from the road agent.

“Wrong answer.” Another punch from Derek’s calloused right fist. The highwayman’s lower lip split almost completely to the upper part of his beard. More blood, far more than before and the eye lolling had gotten worse as well. Derek didn’t have much time.

“Now, I’m going to ask you again, and if you don’t tell me what I want to hear I’m going to have to punch you again.” His voice was calmer, more reasonable than before. More, Derek.

The raider closed his eyes slowly; the lids were as horizontal stage curtains at the close of a romantic tragedy. He wasn’t going to live much longer.

Derek reached for one of the arrows he had fired into the highwayman’s thigh, an admittedly errant shot that should have been fatal, and would have been, had Derek not been outnumbered and been forced to fire so quickly and so often. He twisted the arrow as he grasped it. The effect it had was exactly as desired as the highwayman’s eyes snapped back open, a quick scream emanated from his bleeding mouth and he inhaled sharply, presumably to scream again but Derek muffled whatever would have come next with an open palm.

“Shh, tell me friend… and I will ease your suffering.” His voice was gentle, a soft whisper on the summer breeze.

The road agent’s breath slowed, became raspy as death approached. His eyes remained open through some miracle, the color had run completely from his lips and sweating face as more blood drained from the wounds he had received. Wishing the pain to end, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Drahg… drago…” His whisper was barely audible though Derek’s face was only inches away.

“Dragons?” Derek shook the dying man at his collar. “What of ‘dragons’? I know of no dragons! I’ve never been within miles of one that I know of.”

The man’s eyes began to close again, the death-sleep had begun to overtake him, he would be dead in moments.

“No, no! Not yet.” Derek shook him again and reached for the arrow shaft once more, though he thought it would do little good this time. As if the highwayman could sense the motion and direction of Steadyfinger’s hand his eyes snapped open once more before Derek’s hand made contact. The elf stayed his palm just short of contact and leaned closer for what he expected to be the man’s last words.

“Drahgov… Drahgov… vin.” The word must have been a name, or perhaps it was nonsense. Either way Derek Steadyfinger’s, an elf nearly two-hundred and twenty five years old, had never heard it before.

“Drahguvvin.” Softly, Derek repeated the word to himself.

The man’s chest rattled and he coughed a spot of dark-red blood that spilled over the corners of his mouth and further stained his road-filthy shirt, a portion of it pooled in the split of his lip that Steadyfinger’s fist had made. He wheezed again as his chest rattled for the last time. His body become limp, moreso than before to Derek’s amazement. When the wheeze stopped, Derek let go of the highwayman’s collar nonchalantly and his torso fell to the ground, his neck whipped back as his lifeless skull cracked heavily upon the gravel road.

The elf stood, believing himself no closer to realizing who wanted him dead than before. He set about reclaiming what he could from the wreckage of battle; his rapier, his longbow, a dagger and any spent arrows that could possibly be loosed again. Once he had gathered all of his own belongings he dared enough time to loot the corpses of the dead, four in all, for any clue to what had brought on this disorganized ambush. He found nothing of a clue, but the 37 pieces of gold and near one hundred silver pieces he did find seemed a pittance for the work he’d done here today. He checked the saddlebags of the horses they had rode in on, pilfered what food he found agreeable as well as their waterskins and, after seriously considering taking the horses and selling them in Goodale, the small city that this road he was traveling on led to, he opted for speed instead and besides; why risk adding Horse Thievery to the list of things that could be attributed the elf if one were ever fortunate enough to take him into custody?

Instead he slapped the three surviving horses each on their rears and sent them in opposite directions, hoping to confuse any who still followed him. He then dragged the corpses of his attackers to the side of the road, propped all four dead men against the underside of the dead horse who lay there along its left flank. As he stood back to admire his work, Steadyfingers found that they comically resembled drunken companions awaiting a chartered wagon. Derek expected whoever hired these sloppy highwaymen to come through this area soon enough and he hoped the discovery of this display would have one of two desired effects: It would either discourage this “Drahguvvin” from pursuing him further or it would convince him to employ higher caliber, better equipped agents. Derek hoped for the former, but the latter would provide him with better equipment to loot, as well as more coin to take from their corpses once he bested them.

Derek always tried to find the silver lining in every cloud.

Once finished with admiring his handiwork the young elf took to the saddle of his own horse, a four year old reddish-brown stallion he called Lightpurse. He gave the steed a gentle urging with his spurs and slapped the reigns as he spoke in elven, directing the horse back toward the South. Dust swirled up behind mount and rider as they trailed away from the mess that Derek left behind; a mess that would intrigue more than anger the man responsible for the attack. As intriguing as he found Steadyfingers’ methods in dispatching his hired men, or the bravado in which he displayed their corpses once dispatched, he would do neither of the things Derek had expected. Instead he would continue as planned. He would have Faramin, his Goodale puppet, make certain to select the elf when choosing the next raiding party just as he had arranged all the others to be selected to this point. If the road agents couldn’t kill him, then Raylock the mage would.

Raylock had been wildly successful up to this point and the mage was turning out to be more efficient than he’d ever expected, lasting much longer and ending the careers of far more ”heroes” than he ever expected his gold to pay for. Yes, if Raylock was expected to live much longer, Dragoven might find a place for him in his new kingdom. But alas, he was not, so he would not.

Lightpurse made the distance between the site of Derek’s ambush and the town of Goodale with little discernible effort. He negotiated the rolling hills and Once again, Derek found reason to be proud of his companion and even prouder of himself for having the good sense to procure him when he did. He saw potential in the steed at the time, despite having little actual equine experience or knowledge, and leapt at the chance to take him when the opportunity presented itself.

Coming into town, a smallish, though busy village of mostly human population, Derek inhaled the robust aroma of the malted hops and barley for which the town of Goodale was famous for. Unlike many elves, Derek enjoyed the odd pint of stout here and there and looked forward to enjoying one before the business at hand was to begin. Unfortunately, that pint wouldn’t be had today as Faramin’s lineup, for which he was expected at Highsun, would be taking place only moments from now and Derek needed to find a place to hitch Lightpurse. He grimaced as he dismounted, looking to the sky before leading his mount to a fairly clean-looking stable. The clouds were growing thicker and darker, and Derek thanked Sanastarus, a deity whom he usually had little to say to these last hundred and fifty years, for holding off on the coming storm until now. Not wanting to believe that the bandits he overcame just hours ago would have had any more success under the cover of cloud and rain, but grateful not to have had to find out, regardless.

After hitching Lightpurse at the stable, the name of which was already escaping him, he set out to the town square six silver pieces lighter, an expensive sum even for a large city. Derek made a mental note to visit the stablebuck later in order to recoup his lost coin, but now wasn’t the time to risk being caught.

“Not that I’ve anything to fear in that regard.” Derek, smiling, whispered to himself.

Moving deftly through the bustling streets Derek saw the town square, an ornate, heavily flowered area, several hundred feet ahead of him. He eyed who he believed to be Lord Faramin, a man of average stature with short brown hair graying at the ears flanked by two uniformed guards. Near them, a young brightly silver-haired elf stood in front of a dozen or so armored warriors, mostly human. A second, red-haired elf stood a step and a half behind him, occasionally offering counsel, his arms folded across his narrow chest as he leaned in to whisper his advice or observations.

I’m late. Derek thought to himself as he absently put a finger to his split lower lip. Though I do have a good excuse if they decide to inquire.

He frowned at this though internally he was grateful that an elf (or pair of elves) seemingly held some sway in choosing the next group to deal with Faramin’s great matter. Breaking through the line of onlookers now Derek moved to join the lineup, he looked up in time to see a red-headed dwarf, one who apparently already dipped into a fair share of ale this morning, waddle his way to the opposite end of the line that he was about to bookend.

No way that one gets picked. Derek Steadyfingers thought to himself. The silver-haired elf glanced at the dwarf and frowned noticeably in response to his tardiness and apparent lack of sobriety. He seemed not to notice Derek, or if he did, didn’t seem to care. This was a double-standard that Steadyfingers could certainly support and, not surprisingly, he felt no sympathy for the dwarf.

The silver-haired elf opened his mouth to speak.

It was then that the rain came.