Dungeons Are Bad Business

Pressing his paws to his ears, Don “Chub” Curlytail paced back and forth in his fishroom, lamenting the fact that not even here – his most private sanctum – was safe from the shrieking coming up from the bottom floor of the mansion. It was Friarsday, which meant that his youngest son, Niko, was having his violin lessons. Tightening the belt of his white bathrobe – which was made from the finest imported bunnybear fur available, mind you – the kitrekin [Crime Lord] smiled. It was kind of a funny realization, in a frustrating way. Shrug off an attack from [Battle Mages] in the upper thirties to low forties? Sure, not a problem. The fishroom was more than sufficient for such a task.

Provide a measure of peace from the musical monstrosities of a thirteen-year-old kitrekin with no sense of tone or tempo? Look elsewhere.

Sadly, “elsewhere” had long since been exhausted; at least, as far as rooms in the mansion went. He’d have to leave if he wanted to escape the noise, and that wasn’t exactly an option just then.

But still, what noise it was! He’d heard less wailing from people being tortured!

“At least it’s only twice a week,” the don muttered to himself as he gazed into the depths of the aquariums all around the room in an attempt to distract himself from the din with their beauty. And to think, Wessa had wanted three!

He spent the next few minutes appreciating his fish, purring ever so slightly. Filled with species from around the continent – including a few “protected” entities that had been, ahem, brought to him from the Rose Coral Reef deep in the Greatwest Ocean – the fishroom was a place of beauty. It was where he came to brood and plot, relieved from the burdens of his responsibilities.

It was where he could imagine himself to be young and hungry once again.

He found that as he got older and his attention was demanded by more and more things, it became increasingly important to consciously put himself in that headspace, lest he grow fat and content and lose his grip on the territory put in his care by the Little Miss. His own predecessor had fallen prey to that particular trap, and Chub’s claws had been a mercy compared to what the [Matriarch] would have done to him when she’d learned of failures.

Some of his fellows, Chub knew, would rankle at an arrangement like the one he had with the Little Miss, but the former kitrekin [Enforcer] hadn't forgotten the fact that he owed his [Matriarch] everything. If it hadn’t been for her, he would likely still be a [Fishmonger] in the harbor district of New Sally. While Oar’s Crest wasn’t a particularly nice place to live, he had easy access to almost anything he could want.

However, with his life of privilege came unpleasant responsibilities, and it was one of those that had the don wishing for some peace and quiet so that he could think properly. Tension between him and Sacre was rising once again, as it often did, and for the first time in decades, Chub feared that he’d pushed things too far. He feared that he’d made a mistake.

The power in Oar’s Crest was a delicate thing, perpetually balanced on a knife’s edge, with neither Chub nor his rival able to get a real upper hand. When the bandits had been causing trouble, Chub had seen an opportunity, and just like he’d done when he’d been a younger kitrekin, he’d reached out with both paws to take it.

He’d thought to strike a dominant blow, calling in assistance from outside the city with the help of the tunnels beneath Oar’s Crest to hide their arrival. A few had come, and they’d started building up a substantial advantage in the never-ending struggle between the competing factions. Unfortunately, he hadn’t properly accounted for Sacre’s craftiness, nor his ruthlessness – testing such things on his own men! – and now things were starting to spiral out of control.

The quartet of new augmented henchmen that Sacre was throwing around – led by that crazy jerk, Walnut, who was extra terrifying now that he could cover his entire body in a shell that Big Simon could barely crack – were threatening to not just undo all the progress he’d made, they were on the verge of pushing the kitrekins back out of territory they’d held for years. Chub was in danger of losing good businesses that paid steady protection money and offered plenty of nifty little perks that his boys liked to take advantage of.

In simple terms, they were places that he couldn’t afford to lose.

Fortune had turned against him, and if nothing changed, the wheel of Fate would continue rolling forward until he was crushed underneath it entirely.

A discordant trio of notes distracted Chub from his thoughts and he roared, slamming his paw into the armrest of his chair. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the threads of his discordant ideas to congeal properly. They kept scattering away from him, turning to wisps of smoke and light each time he tried to collect them.

More “notes”, more distraction. The don seethed, blaming the violin for all his problems.

Okay, that wasn’t fair. Not really, anyways. It’d been weeks and his well of creativity was coming up dry. Not even the horrid squealing of his son’s attempt to play “The Little Stars That Shine” could claim sole responsibility for his inability to come up with a proper plan.

Chub stood up and traced one of his claws along the side nearest fish tank, smirking at the way the blue-green Mottled Deifish inside followed his movements. If only his life was so simple.

Though, in a way, he supposed it was. Or at least, there were more similarities between his fish and his own position than was comfortable to think about.

The sound of knocking on the door broke Chub out of his melancholy, and Wessa, his third wife opened the door. She was thirty-one – only a handful of years older than his eldest daughter, Monicait – and she beamed at him as she nearly sashayed across the room.

“I think he’s getting better, don’t you?” she said, rubbing Chub’s shoulders as young Niko completely missed the final note of the song.

Don Curlytail shook his head and looked up to give Wessa a kiss. “I’m not so sure about that,” he laughed. “Frankly it’s a miracle that these tanks don’t shatter at the sound of his playing. It might be time to find a different [Tutor], or encourage him to take up boxing instead.”

“It won’t be like this for much longer,” Wessa said. “He should be able to earn [Student Violinist] in another month or two, and then he’ll be much better.”

Chub groaned. “I don’t know if I can survive listening to this for another month. I think those scales are giving me heart palpitations.”

His wife playfully punched his arm. “You’re terrible. He’s not that bad. Regardless, our son’s musical future isn’t why I came up here. You have a visitor downstairs in the study.”

Chub’s whiskers twitched.

“Who is it?”

“Michael Seidon. He says it’s important.”

***

After taking off his bathrobe and putting on something more presentable – a suit of red velvet, custom made by the finest [Tailors] in New Sally – the don made his way down to where the councilman was waiting. He forced himself to smile as he opened the door and stepped inside. Truthfully, he didn’t particularly like Michael Seidon, but there was no denying that the man was instrumental in keeping the peace with Sacre. Given the situation, Chub figured that he could afford to at least hear the councilman out.

Seidon was lounging in one of the sprawling armchairs in the center of the room, and he politely nodded as Chub walked by.

“Pleasure to see you, Curlytail.”

“Councilman,” Chub said magnanimously as he opened the crystal cabinet on the side of the room and drew out a bottle of Hollatang’s Finest Whiskey. “Would you care for a drink? If you’re looking for something besides Hollatang’s, I’ve just got a bottle of Emperor’s Mead in and would love to have someone to share it with.”

The man shook his head and waved away the bottle. “Not today.”

Chub kept his face neutral, but deep down he was surprised. Things must have been serious if they slaked Seidon’s willingness to indulge in a drink. After all, Seidon had never been a man to deny a craving. It was one of his defining features.

Pouring himself a glass of the orange-amber liquid, the don sat down on the other side of his desk and folded his paws together.

“I see,” he said gravely. “In that case, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what it is that brings you here today? I wasn’t expecting to see you for another month, at least.”

Seidon crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward, looking rather solemn, and then said, “You and Sacre are both escalating things beyond my tolerance to look past, though I’m here because you’re the one who started it this time around by bringing outsiders into the city. I’ll be frank. Stop this nonsense at once.”

Chub leaned back, surprised by the councilman’s boldness and direct manner of speaking. Normally, Seidon was the type who spoke in circles around matters, preferring euphemisms and indirect references to straight talk. It was refreshing, but also irritating. He had no desire to send his newest associates away; if anything he needed more of them to counteract Sacre’s augmented henchmen. The Don took a sip of his drink and smiled.

“And how would you propose that I do that?”

Seidon snorted. “The how of the matter is not my problem. That’s for you and Sacre to figure out. I’m simply letting you know that if you two can’t keep innocent people out of your little power struggle, I’ll take my leash off the [City Guards]. You and I both know that their…let’s call it adversarial presence would be bad for business.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “Perhaps you two can get together and hash out some new rules of engagement. A way to minimize collateral damage and keep regular citizens safe. Both of you have expressed a desire to do that wherever possible. Hopefully those weren’t just words. Now of course, I’d be happy to moderate such a discussion, as well as provide a guarantee of safety for you both, should you decide to pursue that route.”

Chub repressed the snarl that was trying to crawl across his lips and forced himself to stay calm. Requesting such a thing from his rival would be no different than admitting that he was losing, and he was not yet willing to admit defeat. He finished the rest of his drink and glared over at the councilman.

“I recognize that expression all too well. I’ll go ahead and take my leave so you can think about things,” Seidon said. “However, I expect this matter to be moving towards a swift resolution in the next week at most.”

Getting up, the councilman left, and Chub managed to keep his cool until he heard Wessa wishing the man farewell and closing the door after he left. Then the kitrekin [Crime Lord] tossed his glass across the room and watched it shatter with savage satisfaction.

He had a week to think of something. A week to figure out how to shift the balance of power so that he was no longer losing ground to Sacre.

A popup appeared before his eyes, and though Chub was embarrassed to realize it, he was surprised by its presence. Like most people, he’d seen fewer and fewer notifications as he’d gotten older – as one’s life settled comfortably in the grooves it’d made, there were fewer and fewer chances for it to grow and develop – and it’d been more than a year since he’d last seen a popup before his eyes.

[You have been given a quest: Reverse your fortunes within the city within the next week. Would you like to accept?]

He did so, reaching a trembling claw up to the blinking icon as slowly as he could so that he could savor the experience of having a notification for just a little longer. There’d been a time he’d been impatient to get rid of them as quickly as he could, but he knew now that he’d been a fool to do so.

[Quest: Reverse your fortunes within the city. Time limit: one week.]

[Dangers: Further loss of territory, subordinate injury or death, bodily harm, loss of position.]

[Reward for completion: Territory reclamation or expansion, enemy injury or death, increased future organizational revenue.]

[Description: Find a way of reversing the decline of your organization’s influence and power within Oar’s Crest before Councilman Seidon steps in.]

Don Curlytail reached up and stroked his chin, purring at the pleasant sensation in his fur. The recent conflicts with Sacre’s augmented henchmen had gone poorly because his boys had been evenly matched in terms of numbers. He needed to find a way to pull his rival’s attention in more directions than the man could reasonably handle. Make him spend time, money, and manpower on things that weren’t the don’s territory.

That was how he could buy himself some breathing room and figure out a more permanent solution to the augmented henchmen.

An idea struck him, and Chub smiled his wickedest smile. Reaching down and opening the hidden drawer under his desk, the [Crime Lord] drew out a small pendant and pressed his claw against it.

“Roller, come up to my office. I’ve got a job for you and those little mud golems of yours. Your days of petty theft and minor mischief are over.”

The kitrekin’s greasy voice crackled as it came through the crystal.

“Purrrrfect, boss. I’ve been waiting for my chance to do such a thing.”

Don "Chub" Curlytail's Character Sheet:

Don “Chub” Curlytail

Primary Class: Crime Lord, (Little Miss), Level 45

Secondary Class: Boxer, (Wicker’s Gym), Level 41

Tertiary Class: Ruthless Leader (Self), Level 40

Additional Class: Footpad (Smoky Whitesock), Level 26

Additional Class: Loving Husband (Wessa Curlytail), Level 16

Additional Class: Thief (Smoky Whitesock), Level 15

Additional Class: Back Alley Brawler (Smoky Whitesock), Level 10

Additional Class: Fishmonger (New Sally Dock Deliveries), Level 3

Additional Class: Starry-Eyed-Youth-With-Something-To-Prove (Self,), Level 1

Might: 90

Wit: 110

Faith: 37

Ambition: 89

Greed: 102

Ruthlessness: 76

Charisma: 80

Devious Mind: 60

Manipulativeness: 59

Plotting: 65

Endurance: 33* (reduced by Elderly)

Patience: 44

Pride: 70

Loyalty: 81

Deceptiveness: 53

Leadership: 74

Citizenship: 2