Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

The rays of dawn had long engulfed the salty city, the people bustled like tiny ants, and the goats bleated with such delight as they roamed across the hill farms, the shepherds tapping their walking stick onto the earth every few steps, whistling and calling for them. It was within a particular district in which the carriages stopped, and though many surrounded the carriages, gilded as they were, they kept a few steps away, and as the figure stepped out, all adorned in their steel, they took another step out. As they almost stepped forward once more, a figure removed her helmet, revealing her wrinkled skin of sanguine, though the tattoo upon her forehead caused them to take two steps back. It was only when they were revealed did the entire group scatter, for though outsiders were not appreciated within this area, it was not as though they courted death.

“My grandfather smelled fucking awful!” came the shout as the group stepped into the restaurant, that which had been formed of rough brick. “He herded goats. Thousands of them. Do you know how bad a thousand goats smell? My father herded those goats too and he smelled fucking awful too.”

The man was large, strongly built, but in the way of a chef, and though his entire body was thick, it was his forearms which were thickest, and he held his cleaver towards the two, each adorned in light chain, carrying blades at their side, and their badges so proudly.

“You know what they said to me? They said, betta, Shamus, you will not herd goats. Whatever you want, you tell us, we will make sure you can do it. I told them I wanted to open up a restaurant, a one silver restaurant. I wanted a family to come and eat for one silver.” It was then the cleaver disappeared under his counter, and though the guards made to speak, they were silenced by the crossbow. “So you can take your two copper hair cut, with your two copper attar, and your two copper boytoy, and get the fuck out of my restaurant, coming in here, threatening me, my family! You bastara! You sons of dogs!”

“Yeah!” shouted the patrons. “Get out of here, sons of dogs!”

“Bastaras!”

“Sons of dogs!”

“Bastaras!”

The heavily armed and armoured guard glanced between the patrons, the chef, and then the newcomers, though whose way was not just of steel, of blood, but of blood and steel, for it was they, tattooed as they were, who glared at them so openly. They stepped away, with one letting out a half shout back, about how they would regret this or some such, but as they walked away, a bolt loosened, and it struck where his foot had been a moment ago, and as the guard turned, the chef was already reloading his crossbow, a face full of red rage, and swiftly the blue cloaks fled.

“We are about to eat the most delicious meals we have ever eaten in our lives,” Adam whispered.

“So you know the way?” Korin replied, flashing a wide smile towards the half elf.

“Akh, I know what I know,” Adam said, holding up a fist, and Korin, taking a moment to remember what he was meant to do, bumped it. It was only then Adam noticed the girl and boy were buried within their greatfather’s chest, who was also ready to cause a mess, and the half elf reached out towards their heads. ‘Oh dear…’

Thankfully, however, the children accepted their father’s affection, and allowed him to carry them away to change them.

“It’s okay,” Adam said, holding up a fist. “They might be able to threaten the guards, but they can’t threaten you.”

“Daddy…” Jirot sniffled, hiding herself within her father’s chest. Little Jarot, too, was buried completely, his entire body cold.

As he returned, with Jarot and Mulrot following after him, he noticed the way the others glanced his way, from the patrons to the workers, and the fool of a father smiled innocently towards them all, and they noted the smile, their eyes swiftly darting away.

“Look,” a cook whispered, motioning their head.

“They have silver, they stay,” replied the chef, who was cutting the garlic with such swiftness, into tiny layers which were as thin as the film of an onion, with such speed it was as though he was letting loose a thousand bolts at once.

Indeed, for though he was more than happy to threaten guards, to threaten Iyrmen, for he assumed the children were so, considering the large number who had arrived, he did not possess the gall of a dragon.

It was then a figure stepped into the restaurant, and though the chef’s eyes darted for a moment, he didn’t stop his cooking, the smell of the food filling the air. The figure was an older man, dark wrinkled skin, his eyes green, his beard white, and though he looked to be in his fifties, it was more than evident he was in his sixties, because he appeared to be in his fifties. He wore a blade at his side, which he undid and placed against the wall, and he approached the corner of the counter, settling himself, his blue cloak reaching the floor.

“Goat rice,” the man said, his voice ashy, low, sick of the world, and though no one seemed to respond to him, a worker brought him a cup of sour goat milk, and then poured him tea, as the fellow awaited, and awaited.

Though there were others waiting for their meal, it was this guard who received his meal first, for goat rice was always prepared within this place, and though he was making other’s foods, the chef paused, and prepared the goat rice, though it seemed mostly of rice, with a single thumbful of goat resting atop the brown mountain.

“I’m sorry about my boys, akh,” the man said, taking a spoon and taking a bite of the rice. “They are new.”

“Are you going to teach them, or will I?”

“I will, akh, I will.”

“Shukhur, if you say you will, what can I do? Betta, make sure to fill Muzafar’s before he goes.”

“Shukhur,” Muzafar replied, not wanting to correct him about calling him his title, for the scar against his shoulder throbbed. As the young man filled in his skin with a liquid of ghost white, he finished his meal quickly, stepping out within minutes, and as he chewed on the goat, he wiped his mouth and reached into his cloak to take out a pipe, filling it with a leaf, and lighting it with a stone.

“You dealt with it, ahm?” called a young man before him, who had dared to reveal himself, he and his three companions, each of whom were heavily armoured, and were barely enough to force the others to think twice about causing them trouble.

“I dealt with it, I dealt with it,” Muzafar replied, taking a puff of his pipe.

“You cut his hair?”

“I will cut you, you with your half beht brain, what did I tell you about causing trouble in this neighbourhood, eh?” He let the smoke escape from his lips as he spoke, pointing towards the young man with his pipe, before leading them away, muttering curses

“I… am a guard.”

“What is her name?” Muzafar asked, pointed towards a woman running a stall selling small cups, as well as small desserts, and sometimes small desserts within the cups.

“Farah?” the young man replied.

“Maria.”

“Maria was my second guess.”

“Do you know who ran that stall before her?”

“Her mother, Farah?”

“Her father, Falex.”

“I was right about the Fa.”

The Muzafar turned, reaching out to grab the young man’s shoulder. “You are in the Tupi district. Keep your head down. Walk your block. Tip your helmet at anyone nodding at you. That’s it.”

“The Tupis, they need to learn.”

An open palm approached the young man slowly. It was so slow he could have dodged it, but he knew if he was to dodge it, he would be in greater trouble. The slap struck his face through his helmet, causing his head to ring, and as the young man stumbled back, Muzafar held his shoulder so he would not fall.

“When in Tupi, you cause no trouble, and they will cause you little trouble. It was that way during my time. It was that way during my father’s time. It was that way my grandfather’s time.”

“Why?”

“We send in youngsters into Tupi, they cause no trouble, and the Tupi will not cause us trouble. The only reason why I can walk in this district is because my father was from here. If I cause trouble, I will get away with a bloody chest. If you cause trouble, he will not miss the next shot, and he will tell me it was my own fault for not teaching you.”

“…” The young man pulled back. “You did not tell me why, ahm.”

“There was a time when the guards were able to play as they wished in Tupi, and then, one day, one of the guards picked the wrong child, and then, just like that,” Muzafar snapped his fingers, “one guard died, so brutally, not even Lord Zaladhin would accept him, and then when the dozen guards appeared causing trouble, blood followed, and then, a fire at the station, and then more blood, and more fire, and then more blood, and then the fires stopped, but not the blood, but this time Lord Zaladhin would not accept twenty more guards before it stopped.”

“…”

“Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Muzafar pat the boy’s cheek. “If you die, what will I say to your mother?”

“…”

PATREON FOR 30+ CHAPTERS!

This kid is going to get himself killed.