Brick
Posted: Wed Aug 17, 2022 5:20 pm
Brick. That is what they who found me have always called me.
I have no name. I have no past. No origin. A small gang of petty Calimport criminals found me when I was a teenager. At least I think now that I must have been a teenager. I have no memory of before that time.
Brick.
An ugly, bumpy homunculus of a person, barely a person at all. But I was strong, and tough, so they saw potential in me, took me in. Called me Brick. It was funny to them, at first, but then it just became what I was called.
They made me one of them. Taught me their ways. Taught me to rob and murder. We would watch taverns at night, watch the punters leave. Follow any who seemed vulnerable. Or rich. Or both. Corner the mark in an alley. If the mark didn't give up the goods, down would come my fist upon their heads. Their coin would spill onto the cobbles along with their brains. That was how I survived. I am neither proud nor ashamed. The gang used me for their profit, but I was using them to survive, for food and shelter and clothing and protection from the law. A case of mutual use with neither side caring for or respecting the other... except for one.
Djamila was our leader Samir's..... I hesitate to use the term concubine because she deserves better than that epithet, but she was using Samir for protection and survival while he used her for her body. She would mend and repair our clothing, cook our meals. She was like what I have come to understand mothers are usually like, though she was younger than most of us, just a teenager herself. But the gang was the only thing any of us had that remotely resembled a family and because none of us were very enlightened in our perceptions of gender roles she became the default "mother". I don't think she would have done what we did for money if we'd asked her to. She was too gentle.
She alone would take an interest in what I thought, what I felt. She would talk to me about her dream of one day being a baker, having her own little shop where she made and sold tea and cakes, like she'd seen posh people have. She'd ask me if I ever wanted to escape from this life, take what little coin and possessions Samir allowed me to have and leave. I did. I wanted that very much. I wanted to make my way in the world as a legitimate soldier. Or sword for hire. Facing worthy, sober opponents in fair battle. Honourable. Decent. Noble. A contractor who kept his promise to vanquish this enemy or protect that property, or die trying. She asked me one night why I didn't just do it. Didn't just go. I couldn't tell her that she was the reason I couldn't yet go.
Every time Samir used her I died a little inside. But she had given herself to him willingly. That was her choice. I knew she did not love him, and that he was incapable of love, but the arrangement was made. The pact sealed. She could walk wherever she pleased and not fear that other men would take from her what Samir took; She was Samir's girl and everyone knew that. His power kept her safe where other girls would become victims. She got food, shelter, clothing, some coin, and I could offer her none of that. If I challenged Samir's rule in order to take his girl, I would either die or I would become a new leader that every other gang leader would want to test, want to push. Neither would benefit Djamila. If I failed and Samir suspected my motive she would be beaten, or worse, by Samir. If I won then her protection would vanish until I had time to sufficiently establish my own reputation. My only hope was to earn enough to take her away with me immediately after I killed him. So I kept my silence. And waited. And saved.
It's hard to save money when you're a common thief. Most spend their coin as fast as they can steal it. Drink. Drugs. Gambling. Anything to gain a little, fleeting pleasure to escape from the unending brutality of your existence. It was easier for me, though. I was strange-looking enough, even for a genasi, that my drinking very little and gambling not at all didn't seem any stranger. I had a little bolt-hole I dug under my bedroll. Every early morning, while most slept off whatever indulgences they'd had in the night, I would quietly slip coins into it. Saving up. Waiting for the time when I could afford passage for two for somewhere far away. Then I could finally kill Samir and take Djamila away where she would be safe.
By the way, by now you're probably supposing that I assumed she loved me. I know she did not. That didn't matter. I loved her and I needed her to be safe, and I knew that with Samir dead and a ticket to someplace where she could start over, somewhere no one knew what she had been in order to survive, she would go. And that would have been enough for me. I would not have demanded the sort of arrangement Samir did. It would have been enough for me to destroy the one person who might possibly have pursued her out of a sense of ownership and for me to take her away and start her in a little shop of her own. Just like she always dreamed. It would have been enough for me if I had made her safe. She's safe now, though. No one will ever hurt her again.
One day Samir had given me the coin to go out and fetch a fresh barrel of beer. It wasn't unusual, I was the only one who didn't need help carrying it. When I got back I walked in to find a crossbow pointed at me, Samir standing astride my over-turned bedroll with my not-so-little cache at his feet and the entire gang forming a semi-circle behind him. He demanded to know what I was saving up for. Was I too good for them? Was I trying to leave? Why would I leave the "family" when everything we all needed depended upon all of us doing our part? Had I been taking more than my share in order to save this much? I of course knew that he foresaw a steep decline in profits when I left and that's what was really making him angry. Others had left before; tried going straight or got arrested or went to other gangs, and there had never been much fuss. Until it was me. Until it was Brick. Brick the Scary-to-all-the-marks. Brick the useful.
I didn't see any point in lying, though. I had never been any good at it anyway. I simply said yes. I wanted to leave. I wanted to buy armor and a sword and shield and join El Saddimin (the Calimsham army) or become a private agent like a sellsword or nobleman's guard. He laughed. He laughed right in my face. He said I was murdering scum and I'd wear a rope before I ever wore a uniform. A murderous scum like all of us. And that's when it happened. That's when my whole world ended. Djamila slapped him. Walked up and slapped Samir right across his face, yelling that he should not dare speak like that to the only decent person she knew.
I don't remember very clearly what happened next. It all happened somehow too fast and in slow motion at the same time. The look of shock on his face, the look of anger on hers, and how very slowly, almost comically, they exchanged expressions. How his shocked face filled with rage, and her angry, beautiful face filled with shock and horror at what she had just done. The tragic mistake she had just made. He turned the crossbow from me to her. I was just stepping forward, striding as fast as I could, when the bolt flew from the crossbow. As I reached him, the bolt buried itself in her chest with a sickening thud. And as I grabbed the weapon in his hand, she crumpled to the floor.
I must have screamed. I must have screamed and screamed because my throat was sore and mouth dry by the time I was done that day. I don't remember exactly what I did. Not all of it. I remember tearing not only the crossbow out of Samir's hand but in the process tearing his entire right arm off at the shoulder. I remember beating him with his own arm. I remember fighting all of them off of me. I vaguely remember that some few seconds or eternities into the fight some of my former "family" tried to run away. I didn't let them. I tore and punched and screamed and ripped my way through them all.
It was dark when I came to my senses. They were all dead. Every. Last. One. And my Djamila. Dead.
I was alone. No one had come to see what the horrible noise was, of course. The worse the noise and violence the more people stayed away. The constabulary had no place in that part of town. It was quieter in that moment than it ever had been on that street. Those who hadn't decided they had urgent business elsewhere were apparently very keen on being very silent.
I sat there, all alone, with fourteen corpses. I don't know how long I sat in the stench of blood and spilled bowels just staring at her blank face, gazing at the moonlight that had spilled across her cheek through the window. It was still dark when I carried her to my bedroll, turned it back right-side up to the less soiled side, and laid her upon it. Then I wrapped her up and carried her to the undertaker. I pounded on the door until someone appeared at a window with a lantern and a crossbow. I told him I had a dead girl here, and that if he came down and laid her out for a proper burial I would pay him three times the normal rate, but that if he didn't come down I would break down the door and kill him. He came down. I didn't tell him what had happened. He didn't ask. He could probably guess something close to the truth by my appearance, her wound, and my demands. He seemed intelligent enough. I paid him half of what I had saved up. Half was supposed to have been for her anyway. I very calmly told him that if she wound up in the hands of the necromancers or alchemists I would come back and tear him apart. I wasn't lying. I think he could tell.
I immediately went to the harbour to wash, the harbour water being marginally cleaner than I was. By the time the sun made a hazy appearance on the horizon I was booking passage on a ship north. Minutes later I was buying the best suit of armor I could find. I didn't have enough left for any weapons except for a very old scimitar but I figured if the armor was good enough I could resort to my hands if the weapon broke. The Gods know I've killed enough people with my bare hands.
And now I am here. Baldur's Gate. I hadn't even known the destination when I booked the passage. Here I am not a murderous thug. I am a sell-sword. I have honour. I have purpose. A contract to fulfill, provided that the contract is at least legal and honourable, imparts respectability and pay for success and death for failure. Either outcome is better than what I have known.
I have no name. I have no past. No origin. A small gang of petty Calimport criminals found me when I was a teenager. At least I think now that I must have been a teenager. I have no memory of before that time.
Brick.
An ugly, bumpy homunculus of a person, barely a person at all. But I was strong, and tough, so they saw potential in me, took me in. Called me Brick. It was funny to them, at first, but then it just became what I was called.
They made me one of them. Taught me their ways. Taught me to rob and murder. We would watch taverns at night, watch the punters leave. Follow any who seemed vulnerable. Or rich. Or both. Corner the mark in an alley. If the mark didn't give up the goods, down would come my fist upon their heads. Their coin would spill onto the cobbles along with their brains. That was how I survived. I am neither proud nor ashamed. The gang used me for their profit, but I was using them to survive, for food and shelter and clothing and protection from the law. A case of mutual use with neither side caring for or respecting the other... except for one.
Djamila was our leader Samir's..... I hesitate to use the term concubine because she deserves better than that epithet, but she was using Samir for protection and survival while he used her for her body. She would mend and repair our clothing, cook our meals. She was like what I have come to understand mothers are usually like, though she was younger than most of us, just a teenager herself. But the gang was the only thing any of us had that remotely resembled a family and because none of us were very enlightened in our perceptions of gender roles she became the default "mother". I don't think she would have done what we did for money if we'd asked her to. She was too gentle.
She alone would take an interest in what I thought, what I felt. She would talk to me about her dream of one day being a baker, having her own little shop where she made and sold tea and cakes, like she'd seen posh people have. She'd ask me if I ever wanted to escape from this life, take what little coin and possessions Samir allowed me to have and leave. I did. I wanted that very much. I wanted to make my way in the world as a legitimate soldier. Or sword for hire. Facing worthy, sober opponents in fair battle. Honourable. Decent. Noble. A contractor who kept his promise to vanquish this enemy or protect that property, or die trying. She asked me one night why I didn't just do it. Didn't just go. I couldn't tell her that she was the reason I couldn't yet go.
Every time Samir used her I died a little inside. But she had given herself to him willingly. That was her choice. I knew she did not love him, and that he was incapable of love, but the arrangement was made. The pact sealed. She could walk wherever she pleased and not fear that other men would take from her what Samir took; She was Samir's girl and everyone knew that. His power kept her safe where other girls would become victims. She got food, shelter, clothing, some coin, and I could offer her none of that. If I challenged Samir's rule in order to take his girl, I would either die or I would become a new leader that every other gang leader would want to test, want to push. Neither would benefit Djamila. If I failed and Samir suspected my motive she would be beaten, or worse, by Samir. If I won then her protection would vanish until I had time to sufficiently establish my own reputation. My only hope was to earn enough to take her away with me immediately after I killed him. So I kept my silence. And waited. And saved.
It's hard to save money when you're a common thief. Most spend their coin as fast as they can steal it. Drink. Drugs. Gambling. Anything to gain a little, fleeting pleasure to escape from the unending brutality of your existence. It was easier for me, though. I was strange-looking enough, even for a genasi, that my drinking very little and gambling not at all didn't seem any stranger. I had a little bolt-hole I dug under my bedroll. Every early morning, while most slept off whatever indulgences they'd had in the night, I would quietly slip coins into it. Saving up. Waiting for the time when I could afford passage for two for somewhere far away. Then I could finally kill Samir and take Djamila away where she would be safe.
By the way, by now you're probably supposing that I assumed she loved me. I know she did not. That didn't matter. I loved her and I needed her to be safe, and I knew that with Samir dead and a ticket to someplace where she could start over, somewhere no one knew what she had been in order to survive, she would go. And that would have been enough for me. I would not have demanded the sort of arrangement Samir did. It would have been enough for me to destroy the one person who might possibly have pursued her out of a sense of ownership and for me to take her away and start her in a little shop of her own. Just like she always dreamed. It would have been enough for me if I had made her safe. She's safe now, though. No one will ever hurt her again.
One day Samir had given me the coin to go out and fetch a fresh barrel of beer. It wasn't unusual, I was the only one who didn't need help carrying it. When I got back I walked in to find a crossbow pointed at me, Samir standing astride my over-turned bedroll with my not-so-little cache at his feet and the entire gang forming a semi-circle behind him. He demanded to know what I was saving up for. Was I too good for them? Was I trying to leave? Why would I leave the "family" when everything we all needed depended upon all of us doing our part? Had I been taking more than my share in order to save this much? I of course knew that he foresaw a steep decline in profits when I left and that's what was really making him angry. Others had left before; tried going straight or got arrested or went to other gangs, and there had never been much fuss. Until it was me. Until it was Brick. Brick the Scary-to-all-the-marks. Brick the useful.
I didn't see any point in lying, though. I had never been any good at it anyway. I simply said yes. I wanted to leave. I wanted to buy armor and a sword and shield and join El Saddimin (the Calimsham army) or become a private agent like a sellsword or nobleman's guard. He laughed. He laughed right in my face. He said I was murdering scum and I'd wear a rope before I ever wore a uniform. A murderous scum like all of us. And that's when it happened. That's when my whole world ended. Djamila slapped him. Walked up and slapped Samir right across his face, yelling that he should not dare speak like that to the only decent person she knew.
I don't remember very clearly what happened next. It all happened somehow too fast and in slow motion at the same time. The look of shock on his face, the look of anger on hers, and how very slowly, almost comically, they exchanged expressions. How his shocked face filled with rage, and her angry, beautiful face filled with shock and horror at what she had just done. The tragic mistake she had just made. He turned the crossbow from me to her. I was just stepping forward, striding as fast as I could, when the bolt flew from the crossbow. As I reached him, the bolt buried itself in her chest with a sickening thud. And as I grabbed the weapon in his hand, she crumpled to the floor.
I must have screamed. I must have screamed and screamed because my throat was sore and mouth dry by the time I was done that day. I don't remember exactly what I did. Not all of it. I remember tearing not only the crossbow out of Samir's hand but in the process tearing his entire right arm off at the shoulder. I remember beating him with his own arm. I remember fighting all of them off of me. I vaguely remember that some few seconds or eternities into the fight some of my former "family" tried to run away. I didn't let them. I tore and punched and screamed and ripped my way through them all.
It was dark when I came to my senses. They were all dead. Every. Last. One. And my Djamila. Dead.
I was alone. No one had come to see what the horrible noise was, of course. The worse the noise and violence the more people stayed away. The constabulary had no place in that part of town. It was quieter in that moment than it ever had been on that street. Those who hadn't decided they had urgent business elsewhere were apparently very keen on being very silent.
I sat there, all alone, with fourteen corpses. I don't know how long I sat in the stench of blood and spilled bowels just staring at her blank face, gazing at the moonlight that had spilled across her cheek through the window. It was still dark when I carried her to my bedroll, turned it back right-side up to the less soiled side, and laid her upon it. Then I wrapped her up and carried her to the undertaker. I pounded on the door until someone appeared at a window with a lantern and a crossbow. I told him I had a dead girl here, and that if he came down and laid her out for a proper burial I would pay him three times the normal rate, but that if he didn't come down I would break down the door and kill him. He came down. I didn't tell him what had happened. He didn't ask. He could probably guess something close to the truth by my appearance, her wound, and my demands. He seemed intelligent enough. I paid him half of what I had saved up. Half was supposed to have been for her anyway. I very calmly told him that if she wound up in the hands of the necromancers or alchemists I would come back and tear him apart. I wasn't lying. I think he could tell.
I immediately went to the harbour to wash, the harbour water being marginally cleaner than I was. By the time the sun made a hazy appearance on the horizon I was booking passage on a ship north. Minutes later I was buying the best suit of armor I could find. I didn't have enough left for any weapons except for a very old scimitar but I figured if the armor was good enough I could resort to my hands if the weapon broke. The Gods know I've killed enough people with my bare hands.
And now I am here. Baldur's Gate. I hadn't even known the destination when I booked the passage. Here I am not a murderous thug. I am a sell-sword. I have honour. I have purpose. A contract to fulfill, provided that the contract is at least legal and honourable, imparts respectability and pay for success and death for failure. Either outcome is better than what I have known.