Era Victoria IC

A new year has just been ushered into the world a year of countless possibilities and opportunities. It is a bitter winter's morning in Witherschapel, the winds howls though streets are already blackened with a foul slurry of soot and snow.

Deep in the backstreets of the seedy side, there stands a house at first glance unassuming but known to the locals as the residence cum office of the one honest doctor willing to aid almost anyone who come though his doors. Within the doctor meets with his supplier of herbs.

Nearby a mercenary drake staggers into an alleyway following a long night spent on a job, an old grenadier had hired him to free his granddaughter from the Buffalos gang, he had pulled off the job alright but had taken a few steam casted quarrels into his good shoulder.

Just across the way, a writer walking home from an all night New Year Gala at the East Ibexian Company building spies a living legend of a drake turn down an alleyway.

Elsewhere near the docks of the River Teams a wandering bounty hunter drifts into a tavern, there should be a board with some local bounties somewhere around...

Along Witherchapel road near the edge of one of the more reputable areas a freelance mechanic is just beginning to close up shop after a surprisingly busy evening of work when a cloaked pony darts through his door.

Battery hated doctors.

It wasn't that he didn't want healing. He knew his limits fairly well, and was not ashamed to admit them. It wasn't that he didn't need help sometimes. But he didn't especially understand doctors, and was disinclined to trust them. The smell didn't help either - a strong, sort of sickening mix of herbals barely covering the smell of blood, plague, and death (Because heaven forbid one simply bathe themselves.)

Ironically, the one doctor he even remotely trusted he had a terrible dislike for on that account precisely. Chirurgeon had his redeeming qualities, and the drake trusted his medical judgement - but the smell had left a permanent feeling of disgust for the bird doctor. Which only made it all the worse that he needed him, now.

Battery limped down the alley, a heavy cloak covering the wounded shoulder. His other arm - the brass monstrosity the same doctor had grafted on - knocked on the door, three heavy knocks, while he awaited a reply...

"There might be a new wave of miasma coming in, have to source some rare herbs in case anyone gets sick... whorlstem, has white tipped leaves, I would be happy to pay for any you might have..." Chirurgeon grimaced as he counted up his existing stock. "Might need to ask you for some more common roots, too, Dahlia, foraging is getting harder these days..."

He looked up at the knocking. "Excuse me for a moment. I think I have a patient..."

At the early morning hours, anyone who sought his expertise was either very sick and desperate, or would rather not be seen by anyone other than a professional. Since there weren't any serious plagues in the area since the Hoofbiter Flu last spring, he suspected the latter. Shifting painfully to his feet and flattening out his thick doctor's robes, Chirurgeon shuffled over to the door and eased it open.

"To whom do I... Ah. It's you." He shot a quick, slightly worried glance at the deer sitting in front of his desk.

"Morning," Battery said, curtly if a bit tiredly. "I've been shot."

Chirurgeon glanced at Battery's shoulder with a medic's professional eye. "So you have. Well, standing outside would just invite infection. I'd rather not have to amputate the other one as well. Come in... well, if you don't mind a little company. I was just finalizing a bit of business." He opened the door fully, raising a gloved claw to beckon the drake in. "I believe you've already met my... business associate before."

Battery followed the bird doctor in, grimacing at the deer across the room. "...I'll play nice if he does," he mumbles begrudgingly. He rummaged around in his satchel, producing a dark, largeish bottle. "Will this do for payment? Haven't got my bits just yet."

Chirurgeon appraised the bottle with a keen eye. "Hmm... strong brew." He nodded, satisfied. "Enough to knock a zombie out cold, and serve as disinfectant in a pinch. It'll do. Now, let me take a look at that."

He shifted the cloak aside, and peered at the wound. "Hm... it's not too deep, your scales probably stopped the worst of it. Here, I'll clear it out and make sure it doesn't go septic, your own biology should handle the wound just fine."

"This... might hurt a little."Taking out a small flask of a thinned down liquid and a sharp scalpel, he set to work picking out the quarrels, disinfecting and sealing any serious wounds and finishing off by wrapping the wounds in treated bandages. "So, what was it this time?" He asked, trying for idle conversation. He didn't expect to much of a response, but silence always served to magnify pain.

---

Heal: 15 + 20 = 35 for treating the wound. I assume this is enough to cover the actions I described in the post?

"Roughed up the Buffalo gang," he explained, mostly ignoring the pain. "Old grenadier wanted his granddaughter back. They were quite happy to let her go once I explained things to them," he said with a toothy grin.

"Showed them some traditional dragon hospitality, eh?" Chirurgeon tied up the last bit of bandage, and gave the dressing a light pat. "There. Long as you don't put too much stress on it the next couple of hours or so, the medicine and your own metabolism should close the wound up easy. And don't go leaving the wound to open air, could get the green rot, and I hate treating that."

He picked up the bottle Battery gave him and popped the top, giving it a small sniff before swigging down some through a small opening in his mask that he closes up quickly after. "Mhm. Not bad. Nice doing business with you, always like a repeat customer." He paused. "...That was a joke. Don't go getting hurt again, supplies are thin, and I have civilians to treat."

For sure, the influx or orders this time of year was quite impressive. Whether it was due to citizens, wishing to take on the new year with one more matter taken care of properly or thanks to some communities partying a bit too hard, one couldn't deny that there was a lot to be fixed. Regardless of the reasons, Chrome Drive found himself coping with the situation gladly, as it meant being able to earn a good start for the days to come. During the daily hours, his mood faltered only occasionaly, though not because of fatigue nor thoughts about how he could be celebrating this day instead. The rare, internal sigh of his occured only when it got to him that had this situation been the case all year round, he'd hardly need to dabble in dubious business for a living...

Upon acknowledging the customer, Chrome Drive wondered briefly whether not to state that the newcomer's in luck, as the mechanic was just about to put an end to his duty hours for this day. However, he didn't do that, both as to not insult the intelligence of the guest, as the ongoing closing of the shop was pretty evident and due to the fact that he's been reminded of an analogic situation from his past. There was once a mare, who visited Chrome Drive at a time like this, because it was apparently in her interest not to have any interruptions from potential third party. Hence, the earth pony stallion, eyeing the cloaked figure from behind the counter, inquired simply and politely:

"Welcome. How may i help?"

"It's time to eat!" - his belly was begging for mercy. Apart from eating some hay and bread in the morning he ate nothing.
The life of bounty hunter was quite hard and complicated. You wish you have constant income, but hell no! Only the dirty job kept you alive. The worst thing about it was uncertainty. Crime rate was quite low or low enough to have problems with finding new contracts, but anypony knows that "The patient hunter gets the prey". He wasn't just a bounty hunter! He had some reputation. He called his services "profesional with no refunds".

He walked into the Tavern with no distinct hopes. He had money to leave trough another three months... However, having more bits than needed can be spent on hookers and other exclusive goods.

Oh! That was what he liked best! The aroma of alcohol and cheap garlic snacks! However, duties before fun. He walk to the counter and called the barman. He discreetly drew a small piece of paper with question and order. He didn't like opening his mouth when no needed.

"Any jobs for me now? "Best dead OR alive services in entire Bittannia. One pint of cider and loaf of garlic bread for me."

Dahlia, who up to this point had been staring silently at the dragon in silence, fails to stifle a small laugh. "You'd have more luck asking the winds to take it easy than Assault-and-Battery here."

"Yeah..." Battery sighed. It was too early to deal with this. "You would know what bird face here can and can't tell me to do, wouldn't you," he grumbled sarcastically, heaving himself off the floor (the doctor's chairs being too small for his significant frame).

"And what is that suppose to mean, Junk Arm?" Dahlia snaps back. It was too early to deal with this...

"Well, if you're me it means 'don't diss the claw that heals you', even if it does smell kinda nasty," he said with a grimace towards Chirurgeon. "Seriously doc, take a bath sometime. But," he continued, returning his attention to Dahlia, "You're not me, so it probably means something else. Shame, too. You'd be such a badflank if you were me."

Chirurgeon, not really trying too hard to stop the squabbling, cut in. "Gentlemen, please. This is a place of healing," he grumbled quietly, his raspy voice not carrying far in the room. It was too early to deal with these two... "And if I take a bath, the runoff would probably poison half the block. I'm too far gone to clean now."

"Hmph. Since when am I 'gentle'?" Battery retorted. "Anyways. Thanks for the help, doc. I'm just gonna go find some toxic sludge, you want some Peg Leg?" he asked the deer.

"...I hope you aren't being literal," replies Dahlia with an inquisitive and slightly disgusted look, "But I wouldn't put that past you."

Chirurgeon glanced at the dragon with mild interest. "What do you mean by, toxic sludge, exactly? Alcohol?"

"Coffee," Battery grumbled in response. "But, y'know, if it hasn't been run through a dozen purifiers it must just be sludge, right?" he snarked as he moved for the door.

To his own surprise, Chirurgeon started after the drake, shuffling a few paces behind him. "I would think that running a plant product through a mechanical purifier would taint the coffee." He commented idly.

Chemistrychem wrote:
"Any jobs for me now? "Best dead OR alive services in entire Bittannia. One pint of cider and loaf of garlic bread for me."

The barkeep pulls a bulletin board out from below the bar, he hesitates for a moment before placing it down in front of Oirik turning around to prepare the order. The board is crowded to the point of overflow, there should be some bounties mixed in with the various other random pieces of paper but it might take some digging.

Terrestial wrote:

"Welcome. How may i help?"

The cloaked pony stands panting and wheezing for a moment before levitating a brass sphere out from under their cloak. They then speak in a soft and almost musical voice “This… mechanism needs to be repaired and calibrated. If you can do so and deliver it to the administrative building of the Royal Asylum by sunset tonight then, you will be paid one thousand bits.”

"That's why I carry my own brew with me," adds Dahlia as he follows the group...

"Thanks" - said Oirik grabbing and perfectly folding all papers. After a second he hid them in his coat's breast pocket.
"Looks promising... " - He replied ironically, but then he smiled gently and started consuming his dinner. Thinking about his job without being a little drunk was a torture for his conscience. Not that he had something like conscience anyway... He wolfed down his garlic bread and quaffed the pint of cider.
He looked around to be sure that there was no troublemakers nor any nosy ponies nearby.
Using his magic he slowly pull the papers out of his breast pocket and started reading them carefully. They looked promising just like the cure for unemployment should look like.

Smooth Talker calmly made his way back home. While he did enjoy the occasional party and certainly wasn't averse to the joy of drinking, East Ibixian Company parties were always a certain... well, a certain something. He wasn't quite sure just as to why he was invited to the party but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was merely to fill out the guest list with as many famous names as possible. A chance meeting with the head of the E.I.C. had all but confirmed this notion. Spice Wold (or was that Spice World?) was a most courteous host but clearly not the sort that would have read most of his oeuvre. A pony with a clear head for business and facts but with no time and even lesser patience for fiction and flights of fancy.

Still, it wasn't like Smooth Talker didn't enjoy himself. It's hard to say no to free food and drinks after all. And even the most uptight of the upper class would loosen up after a glass or two. Or sixteen as one unfortunate patron cheerfully exclaimed as he was gently being escorted off the premises. Then there was the entertainment he could get out of just being there. Most of the upper class ponies knew of minotaurs but few had ever met one in person. Fewer still a minotaur that wasn't employed in military service. Of course, the biggest problem about fitting in in pony society was just that: he wasn't a pony.

'Look dear,' one of the more inebriated ponies said as he wildly gestured at Smooth Talker, 'I told you those cow beasts were real. Althought I have no idea what one's doing here.' The pony, an older fellow with a coat of milk gone bad, a grey moustache so big he could have used it as a scarf and a fancy black suit did his best to walk in a straight line over to Smooth Talker.
'You there, boy.' he said to the Minotaur easily twice his size. 'If you're here for a job, I do believe the kitchen is over yonder.' He waved a hoof in the direction of the facilities. 'Do hurry up, my glass is nearly empty.' After which he gulped down whatever was left in his glass in one swing.

'Oh, I had no idea.' Smooth Talker replied with feigned shock. 'Is there anything else I can do for you, good sir? Some more snacks? Or hors-d'oeuvres as you fancy ponies say. How about I return your rental suit to the dry cleaners tomorrow so that no pony has to know that you've grown too fat to fit in your regular suit?'

If the pony had worn a monocle, it would have surely popped off at that moment. 'The nerve!' he retorted indignantly. 'I'll have you know that this is my finest suit and the best one that money could buy!'
'Then you might want to hide the tag sticking out of your collar that says "Rental - property of Suits'R'Us" Smooth Talker grinned. Clearly insulted, the old pony huffed and trotted off, presumably in search for another glass to restore his ego.

'You shouldn't have done that.' Smooth Talker heard someone say behind his back. He turned around and saw a mare standing there, with a sunflower yellow coat, a mane as red as rubies and simple yet elegant evening dress.
'I probably shouldn't but sometimes, you have to create your own entertainment.' Smooth Talker shrugged.
'Oh, he had it coming for sure.' the mare smiled 'But still, you have to be careful what you say around here. Words are often more dangerous than knives in these circles.'
Before Smooth Talker could reply with a witty retort, the mare pulled out a small book out of her purse. 'Excuse me for being so blunt but you are Smooth Talker, right? The renowned author?'
Smooth Talker smiled what was probably the first genuine smile he had that evening. 'Indeed I am.'
'If it is not too much to ask,' the mare said while simultaneously pulling out a pen from her purse, 'would you be so kind to sign my book?'
Taken a bit aback by the request, Smooth Talker gingerly took the book and pen from out of her hooves.
'The Importance of Cutie Marks and Other Foals' Tales.' He read from the cover. 'One of my older works. I'm kind of surprised you...' He stopped himself from saying something stupid like 'read child's tales' and instead opted for 'carry around a book at a fancy party.'
'It's one of my favourites.' the mare smiled a bit timidly. 'If you could just make it out to Gilded Rose.'

Smooth Talker flipped the book open to to the title page.
'To my fan, Gilded Rose. Never stop reading. Smooth Talker' he mumbled as he scribbled his insignia. He handed the book back to Gilded Rose who barely managed not to give out a little squee. The rest of the evening was spent pleasantly chitchatting about books, various authors and casually observing the other patrons at the party until Gilded Rose asked the one question every writer knows comes up eventually
'So what is your next book going to be about?'
'Well, Smooth Talker stroked his chin, 'I think I'm going to try my hand at historical fiction for a change.'
Nothing much was further said about it, Gilded Rose apparently wanting to avoid spoilers, and the discussion quickly ventured into other subjects. And as with all things, the party came to an end at last. Smooth Talker courteously kissed Gilded Rose's left hoof, something he hoped would make up for not dancing, even if he did explain that between the size difference and his inability to dance, that it was a bad idea, and left the E.I.C. premises.

Now, as he was on his way back home, he stopped for a moment to pull out his pipe and a lighter. He put some tabacco in his pipe as he mulled over his idea for his next book, softly mumbling to himself, a habit he developed out of reciting dialogue between various characters in his books.
'The Battery. An almost legendary army squad comprised of drakes that was employed by the Parlement. Revered by some but feared by all, at least until the battle of Witherschapel Square where they got annihilated and disappeared into the annals of history. Should make for an interesting story. Maybe focus on one squad member in particular, throw in a love interest, some drama, all that good stuff. Why, I ought to-'

Smooth Talker stopped. Something had caught his eyes in the dim lit alley down the street. A shadowy figure, too big to be a pony, wearing a cloak made its way down the alley. It was too dark to be sure but Smooth Talker could swear that he saw a flash of red scales when the figure's cloak fluttered up. Even more curious was the shine of metal that seemed to eminate from one of the cloaked figure's legs.

'Now there's something you don't see every day.' Smooth Talker muttered as he took a puff of his pipe. His curiosity was piqued and, against his better judgment, he followed the shadowy figure down the alleyway. Taking care not to be spotted, he saw the figure knocking on a door of a building Smooth Talker knew was a doctor's office. The door opened, a gloved claw beckoned the cloaked figure inside and the door closed again. After pondering for a minute or two what he should do, Smooth Talker gave a little shrug and stepped out from his hiding spot.
'After all, Fortuna Audaces Iuvat' he said softly as he knocked on the door.
*KNOCK* *KNOCK*