005 Sheila Marduke

Five years ago (2956 SyOF), in Lightwood Company House…
Loud thudding, the whinny of horses, and raised voices signals the return of one of the mission groups, disrupting several conversations taking place in The Lightwood Company House common room on an otherwise dreary, stormy night. Henry Lightwood stands behind the bar polishing glass mugs as he often does, the cliche appearance of ‘generic human barkeep’ belying the deadly warrior that founded the company thirty years ago. With the slightest of movements his attention is focused on the main doors of the common room, and company members who were moments ago drinking, laughing, gambling, or eating, ready themselves for any untoward guests.
Moments pass, the occasional rumble of thunder and slew of rain interspersed with more banging, muffled shouts, and an unfamiliar feminine voice shouting ‘Yeah? Well fuck you too Smoke!’. Henry places the mug and washcloth on the broad wooden bar, an ‘at ease’ signal for those who had caught his alertness, and places his hands flat on either side of them, a second signal that company veterans know well as ‘don’t interfere with whatever this is’.
Furiously stomping splashes can be heard in a lull of the storm, and a thwack sound followed by the same voice shouting ‘Fucking bucket!’ is accompanied by the tumbling sounds of said wooden receptacle, a spit bucket placed outside for those who partook of the leaf to dispose of it before entering the company house (Harold had placed it outside, in an effort to support his husband Henry to quit the habit), before the doors are flung open.
A crack of lightning, timed for perfect dramatic effort, silhouettes the figure who flings the door open. The figure stands for a moment, precariously overbalanced having shoved one door open with each hand, before falling forward. They land face first onto the scuff matt Henry insists all entrants used to clean their boots, hooves, or other soiled ambulant appendages before entering the building proper, landing with a muddy squelch and a bone crunching snap.
The room falls silent as they shout ‘Ah, Fub! By Nodze!’, pushing themself up with their forearms. Blood streams down their strangely familiar yet unplaceable face, adding to the mud covering their body. They bring one leg forward, and then the other, pushing themself up before stumbling to the left and tripping on their own feet. They fall to their left, catching themself on the rim of a heavy barrel, letting out a wretched sound somewhere between a cough and a sneeze and spraying the barrel with nasal blood. They tear the lid off the barrel and dunk their head and part of their shoulders in, shaking about in a frenzy, before whipping their head back and spraying that side of the room with a mix of water, mud, and blood.
Thinned blood runs down their face to their neck, and into their now quite considerably visible cleavage, as they stand painting, legs and arms splayed wide awkwardly. They shake their head like a wet dog, sending droplets into the air around them, while Smoke and several others walk in behind them, cleaning their boots on the scruff matt.
‘Well,’ Smoke begins in his gunslinger drawl, ‘there you go, all cleaned up’. The figure stills, before turning slowly to him, dropping into a lower pose and ready to spring into action.
‘Chika, I wouldn’t’ calls Henry from the bar, gently placing his trademark machete next to the mug and towel. The eyes of everyone in the room flick from Henry, to Smoke, to the newcomer, and none dare draw breath.
‘Fid! I’d bin mah…’ the figure begins to speak, before growling and slapping their hands to their face. WIth fingers on either side of their nose, they snap it back in place, before continuing ‘I’ll be in my room! Don’t fucking bother me!’ in the same feminine voice from earlier.
‘Que, your room? I don’t remember letting a room to any muddy chika.’ Henry crosses his arms, forearms flexing underneath tattoos of snakes, skulls, and blades.
Smoke coughs, and the steps forward to jab a finger under his nose. ‘Not. A. Word.’ They spin and stomp their muddy way across the room, shoving a chair back under a table with an ill fitting boot as they go.
One of the dwarven twins, Flegha or Durin (none can tell them apart), makes a whistling noise as the figure passes, ogling the a backside that fits in similarly ill fitting leather pants - not quite wide enough for the hips, and too long and bunched above the boot. The figure spins and flicks its arm out with lightning speed, a dagger pinning the dwarven berserkers beard to the table with a loud thunk, and the throwing hand closing to point accusingly at the dwarf.
‘Shut. Your. Mouth’ the figure says, low and with venom, before turning to continue their way towards the stairs. Ascending with several stumbles, they pause at the top for a deep breath, pull at the jacket that seems to wide at their shoulders and too long on the sleeves, and storm down the corridor to the lodging rooms.
Everyone in the common room turns to look at the dwarf, who carefully pulls the dagger from the table and turns it over in his hand. ‘Ah, Henry, this be one o’ Marduke’s blades, but sure as my beard Marduke don’t have a backside that look that good’. The dwarf turns to Henry and raises an eyebrow.
Henry turns to Smoke, the gunslinger hanging his coat as one of the other returning mercenaries closes the front doors. ‘Yeah, not that I been’ lookin’, but I doubt he did. We ran into some Drow on that underdark run, and poor Marduke got caught on the wrong side of a cave-in.’ He begins.
Continuing, Smoke walks to the bar and lays a parchment in Henry’s reach. ‘We spen’ a few hours diggin’ to get through, and then a couple of days searchin’ the tunnels on the other side before we foun’ their camp. Seems they took a shinin’ to poor Marduke, and had some sort of magical fun at his expense, because we found him lookin’ like that, trussed up an’ lookin’ like a yule feast pig. Just hangin’ their from the ceilin’, hooked on a chain with an apple stuck in the mouth. Only, we didn’ realise t’were him at first, not ‘til we read the note they’d left by the bodies of the prisoners we wuz chasin’ ‘em fer. Hell, I ain’ sure who got it worse, the nobles wut had their throats slit, or Marduke’.
Henry picks up the parchment and reads it. ‘Dios mio. Rankle, go fin’ your father, and give him this note.’ Handing it off to his eldest, who dashes off, Henry turns to eye the dwarf. ‘Now let’s hope Hardold can remove a girdle of femininity, or we’re all gunna hafta get used to a very different Marduke’.
Everyone turns back to look at the dwarf again, who shrugs, and grabs a turkey leg from his plate. ‘Oh I dunno’ he says around a large bite, ‘he might be a bit more personable as a girl’.
*************
Several weeks later…
The Lightwood Company meets in the common room one evening to plan the next months missions. Most are seated at tables with food, while some stand at the walls of the room, as it is packed to capacity. Henry falls quiet as the stairs creak, lowering the papers he was reading from, and nods towards the stairs. All eyes turn as Marduke descends slowly, lips pouted and eyes challenging anyone to say something, before taking a seat by the fire.
‘Amigas, please welcome Sheila as she comes back on the active roster.’ Henry gestures with one hand, ‘I know I don’t have to remind anyone, especially Durin, about being respectful to your companeros.’
The mentioned dwarf, sitting on a high bar stool, leans to whisper to one of the bar staff, who nods and turns to pull a fresh tankard. As Henry returns to the business at hand, organising teams from the company of mercenaries for various missions, the bar staff walks through the crowd to place a golden tankard of ale in front of Sheila. The human woman eyes it warily, before locking gaze with the dwarf. Among the company, the golden tankard is a known sign of apology, signalling the buyers remorse at some offence lain upon the shoulders of whomever receives it. Sheila grinds her teeth in her mouth and tilts her head to consider, while half the room listens to Henry and the other half stares at her in anticipation.
Slowly she reaches out a hand and before grabbing the tankard with a jab, raising it from the table. Half a dozen heavily experienced mercenaries, all the bar staff, and even Henry’s present children gasp loudly, holding their breath in suspense at what she will do. If she pours it out, the transgression will be settled, but she and Durin will never work, or even speak together again - an apology unaccepted. If she drinks from it, Durin will pay her meals and board for the next month, and take her side should any formal vote be called - an apology accepted.
With narrow eyes, she raises the tankard, steely gaze locked with that of the dwarf across the room. By now even Henry is watching, the whole room looking from human, to dwarf, to back again. Moments pass as she milks it for all it’s worth, neither willing to break eye contact, but twitching at the edges of their eyes. With a slight, almost imperceptible nod, near forty people let their breath escape, before she brings the tankard to her lips.
Rankle, having held his breath for nearly a minute at this point, exhales dramatically and flops back onto the stool as his fathers side, and Henry raises the parchment to continue reading.