Gerhart was not a very intelligent man. But he was a man of certain values. The value of another man's privacy, for one. And the value of money.
What he lacked in intelligence and drive, he made up for in capacity for violence and lack of moral qualms. Many might see him as a thug, indeed his hobnailed boots, battered leather coat and nose roughly offset to the right from an incident involving a pipe wrench did little to dispel this image. But people like him were needed in this day and age.
Warlords fought their battles with little thought as to the protection of their citizens, raiders took advantage and certain interests always sought to influence these events in subtle ways that might earn them a few more coins at the end of the day.
And why shouldn't ol Gerhart get a few bits for his trouble as well? He'd spent most of his recent loot on a fine meal, some piss poor ale, and bawdy little mistress at the local tavern. Most of the rest went to some wanker who cheated him at a game of dice, but he imagined the little bastard hadn't expected the money to be delivered in the form of a hook to the jaw.
Still, he was a man of his word. Especially so when the guards of the ramshackle ruin of a sky-scraper long past happened upon the den in search of contraband.
The thick grey dust whipping through the streets was shaded a pleasant red hue by the fading sun, his boots striking the occasional spark off the rusted scrap that passed for streets as the slums gave way to what (at least in this dump) passed for the more well to do dwellings in which his next job lie.
While inquiring for work in the most professional of mannerisms within the tavern he had visited earlier (certainly not berating the bartender while bouncing a serving girl on his knee) he had discovered some fortunate man suffering from the red death was requesting anyone who could aid in vengeance before he passed.
Fortunate in that he was a man of ample means, and thus drew the attention of a humble thug of some renown and capability, such as himself.
The streets soon turned to some kind of stone, the original structure of the gutted sky scraper the settlement was housed within, lit with electric lamps rather than more baser fuels. Watchmen were more prevalent here, and treated the scruffy looking bastard to as much scrutiny as a man can muster in a glance. He merely gave them a wolfish grin in turn and tipped his bowler, a recent acquisition that said watchmen might be quite interested in had they learned said method he acquired it with.
Winding through the maze of streets, he finally saw the estate in question looming in the distance. Brass gates with sharpened fence posts rounded off the lavish (even to his standards) structure of smoothed stone and brass fittings. Vines of ivy mixed with sweeping designs of copper across the face of the dwelling, rather well lit with lampposts of iron to boot.
Reaching into his coat to check his pistol, a reliable piece with a sharp metal stud on the bottom of the club grip and six chambers filled with potential murder, he pushed open the gate with hardly a squeak, walking with a purpose towards the polished oaken doors.
"Can I help you?"
Few things scared Gerhart, but few things managed to surprise him either. Something stepped from the growing evening gloom within the recesses of the doorway, like a shadow detaching itself from the dark. Featureless goggled eyes and a leather beak with designs of beaten gunmetal to reinforce the avian impression stared out at him from within the depths of a voluminous hood.
Bloody plague doctors, always gave him the creeps. Even now, its head cocked slightly in question, the bastard seemed something closer to a consumer of carrion than a curer of ailments.
He hadn't even noticed his hand wrapped around his pistol, taking a breath and non-nonchalantly brushing some dust off his vest, he replied with a nod, trying to keep the tension from his voice. "Yeah, they said the baron wos lookin fer a bit ah help in some funeral arrangements. Figured I might be of service..."
He put on his warmest smile, enhanced by chipped and tar stained teeth.
"This way..."
The creature turned and opened the door with its left arm. Gerhart noticed its hood seemed to be more of a cloak of some sort, covering his right side and probably the tools of his trade. He made a mental note to see how much a plague doctor's tools would fetch from a fence.
If the house had been lavish on the outside, the inside was nearly spartan. The same smooth stone made the polished walls and floors, but decorations were scarce. In some places, dust outlines hinted at the wealth the baron had traded for coin to spend on his last request.
The doctor held open a pair of curtains leading into what was no doubt the master bedroom. Likely grand upon a time, it was now reduced to the reeking scent of sickness and antiseptics. The fireplace burned low and sent the flickering shadows of what little furniture remained sprawling across the dim room. The baron himself lay upon the bed, hands crossed over his chest. As Gerhart strode to the bedside, his eyes narrowed in the dim.
"Ey' doc. Do ya think it'll be all that easy for me ta ge the details from a dead man?"
The sight was all too familiar, the color gone from the wasted man's skin and eyes staring blindly into the ceiling. A bloody waste of time, unless he had left the coffers somewhere near.
"He was already quite detailed in his description...of you."
Gerhart spun, but the doctor's right hand was already around his throat, crushing like a vice. His hand went to his pistol but he couldn't pull it free. His and kept slipping off. The doctor stepped back, releasing his grip, hands hanging passively by his side. Gerhart wondered dumbly why his throat still felt so numb when he saw the blood dripping from the doctors claw, firelight reflecting dimly off the metal segments, forming a pool on the floor.
He tried to form words, but they stuck in his throat and bubbled out as a strangled whisper. The floor rose up to meet him as the doctor slowly, deliberately approached him. Fire danced in those damnable glass panes of its eyes as his vision began to blur and fade.
The doctor lay the fingertips of his left hand against Gerhart's wrist, he wiped the blood from his claw on the ruffian's shirt and rose a moment later, satisfied with the lack of pulse. He crossed to the nightstand beside the baron, and opened a drawer filled nearly to being jammed with coins of nearly every material and denomination.
Picking the agreed upon fee and depositing the coins in his pocket, it regarded the slowly dwindling flames for a moment, and sulked back into the shadows.
Leaving the room to fading embers, and then darkness.
