Tristan
October 18, 1786, Realm Timeline, New Castle near Blansko, The Bohemian Protectorate
Tristan swallowed his anger and stomped on the cobblestones, aiming toward the main house in large strides. The building was larger than a cottage, smaller than a mansion. It had a larger downstairs room, accessed directly from the courtyard through a pair of French doors, dependencies on the same floor, and probably dorms and some storage upstairs.
Stopping in the doorframe, he took in the view of the lobby. It was dark, cold, damp, and unfriendly, filled with dust and cobwebs, and the fireplace hadn't seen a log in years; crammed with crumbled stone bricks from the chimney.
"This is a punishment! Eliza wants me to train a bunch of cutthroats for suicide missions," he remembered the flags outside. "And why am I bleeping talking aloud to myself? Because I'm angry!" he answered his own question.
He turned to close the doors. The line of people remained at attention in the rain, their uniforms soaked.
"At ease!" he yelled. "I'm Tristan von Melk. I want you to come to me one by one and present yourselves. Starting from the left. The first one to come will bring me my blanket; it's in the stables' hayloft. You have two minutes."
"Fuck! He pulled a Kaiser Soze on us," someone whispered.
"Shush, he'll hear you!" the woman blurted.
Tristan went up the three steps between the doors and the room. The floorboards creaked. Pulling the curtains aside to let in at least a bit of light, he inspected the room anew and noticed a desk in the back. It was old and heavy. He dragged it to the middle of the lobby and picked an armchair to match it.
Big Hair was already there, the blanket in his shaking hands. Tristan snatched it, wrapped it around him, and leaned in the armchairs, feet on the desk. The mud on his boots couldn't make it any worse; it was already looking bad.
Did I sleep with my boots on? Tristan wondered. Never mind. "Swear!" he ordered.
"I solemnly swear to obey your orders, my liege!" the man yelled.
"Not an oath swear, a swear swear."
"Like bleep?"
"Here you go." So at least one of them has the System. "Name, age, class, level, and background."
"Real name: Maximillian von Falkenward. Fourty. I'm from Austria. Earth's one. Coinmage, level four. I was a currency broker and an old coin collector. I was brought here to facilitate understanding of the local currencies."
"What is your class good for?"
"I can detect coins at a distance, tell if they are fake or real, and have a knack for making a profit out of them. As for my pseudonym, I haven't chosen one yet. I'm torn between Shylock and Scrooge."
So, he's a usurer... The worst type of criminal, Tristan frowned. And on top of that, he wants to hide behind a false name.
"Von? Are you a noble?"
"I... think so? My grandfather said we started as falconers for the prince of—"
"Then use your own name. No pseudonym," Tristan frowned. "Being a noble is both a privilege and a duty."
"Yes, Sir, Yes!" the man saluted. "Can I say something?"
"That's the idea."
"I joined because I want to serve, sir. I'm ready to obey your orders to the letter and better myself," Max said in what was evidently a sucking up.
"You will be the unit's treasurer. Your first task is to gather everyone's money and keep the tabs. Here's mine," Tristan threw his purse, which the man failed to catch, and fumbled to pick it up from the floor with feverish fingers. "What's your Dexterity?"
"N-nine, Sir. I'm a bit of a k-klutz—"
"Raise it. Dismissed. You have ten minutes to complete your task. If you fail, you do a push-up for every extra minute."
"Yes, Sir, yes!" Maximillian blurted, darting out. "Guys, you have to give me all your money; it's an order."
"Really?" someone whimpered.
"Do you want to argue with a Vampire?" the woman said. "Can I go in?"
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
"I suppose. Don't forget to give me your money when you finish."
The girl approached the French Doors and knocked. The weak daylight and the dirty windows showed only a silhouette, but no details.
Hm... Should I ask her to clean the windows?... No, Tristan decided a second later. Outworlder women fight alongside the men. I shall first find out her talents...
You have gained +1 in Humanity.
"Come in!" Tristan yelled.
"Yes, Sir, yes!" the woman blurted, advancing in front of the desk. She looked younger up close and had one of those happy-by-default faces, with blue eyes, deep blonde hair, and golden skin. Cheerleader type, the Outworlders would have said.
"Name, age, class, level, and background."
"Err... Isolde Samson, twenty-s—"
"Wait!" Tristan facepalmed. "The others, do they know your name?"
"Y-yes, Sir," she lowered her head, blushing.
"I can imagine the jokes. Tristan and Isolde..." Tristan sighed.
"Don't worry, Sir, I can handle myself," the girl said. "I grew up with a lot of brothers. Kicking asses is what I did every morning for breakfast. To have breakfast. Otherwise, the Smurfs would have eaten it all."
Yes, but these are hardened criminals we're talking about. What was in Mistress Eliza's head to put her together with THEM?
"Continue."
"Age: twenty-six. My class is Courier level two. Background: champion equestrian from the United States. I was recruited because I'm good with horses, and this world has plenty."
"Is that mare in the stables yours?"
"Yes, sir. And the two gelded Tatar horses. The mare, Pretty, I brought with me. She's nine years old now. The others I brought after I got here. I use them to teach people to ride. They're gaited. Although gaited breeds are more common than on Earth, people don't often have the luxury of choice."
"How good are you at riding?"
"Compared to the local standard? Depends. Pretty and I are used to each other, and my class bonded us. I'd say I'm pretty good with her, average on the rest. Never tried mounted combat, but I can shoot okay from a horse."
"What does your class do?"
"For now, we run very fast. It also allows me to feel the horses around and their mood. I know you have a steed and that he's a great horse, and I've never seen him before. His name is Good Boy... of he likes when you call him that."
That sealed the deal for Tristan. Someone who liked his steed was a good asset. "Very well. You'll be my second-in-command. First task: find some straws and hay. Oats will be good too."
"There's none here; I searched everywhere," the girl said.
"Then ask the treasurer... Falks... Falk... err... Forgot it... Ask Big Hair for money, and go buy some."
"I'll go to Brno, it's farther, but they have better—"
"I'm leaving it at your discretion. Don't be a cheapskate, buy the best and plenty. Get a good saddle for Good Boy if you can. Ulhan or Tatar type."
"Thank you!" the girl clapped, only to return to attention a moment later. "Sorry, Sir, it won't repeat itself."
"No worries. You can call me Tristan. Are you the only one with horse-related skills?"
"Yes, Sir... Tristan. We, Outworlders, usually use motorized vehicles."
"Too bad. When you return, pick two people, one you like and one you dislike. Teach the first to groom the horses, and make the other clean the stables. Be tough on the latter; don't let them do a bad job. Dismissed."
"Yey!" the girl clapped again, then saluted and dashed out. "Falky, come here!" she yelled.
"Why?" Big Hair yelled back, and from the direction of his voice, he was upstairs, in his room, which meant there was a second access.
"Because I say so, and Tristan made me your boss," she emphasized the words like they were already best friends. "Wanna take it with him? Come here and bring me some money. Ten ducats. No. Make it twenty."
Hey, don't spend all our money! Tristan felt alarmed, but didn't cancel his order. The girl looked happy, and it was better to have a trusted sidekick than to spare some coin.
The girl had left the door open, and he could see the others still waiting in the rain, shivering. I did say at ease, didn't I? Not my fault if they're stupid. Should I tell them to get to cover? Nah... Can't show weakness to criminals. "Next!" he shouted.
The next man was stocky and strong, bald, with a dark beard and oversized hands that looked like they could break a man in two between the index and the thumb. Tristan instinctively searched for his dagger.
"Name—"
"I know the drill, Sir. Name: Aldric, Thomas. Age: Thirty-nine. Class: Stonemage level three. My species changed to dwarf, but there's no big difference. Background: Worked in a stone quarry," the man yelled without Tristan's invitation. "Was in the military for a while, demolitions. I was recruited for my expertise in quarries and demolitions, and I served as a foreman when we built the tunnels. Currently unemployed."
An ex-soldier sentenced to forced labor in a quarry? So either he didn't kill anyone, or it wasn't anyone of importance...
"Can you repair that, Aldric?" Tristan pointed to the chimney.
"Sir, yes, Sir," the man nodded.
"How long would it take?"
"It will be ready before tonight."
Answers to the point. Good. "Do you need to buy any tools?"
"Not anymore," the man shook his head. "Can I show you?"
"Be my guest," Tristan gestured.
The man went to the chimney and picked a fallen stone, flicking his index finger to shape it, and it worked faster than a chisel. Taking a second piece, he pressed them together and showed Tristan the result: a single stone brick.
"The bleep? How high is your Strength?"
"Sixty-something, but it's not that," the man said. "Stones like to be stones. Staying put and being strong."
"Get it done," Tristan waved his hand toward the fireplace. "Next!"
"Mind the next guy is weird," Aldric said, looking up the chimney. "He's a monk or something."
"A Monk? Bleep!"
Tristan jumped up, appalled that he had left a holy person waiting in the rain. He opened the door just as a tiny old man arrived in front of him. He was wrinkled like parchment and walked bent in two, supporting himself on a cane. His head was shaved, and he wore a weird robe, leaving half his torso naked.
"Sorry for letting you wait, I didn't know you were here," Tristan blurted. "Come inside."
He tried to put his blanket on the monk's back, but the old man shrugged off the offer, mumbling something.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Pops speaks only Chinese," Aldric said. "We use our phones to communicate. He's a Shaolin monk."
"But still a Catholic, right?"
"Err... Yeah, sure. No idea what he's doing here, but he's tougher than he looks. We had a drinking contest, and he brought me to a standstill."
"Please, go take care of yourself; we'll talk later," Tristan said, patting the monk's back. The old man clasped his hands together, the cane almost hitting Tristan's head in the process, and went away.