Conquest of the Horde

“Welcome to Whitecrest”, read the sign. He wasn’t really sure why it was called Whitecrest, considering it was neither white nor was it anywhere near the crest of anything. Still, it did look rather welcoming after a week or so of wilderness.
His hair had grown a bit shaggier than he’d like, but haircuts were a luxury in this day and age, and luxuries were something he didn’t really have the means to afford right now. Business was at an all time low, and so the gentleman traveled between the settlements, pulling odd jobs until business stopped being low, at which time he would do his job, have enough money for a haircut for a while and then eventually go back to odd jobs. It was a nice, monotonous business plan that didn’t have much room for surprises, which was good for him, as surprises on the frontier usually meant death.
Spurring his horse onward, the gentleman reflected on the odd storms that had plagued this region of the past weeks. Storms were nothing new during the summer and storm seasons, but right now it was the dry season, and so any rainfall at all would be a miracle. The last several drenching torrents? Absolutely unprecedented, at least in his lifetime.
He eventually shrugged it off and scratched at his beard. He also needed a shave, but that was another luxury. The beard wasn’t necessarily thick, so much as it was itchy, and he was the sort of person who normally preferred to be clean shaved and dressed a bit more nicely than he was now. Grumbling a prayer to any gods that might be listening, he set off to find some work in this dingy little town.
Three houses, two saloons (it was a dingy little town that liked a good drink), and several people-on-the-street later, he had made no progress. Around this time the reader may be wondering why it was so difficult for this man to find work. The answer lay in the fact that the man’s profession was well known, and those of his profession rarely were good at anything else. Another factor could have been his appearance.
While not on his horse, the man stood at almost six and a half feet tall, with a slim yet muscular build that came from being constantly hungry and constantly moving or working. His hair, greasy and black fell down over his face in wisps and trailed down his back a few inches longer than it should have. These factors, combined with the dust and grime covering his gear, longcoat and hat all bring to mind the image of your average hired muscle, which would have been fine if that had been what he was. It would even have been fine if he’d been an outlaw, but that too was not the case. If anything they were both about as far from it as he came.
He wore a gaunt expression beneath that equally wispy beard, and his eyes, green and hungry would pierce through most peoples’ very souls, unnerving them to a degree usually only reserved for the natives and any true strangers, but this man was well known enough that he was simply considered an oddity.
The odd gentleman resigned himself to another few days without work. His remaining funds would last him long enough if he camped just outside of town, and provided another thunderstorm didn’t hit, he’d be quite comfortable there. Grumbling once more to himself, he slipped into the closest saloon, which was luckily the cheaper of the two.
“Scotch.” “Ain’t got scotch.” The bartender eyed him curiously. The bartender was presumably native, or at least of native descent. His skin was an odd color, and his hair was that strange shade of reddish brown that only appeared in the natives. “We got Cola, Juju, Mead and Gin.” Even his voice held that strange, undulating quality that the natives had. “Juju on the rocks.” “Fine, fine.” The bartender shuffled off for the appropriate ingredients for the man’s drink. Juju was one of the few reasons the gentleman even bothered with Whitecrest. It was non-alcoholic and generally tasted horrid to the uninitiated, but to those who had developed the proper palate, it was the finest and cheapest thing you could find, and only in Whitecrest. “Make that two.”
She was sitting next to him out of nowhere. The young woman could have been in her early twenties, but the gentleman was no fool. The natives were always older than they looked, and they loved to play that to their advantage. “Both of them on me.” She added, dispelling any more arguments the man could have made about her. A free drink was a free drink, after all. A free Juju even more appreciated.
He took a moment to glance her over. She had fair skin with numerous odd tattoos where he could see them—including a turtle on her left shoulder, two fish on the forearm and some sort of dragon that was coiled around her right palm—and she was wearing a sleeveless, hooded longcoat that obscured everything about her face above the nose. She also had a foreign accent and wore no shoes.
“China?” He guessed. “Genevieve.” She corrected, smirking beneath that odd hood of hers. “I’d meant where you’re from.” “Around.” And that was all he got, because the drinks soon arrived.
To comment on the taste of Juju, it’s sour and rather addictive. There is no natural cause to this addiction, and it only affects certain people. But it is quite the powerful addiction nonetheless. It’s something of a game for those that have it, as when two meet in a bar, like our pair here, it’s a well known game to see who can go longest without taking the first sip, and a slightly less well known game to see who can finish their glass last.
The air grew silent, and the gentleman glanced to Genevieve, who merely continued to smirk beneath her hood. Seconds ticked by, another patron ordered and the gentleman ended up losing, much to the native’s delight. “I had to see if it was true. Nearly half a minute. By all my ancestors, you’re quite good.” She had a slightly dreamy tone to her voice, almost amused but more aptly called distracted. “I’ve also got a job for you.”
“I was under the impression everyone in this town handled their own business.”
“It’s not that sort of job.”
“Oh? I hate to tell you I’m not in season, sweetheart.”
The native purred, running a finger over the ring of her still-full glass, “It’s a very easy job.”
“My rate is double in the off season.”
“One and a half the normal rate.”
The gentleman mulled over this, taking a long draught from his own glass.
“One and three quarters.”
“One and a half is as high as I go.”
“Plus expenses.”
“Fair enough.” She bowed, as all the natives did when closing any business transaction.
Some of them could easily pass for a settler, but they all bowed the same way. Fifty-degree angle with the ground, both hands behind their back.
It was then that she drank, downing the entire eight-ounce glass in two gulps. The gentleman was, to say the least, very impressed, and his right brow perked in question. “So what’s the job?”
“Simple,” she said. “You escort me to Fort Fairbeach.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”

That was not “it” at all.