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Josiah—Tom back in the real world—had been studying to be a barber, having earned half the necessary hours to test for his license. That world and career goal was long gone, as was the party he’d transported in with. Fondar, their magic user, got bit by a giant spider outside the Dark Heart Swamp. Failed his saving throw, so the poison took him. That happened during the first adventure. The second, Tampshius, the cleric, Krahk, the dwarven warrior and Bennie, their other magic user, failed their saving throws against the charming song emitted by a small flock of Swamp Sirens. Josiah made his save. He fought to free his friends but, as a thief, that proved a brief, futile effort. Josiah escaped with maybe one or two hit points left, and somehow made it back to Three Hills City.
After that he adventured with some NPCs, but the gold wasn’t worth the risk, so he studied to be a lay healer. Luckily his Intelligence and Wisdom scores met the minimum standards. After a brief apprenticeship, he opened up the barber shop.
He gave up on the player character life, adventuring, and blended in with the city’s NPC population.
The Player’s Guide didn’t say much about laborers seeking relief for tooth aches, or artisans wanting haircuts or shaves. Maybe the Game Master’s Guide had a section on that, but he’d always been a player, never a GM. Odd thing was—one of the many “odd things” the game world held—was that he retained intellectual knowledge from his days studying at the barber college, but couldn’t initially apply any of it. He had to obtain the skill level as a barber. That required gaining sufficient experience points to move up a rank, or level, as a thief.
In the Monsters, Maces and Magic game world, barbering included more than cutting hair and shaving beards. For better or worse, things like pulling teeth and lancing boils fell under the skill, and mandatory as part of the profession. While not exactly what Josiah wanted to do with his life, barbering was better than adventuring, facing fierce creatures with poison barbs, vicious fangs, and charm songs that left victims vulnerable to the singer’s cruel whims. Life as a barber even beat working as an urban thief, risking lethal mechanical and magical traps, ruthless guards and, surprisingly more perilous, navigating literally “cutthroat politics” within the local thieves’ guild.
Josiah dragged his battered but sturdy stepping stool over to his occupied barber chair, climbed up, adjusted his head mirror to reflect the overhead light, and said, “Open up and let’s take a look.”
He spotted the bad molar, having a cavity and looking a bit abscessed. The other teeth and gum area around the bad one looked to be in abnormally good condition. Josiah shrugged to himself. Even a good tooth could crack, or maybe some witch nailed the man with a Minor Curse. Before Josiah could explain what he saw to the big man reclined in his chair, and what it meant, the front door swung open.
“Customer,” Helga announced from her perch.
Josiah turned to see a half-goblin stride in. Like all his type, his skin appeared more muddy brown than any other color. This one’s face sported a long, pointed nose, eyes with yellow irises, and ears with pointed lobes—looking the opposite of elven ears. A textbook description from the Monsters, Maces and Magic Player’s Guide. Josiah expected little variation from that. Eye color and length of nose, sometimes, but a half-goblin could be spotted in a crowd of humans more readily than an elf, and possibly more so than a dwarf.
The short, wiry fellow wore leather armor. From the scrapes, stitching and stains, it’d seen some action. He carried a scabbarded cutlass on his left hip, a bandoleer of darts across his chest, and a canvas satchel slung over his shoulder.
A thief, if Josiah ever saw one. From his perch on the second step of his wooden stool, Josiah nodded and smiled to the customer. “This gentleman has a bad tooth. It may take a while.”
The young half-goblin thief grinned, showing his somewhat pointed teeth. “That’s okay, dude.” He pointed at the empty row of chairs. “Okay if I sit and wait?”
As was common, the half-goblin’s voice had that scratchy, sort of croaking tone to it.
The big man in the barber chair lifted himself enough to get a look at the man who’d entered. “Tell hi nn to goh.”
Josiah gently pressed down on Stosh’s shoulder until the big man relented and relaxed in the reclined seat.
The half-goblin sat down in one of the wooden chairs after pushing one next to it a little to the side. That allowed his cutlass’s scabbard to hang down between the two chairs.
“I’m Gurk,” the half-goblin said. “No worries. Like I said, I’m not in any big hurry.”
Josiah had seen the Gurk fellow before, going around the streets with a gnome. Odd. Gnomes and goblins, even half-goblins, rarely got along. He shrugged to himself and returned his attention to the man in the chair.
Josiah re-adjusted his head mirror, centering the opening over his left eye and reflecting as much light as possible into Stosh’s open mouth. “You have a cavity in one of your molars. It’s pretty bad and infected.”
He waited for the man to nod understanding. “Simple extraction—pulling it—will be three coppers. Extraction with a numbing salve, a silver. A little silver nitrate to cauterize and stem the infection comes either way.” He moved the head mirror to a position over his forehead and eyed the man, knowing he probably couldn’t afford the silver, let alone the ten gold normally charged to heal a tooth and clear up accompanying infections. “Two gold for me to cast a Minor Cure, which should take care of the tooth and weaken the infection. I’d give you an ointment to use that would soak in and finish off any infection.”
It was unlikely Stosh had ten gold, or even two, but the man would recognize the offer of a generous deal. Maintaining a reputation as a decent guy who didn’t gouge those caught in a bad situation was good business. Plus, it did a lot to steer potential trouble another direction.
The big man’s bushy eyebrows scrunched together in thought.
Josiah preferred coin, but accepted items in barter. That was what the big man was probably thinking about; what he had of value that he could live without. Higslaff’s pawn shop was down the street. Josiah usually got decent coin when he traded there.
In addition to the pawn shop’s regular business, it was a major avenue for guild members to fence stolen items. Josiah wasn’t sure how much of Higslaff’s business was legitimate, and how much wasn’t, at least in the eyes of the authorities. But appearing legitimate while masking the other half was the point, one which enabled the shop to turn a healthy profit.
Josiah and Higslaff were friends. Well, more like long-time business acquaintances who frequently referred business to each other and lunched together on a regular basis. Both were members of the local thieves’ guild. The lunches allowed them to exchange news and gossip, and ponder their occasional orders from the Guild Master, Black Venom.
Josiah heard the clomp of boots on the steps leading up to his shop’s porch. Helga announced, “Customer, customer.”
Two more men walked into the shop. One had dark skin, sported a thin mustache and wore a gray knit hat. His partner was lighter-skinned, short and stocky. Both wore heavy shirts, thick trousers and short-waisted leather jackets. From the stitching, they appeared to have internal pockets, in addition to their external ones. Each was armed with a short sword. The grips were well-worn. Mustache Man had a flanged mace slid into his belt. It didn’t really fit “the mold.” Nevertheless, Josiah classified them as thieves. He hadn’t seen the pair before but Three Hills City was a big city. Unless they’d just joined the guild, they weren’t members.
The half-goblin might be apprenticing under someone, but the other two were in their thirties. Their bearing and eyes were too assured to be apprentice thieves. Maybe adventurers?
A concern cropped up in Josiah’s thoughts. He’d heard rumors that someone might be preparing to challenge Black Venom. Some faction of the guild out of Riven Rock. Maybe these three, the half-goblin, and the two new guys—Mustache Man and Stocky Guy—were a trio working together. That had to be it.
Maybe he was being paranoid but, in the past two years, Josiah hadn’t had four customers in less than ten minutes after opening. His mind raced as he gestured toward the wall, indicating the three empty chairs to Mustache Man and Stocky Guy.
Mustache Man grimaced upon glancing over at the half-goblin thief.
Gurk, apparently unfazed, returned a friendly grin. “I’m here for a haircut,” the half-goblin said. “The barber said it’ll be a while. You’ll probably have to wait even longer.”
Stocky Guy grunted and Mustache Man replied to the young thief. “Maybe it’s you who’d rather not wait.”
Either the half-goblin missed the menacing hint, or didn’t care. Or, he was in cahoots with the other two. Whatever the case, Josiah figured something was in the works, or soon would be.
He didn’t have any large sum of coins, and his tools, while valuable, weren’t likely to be the sort of thing someone would steal and, if they did, it’d more likely be through burglary. Three men weren’t needed to case a place for something like that.
There was the Drop Room. It was concealed beyond the closet, and not discussed in the shop. Since it was used only for guild business, not many folks outside the local guild knew about it.
A sudden thought increased Josiah’s concern. The rumors of a challenge to the local guild from Riven Rock. Could be the two men, and even the half-goblin, were interested in what the Drop might hold? Normally, the room held small coin pouches for payments or payoffs, or bribes, notes for jobs, names of informants. Things like that. Usually in code. Not that Josiah ever violated the sanctity of anyone’s drop or pickup. Being a longstanding member, he just knew how things worked.
Stosh, still in the chair, reached into a pocket and pulled out a rag. The movement drew Josiah’s attention, and the muffled clank of coins suggested what was tied up in the grimy cloth.
“I will attend to you in a moment,” Josiah said to Stosh. There was no way he would turn his back on these three questionable citizens long enough to pull a tooth. He climbed down from the stool. “Kind sirs, pulling this tooth will take time and also tire me. And even with some numbing, it’s going to be a painful procedure, better administered without an audience, so to speak.”
The half-goblin nodded in understanding and made as if to stand and leave, but then his eyes shifted between the stocky and the mustached man, and he relaxed back into his chair.
The man in the barber chair began rooting around in his pocket again, but Josiah didn’t turn to see what he was doing. Putting his coins away or digging for more? If Stosh had reasonable street-sense, he might be anticipating trouble.
Mustache Man glanced over at his shorter, stocky partner, then replied, “A little blood and a few curses and groans won’t bother us.”
The two men sat, one on either side of the half-goblin.
Eyebrows rose on the half-goblin’s face as he observed Stosh in the barber chair behind Josiah. Suddenly, Josiah suspected that it might be three individuals working together, but that the half-goblin, Gurk, wasn’t party to the unfolding scheme.
Directly confronting the three men, bringing it to a straight fight, was a losing proposition. Thieves had terrible attack tables, and he was low level. Lay healers were even worse. Among all of his stats, dice-rolled so many years ago, Luck was his highest. He might be able to sneak out the back, up to his apartment, but not likely. Josiah shrugged to himself. Something would fall his way. And, if not, he had the necklace with the magical amber pendant hidden beneath his shirt. It was an heirloom item, given to PCs when they’re rolled up. The pendant’s magic offered protection, giving Josiah’s skin protection, equivalent to reducing by one point, damage inflicted by piercing or cutting weapons. Handy to avoid minor nicks and cuts on the job, and to turn the occasional dagger’s blade. If he couldn’t handle what was in store, he’d join his gaming partners in death, just a dozen and a half years later.
Josiah said to the big man in the chair, “You want it pulled then?”
Stosh nodded slightly.
“Okay.” Josiah nodded once. “Put your coins on the chair’s armrest while I get things ready.”
He walked to the counter, keeping an eye on the seated men through the mirror. From a drawer he took out a pair of pliers and slid them into his right hip pocket, along with a folded straight razor. From a shelf below he grabbed a freshly washed, but permanently bloodstained, bib. After years of service, the three bibs he used would never come clean.
He flapped the bib open and draped it across the chest of the man in the barber chair. After tying it loosely in place, Josiah picked up the three copper coins resting on the chair’s arm.
Josiah then went back to the counter and dropped the coins into a lockbox located beneath the mirror. After falling through the slit cut into the box, they clinked dully on the wooden bottom, missing the bolts that secured it to the shelf. At the same time he palmed the straight razor resting on the counter. With a faint smile, he picked up a folded hand towel, snapped it open and flipped it onto his right shoulder. Angled away from the seated men, he slid the razor into his belt, behind his apron. The same smooth action he’d practiced a thousand and a half times, if not more.
Through the mirror, the barber noticed Stosh again rooting around in a pocket. Maybe the situation, whatever that was, made the big man nervous. Was he with Mustache Man and Stocky Guy? Or worried about them? Without a hitch in movement, Josiah lifted a shallow copper bowl off of the counter and moved toward the back room, heading to where the warming kettle of water was, and also the back door that led up to his apartment.
Mustache Man, to the half-goblin’s right, stood. “Where’re you going?” The voice boomed, filled with confidence.
Josiah stopped, two strides from the back doorway. “To get some warmed water to clean my hands, and for my towel during and after the tooth pulling.” He thumbed his left hand over to point to the towel draped over his right shoulder. “Pulling a tooth’s bloody business.”
Stocky Guy leaned over and whispered something into the half-goblin’s ear. At the same time Stosh, still in the chair, sat forward. Just exactly what he was doing remained beyond Josiah’s peripheral vision.
“Thirsty,” Helga announced from her perch. “Not thirsty.”
Without glancing up at the parrot, Mustache Man said, “You’ll be staying right in here.” His voice carried authority, not unlike captains in the City Guard. He smiled, either amused by Helga, or satisfied with the situation’s unfolding, and pointed at Josiah’s hip. “And you’ll be removing that nasty dagger of yours.” His right hand gripped the hilt of his short sword while he pointed and gestured with his left. “Using your thumb and little finger.”