Constantine...
Constantine of Many Tales. That was the name I was given, and the title I'd chosen for myself, the title I'd hoped to earn. Sadly, I was quickly drowned by the cost of adventure. At my lowest point, I accepted a hit job. To this day, it is my greatest regret. I sought temples and worship to forget the past, finding The Raven Queen, a benevolent goddess whose acceptance was the first I'd felt since I left my family for the intergalactic road of adventure. As a halfling, I made many acquaintances along the way, but the Grave Temples were the places that took me in as one of their own. The years I spent there were peaceful, if a bit unfulfilling. I still remember the stars twinkling so clearly in the deep skies as I slept, to the High Priest's constant dismay, on the roof of the Grave Temple of the mountain planet Tiezen.
She came to me in a dream. I wasn't sure if it was her or not, as she didn't look exactly like the statues and paintings depicted her, but she was beautiful nonetheless. Hair as black as raven feathers cascaded over an intricate mask, her form wreathed in wings darker than the Shadowfell's night. I was set free that dusk. A promise was made to me. Strike down evil and a place in her court would be mine. Forgiveness would be mine. Freedom would be mine. Of course I jumped at the chance.
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Shaking. Horrible shaking, like the fabric of the universe is tearing itself away from my own perception of the present. Red lights and sirens blaring alien warnings that only the ship's true staff could understand. Everyone is strapping in. An old man stumbles on his way to us, and two others and I run to him, dragging him to the belts before reality's final climax. We reach them, but with a gnarled grip on the railing, the old man utters a spell. A warm glow overtakes us as chaos takes the cabin. Everything goes everywhere. The cabin stops. We keep going. Silence. Prayer. Blackness.
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I awoke to the blinding sun and fine sand in my clothes. Taking stock of my wellbeing and immediate equipment, I was satisfied with my condition. Still short, hair still long and dark, and if my sense of touch is accurate, still as handsome as my vanity will allow me to believe. Looking around, I saw two other forms rising from the scorching desert sands. Both humans, one tall and toned with a hawk's eyes, and another wide and clad in armor, a halberd at his side and the apparent steel of a man that knew how to use it. I'd seen them on the ship before, but had never made their acquaintance.
"You two alright?" The hawk-eyed one called out.
"Affirmative," said the armored man, "How about you, little fella? You feeling up to capacity?"
"Yes, I've got my bearings in order," I replied wearily.
We gathered, dusted each other off, and introduced ourselves. The armored one is named Kord, Kord Battleweary XII. He looked like a military man and had the bearing to go along with it. The other called himself Vektor. This one seemed like a token drifter, his hat hung low and his duster seeming to flow and flutter without taking the wind into consideration. I introduced myself as Constantine. Once the shock wore off, I finally noticed what was truly off about my surroundings. The large trade ship we were on, where I learned we had all been hired to protect from space bandits, crash landed on this planet. There was wreckage and debris everywhere, with what I believed to be the largest whole part of the ship to be right in front of us. Humorously enough, we were partly faced by a mostly intact door, and I recognize it being one of the doors near the cargo hold. That was when realization hit me. These two were also protecting the shipment I was hired to keep safe. "Gentlemen, I must ask you. Do you know what we were hired to protect?" I asked my new companions, "if it can be salvaged, I'd like to try to find it in this mess so we can still get paid for all of this trouble."
"I did not ask for irrelevant information," replied Korg, Vektor only shaking his head and letting a grunt escape him.
"A shame then..." I mumbled, picking through the wreckage. A glint of light caught my eye and I moved towards it, my short frame finding it easy to move through the remains of the craft. I saw a man's arm, thick and strong, sticking out from a pile of rubble. Hoping that I'd found another survivor, I tried tugging the arm free. In my defense, I succeeded. I was not, however, prepared to hold a severed arm in my hands. After dropping it and catching my breath, I slipped the watch off its wrist and quickly dug a small hole to bury the arm. Hopefully it'd reach wherever the souls of dead arms go.
A dust cloud in the distance grabbed Korg's attention. Something was coming. Fast. "We have only a few minutes. Prepare for guests to arrive, you two!" he shouted. I waited to see how he would prepare himself, but he merely stood there stoically, his halberd dug into the sand beside him. Immediately realizing that this was how we would follow his own advice, I hid among some rubble and Vektor followed my lead, flanking to Kord's northern side as I took the south. A sand skiff soon arrived and 5 goblins hopped off, surrounding Kord. They were small folk, of similar size to my own. Their noses were hooked and their ears flappy, and their skin care routine was nowhere near the caliber of my own. A green Dragonborn with a big iron on his hip stood stoically atop the skiff, looking down at the soldier. His scales were roughened and sunbleached from exposure to the sun and sands, and his goggles had seen better days. the many small scars about him gave him a gruff look.
"A survivor, eh? Ah, two survivors, it seems," he said, noticing Vektor hiding a ways away with a longbow at the ready, "A shame that we'd have to dig some graves on such a fortunate day."
"No need for graves, good sir. As you can see, my comrade and I are clearly outnumbered. The chance to parley would be most appreciated, as well as the name of the man with whom I speak."
The dragonborn pulled out a crude revolver of Dwarven make, its engravings as worn as the man himself. He popped the chamber aside and counted his shots, rechambering his firearm and slipping it back into its holster with a smooth, practiced motion.
"Scrapscale's the name, offworlder... and your parley is granted."
"Wonderful. I--"
"Search the craft," Scrapscale commanded, "and make it quick."
The goblins rushed past Kord and into the ship, spilling out a minute later while screaming in terror. "What!? I don't fucking speak Goblin! Doesn't one of you speak Common!?" Scrapscale yelled. As a fluent speaker of Goblin, I was able to decipher their yelling. Some were shouts of a dragon, scaled in copper, prowling among the wreckage. Others, comically enough, mentioned how the only Common-speaking goblin had died the last time Scrapscale partook in some drunk driving with the skiff. The former deeply intrigued me, while the latter almost gave away my position, stifled laughter and whatnot. I used my Ghostwise heritage to speak into Kord's mind, translating the Goblin's speech. To the large man's credit, he maintained his calm, though I was able to detect a nod of acknowledgement.
He approached the opportunity with gusto. "If you'll allow me, Scrapscale, I can translate for you what they're saying," he began, searching for an opening, "and it seems that you're out of luck."
"How so?" He demanded, the goblins already wearing his patience razor-thin.
"There's nothing salvageable in there," Kord tried, his eyes challenging the man to defy his words. Scrapscale stared Kord down for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. The look on his face, however, told us everything we needed to know. Scrapscale was done hearing us out. He drew his gun as Kord drew a handaxe. The chaos began anew.