The first time Gilroy Tanner turned down a shady job from a client was about a year back. After turning it down, he cracked a wheel on his wagon and had to take small jobs that could be done by a single man. It wasn't until he got it fixed that he was informed of the accident being caused by sabotage. The second time, he got into a shootout with the desperate would-be clients with strange tattoos. He only took a grazing shot to the arm. One of his horses wasn't so lucky, but then neither were the two men who lacked the courtesy to accept his refusal. This time, the old saying was proved true.
Third time is the charm.
Of course, Gilroy thought to himself, those two other jobs seemed like the sort of thing that could get an honest man into trouble. Gil, as his associates knew him, tried to avoid trouble as often as possible. He didn't ask too many questions, but he had learned to sniff out a bad job when it was offered. He wanted to keep things simple because complicated jobs tended to make for complex situations. Situations that got real tricky, real fast.
After the shootout, word had spread to Gil's associates and prospective clients were warned up front to keep their offer simple, their instructions reasonable, and their pay half up front. So this client did just that. Despite his offer being simple, his down payment handsome and heavy with promise of more upon delivery, and his otherwise polite demeanor, something about him didn't sit right with Gil about the client.
He was old, even for those pointy eared folk from Garil to the Northwest. His wrinkles seemed almost too numerous to count, and despite a drooping chin he could tell that the man would have been quite a charmer back in his day. For all he knew, the man could have been some sort of noble. It struck Gil as odd that the man had a type of long cane or walking stick with him, but did not seem to need it. In fact, if the man in front of him didn't seem older than the tree his strange, ornate cane was made from, he would seem to move with more nimble vigor than men a quarter of his age.
Well, assumed age. Admittedly, Gil didn't know exactly how much different Garilise were from humans. They tended to be a bit shorter than their human counterparts, their ears noticably pointier, and their eyes sometimes came in more exotic colors than humans' do. But outside of that and the fact that people called them elves behind their backs, Gil knew precious little of the finer details of their culture or biology.
The old man, introducing himself as Seranti, promised the job was simple, so simple he would carry the items himself if he didn't have business in the other direction from where he was sending the cargo. That cargo being a box of well read books and a small square parcel that was deceptively heavy for its size. Nothing impossible to carry by hand, but a little more tiring than is normal for a box about three hands wide and two hands tall.
The job seemed so simple. So why did Gil still feel like it was another shady job? Seranti warned in an exceedingly polite way that almost sounded like a veiled threat not to open the package. He also cautioned against reading the books, but if Gil insisted upon reading one it had to be one of the books that weren't sealed with a lock. That didn't bode well, and felt worse when Seranti pulled out one of the locked tomes, it had 3 locks wound through solid metal rings keeping shut a leather binding extending from the back cover. The thing seemed made from some sickly pale leather that made Gil's neck hair stand on end as if it weren't supposed to be in his presence. When the old Garilise offered Gil a chance to handle the book to test the strength of the locks, he declined. Rather than be offended, the old elf seemed pleased, placed the book back inside the crate and covered it with a canvas sheet.
No sir, this was definitely some kind of shady job. But Gil couldn't quite put his finger on just why. That was the line of reasoning that led him to shake off his doubts and accept the offer. That and a rather hefty debt he owed to a man named Nosclave. In fact, when this job was finished the reward would be enough for Gil to pay back his debt to Nosclave and have a nice sum leftover. Assuming he could shake the feeling his cargo sent down his spine, or the smug, amused look Seranti gave him when he declined to handle the book. The same feeling as every bad job were being conveyed in that smile. His intuition filled in the blanks. Unspoken issues, problems sure to crop up, complications waiting to break Gil's treasured simplicity.