The Guild Storybook

The what-a-what fanfics, now? >____>

xD Well, I dunno about fanfics - never was that good at them, OOC is hard to avoid - but this'll be an excellent little place for all 'em indepth backstories that're otherwise only referred to on profile pages and in RPs and suchlike.

Except in Cap'n Hunty's case, because I've never figured her story out beyond little bits and pieces xD So you'll get a nice tidbit from about ten years into the past, because I had free time last night and quite frankly missed having this particular gang around.

---

"Hey there, Pete!"

The small tavern by the main road to Dunburrow and near the crossroads that led to two of the biggest villages in the area was, as usually at this hour, full of people. Men bustled in and out, shouting greetings to each other, and none of them forgot to greet the tavernkeeper, the big stout red-faced man behind the counter.

"Ahoy there, Pete, how's business today?"

The barman, busy as always but somehow never failing to notice a newcomer and never failing to reply to a greeting, always seemed to do many things at once. He was constantly cleaning mugs, pouring beer, cruising between tables to deliver drinks and roaring cheerful hellos back to the newcomers, sometimes over his shoulder while his back was turned to the door.

"How many rats in your grub today, Pete?"

"Improves the taste!" Pete shouted back cheerfully over the laughter in the tavern as the grub found its way on one table after another. The people of Dunburrow weren't a choosy folk and the food was tasty in this inn even by picky standards.

"I'll have my usual, Pete!"

It was never questioned how exactly Pete remembered the usual of every single taverngoer, especially those who'd only been there twice. His memory never seemed to fail, he could chat for hours about events that'd happened thirty years ago without getting a single detail wrong, and he was only forty two years old.

"I'll have another one, Pete!"

Or so he'd always say.

HELLO, PETE.

The hubbub in the tavern seemed to fade and muffle a little. This voice, deep and heavy like the sound of a brass gong deep in underground catacombs, always commanded a zone of silence around it. Nonetheless, nobody ever seemed to pay any attention to that voice, apart from the general uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right somewhere near the counter... but hey, I have a mug of beer, what's to worry about?

The barman, of course, paid attention to everything.

"You're early tonight," he said, not having lost an ounce from his cheerful demeanor. "Want a beer? It's on the house."

The seven-foot skeleton in a black robe turned empty sockets towards him, then away again as a gleaming bright blue scythe was leaned against the counter. NO, THANK YOU.

"You alone tonight? You don't usually show up alone, what with you never drinking anything." The barkeeper sent two mugs of beer sliding along towards two young farmboys who had showed up next to the skeleton and were currently looking somewhat confused and distraught, as if something was terribly wrong but they couldn't figure out what exactly.

WAR SHOULD BE HERE SHORTLY, said Death. I SENT HIM A MESSAGE.

"Ah," said Pestilence. "Not your regular kicking back in a bar after a long day's hard work, then."

Death, who had always considered kicking back a thing that happened to other people, gave the retired Horseman a stoical look. Pestilence had a long - very long past in the line of business that, quite simply put, kept the universe in order. The job of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was a little-known, yet crucial one and the Horsemen on that job had become a fairly close-knit bunch over the centuries. When Pestilence was made redundant a couple months back due to the immense progress made by the healer mages of the land, he retired to this grubby little bar near the border of Dunburrow, but he still kept in touch with his former colleagues, and they kept in touch with him.

THAT TOO, said Death, leaning on the counter, BUT THERE'S ALSO SOMETHING WE'D LIKE TO DISCUSS. SOMETHING'S CHANGED RECENTLY, AND I CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT EXACTLY ON MY OWN.

"That so?" Pestilence looked genuinely curious. Death was the oldest and most experienced of the Horsemen, there wasn't much he couldn't figure out.

IT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE, Death said, looking as sheepish as a living skeleton is capable of. SOMETHING COMPLETELY NEW IS AROUND.

Pestilence grinned, vigorously scrubbing a particularly resistant mug. "Neeeeew and a bit alaaaarming, there must be something there that wasn't there befooooore..."

SHUT IT. Death turned his skull a little, as if listening to something going on outside. The clatter of hooves and the jingle of reins was common in front of the tavern, but apparently there was something special in the quality of this particular hoof and rein clanking, because Pestilence also raised his head in anticipation. And indeed, a minute later heavy footsteps echoed back from the oaken floorboards as a newcomer strode into the tavern.

"Ahoy, gentlemen!" he roared in a voice that made the windows rattle and sent the woodworms falling down from the ceiling beams but for some odd reason seemed to go unnoticed by the people in the tavern. "How're you this fine evening?"

Pestilence winced, thankful for the solid protection of his bar counter as War, a huge muscular viking in thick plate armour locked Death in a happy bonecracking bear hug. The reaper patted him on the back a little uneasily and looked thankful to be released as the new Horseman rendered the protection of the counter null and void, plunging over it to give Pestilence a hug to match. He was the kind of guy who fills the entire room with his presence, and anyone who didn't know how Horsemen and their plane of existence works would've wondered why nobody seemed to be paying any attention to the trio by the counter.

"Still got this mountain beer?" War asked, plopping down on a stool that creaked in protest. "That right stuff?"

War's 'right stuff' was beer brewed by the secret recipe of viking tribes that'd inhabited the coasts of the NTWF a couple centuries ago, considered to be the best beer in the world, and disappeared completely into the mists of time as the viking tribes disappeared, but for Pestilence space and time were just another dimension. The beer he poured into the mug smelled like the nectar of gods and looked like a photoshopped-to-death beer commercial. It wasn't so much beer but the idea of beer, the vision of what real beer should be like.

"Was up north today," War said conversationally, wiping froth off his blond beard. "Bit of a skirmish among the tribes up there again, you know, the usual. I had a look at my sword while I was working, and things're getting all warped. This what you called me for?"

YES, said Death. EXCEPT IT'S NOT WARPED. IT WAS WARPED BEFORE, NOW IT SEEMS TO BE... WARPED THE OTHER WAY.

There was a confused pause - which, among Horsemen, says a lot - then the three pulled out their respective tools of work: War unsheathed his sword, Death pulled out an hourglass from the depths of his robe, and Pestilence took a white circlet off a hook on the wall. There was a moment of silence during which the tavernkeeper didn't say a word to the entering farmers and their greetings.

"Maybe I'm losing my touch," Pestilence said, puzzled, "but it looks fine to me."

THAT'S THE THING, Death said patiently. IT SHOULDN'T BE-

"Like, I said hi," a disapproving voice said right next to them. The three Horsemen nearly jumped, then turned to stare at... well.

Imagine a skeleton. Now cover it with skin. Now give it thin bleached hair, expensive designer clothes, and quite a lot of mascara. What you get will look disturbing even if you're prepared, and the three hadn't expected to meet her of all people in this place at this time.

"Famine," War said, eyes wide, quickly trying to regain himself. "Wow. That's a surprise."

While Death and War were, due to the nature of their work, rather close colleagues who worked together often, Famine was more of a solo artist. Not only was she the only female Horseman, she was also the only one who'd started out as a human. Technically, she was dead, and looking at her it wasn't hard to figure out what she'd died of, but she had a strong sense of duty and was generally well-liked by her colleagues. However, since famines weren't common in the prospering land of Dunburrow, she didn't show up often.

"Like, can I have a Perrier?" she asked with a sunny smile, resting her exquisite Armani jeans on the stool next to War's. No country on the face of the NTWF had ever seen a bottle of Perrier mineral water but that never stopped Pestilence when it came to getting a colleague a drink, and a Perrier she got.

"Like, you're totally not gonna believe this," Famine trilled, sipping her water and beaming back at the other Horsemen. She'd been a top class fashion model before her untimely death on the catwalk but that never seemed to have done much to smoothen her valley girl drawl. "We totally have a new Horseman."

There was a very long pause filled with a lot of "...what?", quite a bit of "how did this formerly-human girl figure this out on her own while we were only halfway to the truth?" and a huge load of "...really, what?".

Then the three exploded at the same time.

"How can this-" Pestilence began.

CAN'T BE! Death boomed. His voice always sounded like booming, but this time it was clear that he meant it as booming.

"I should've known!" War exclaimed. "The universal balance! The same happened when ol' Famine retired- you were saying?"

While the Horsemen were always considered equal, Death was one of nature's great attention-hoarders. You couldn't gloss him over when he wanted to talk, and now it looked like he was bubbling with emotions, something that had never happened to him.

WE'RE THE HORSEMEN, he said heavily, every syllable dripping with ice. WE'RE EQUAL. WE WORK SEPARATELY, BUT ARE A TEAM. WE KNOW EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS ON THE PLANE OF THE HORSEMEN. WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO DECIDE HOW TO WORK. AND WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW WHO WE WORK WITH.

The other three nodded slowly, now getting the point. When old Famine retired and it turned out that there was still a need for him but he could no longer be contacted because he'd cut off all ways to get to him, Death had consulted with War and Pestilence and handpicked the new Famine himself, bringing her in minutes after her collapse on the catwalk. Granted, it'd been a quick decision and they'd all had their doubts about appointing a human girl - albeit a dead one, and very experienced in the world of hunger, bluntly put - but the girl had proved herself. Experience came with time and the job wasn't difficult. But the higher-ups had no right to interfere with the hiring process. Well, okay, they had the right, that's why they were the higher-ups, but the Horsemen should at least have known that it had happened.

The reaper seethed for another few moments, but then cooled down. It was hard to seethe in fury when sitting next to a human girl casually sipping a Perrier. Her complete coolness in the face of an angry Death brought the fury factor down by far too many points.

"Can't change it now, already been totally done," she said happily. If anything, she looked proud that she'd been able to shock the others.

"How did you find out?" Pestilence asked, hanging the circlet back on its hook.

"Oh, like, there's this angel, right, and he totally likes me," Famine said, preening herself in the additional light of this little fact, "and he bought me a drink at the bar today when I was done with work, right, and sorta told me in order to try and get on my good side cos I've always totally given him the cold shoulder."

This garnered an additional moment of confused silence, because angels were not so much 'he' but creatures whose genders... probably existed but were never quite openly discussed because it always proved to be a no-win topic, and it was very hard to imagine what any of them would possibly find in Famine. But then they swung right back to the more important matters.

"So the higher-ups know," War said, glaring down into his beer with far more anger than the beer had ever deserved. "And they didn't tell us before?"

"They don't actually know, like, not completely," Famine said, now more serious. "It's like the guy showed up by himself, right, and the higher-ups are still totally confused about it and trying to figure out what to do with him. While he's already working."

"Yeah, that has me confused too," Pestilence admitted. "Horsemen can't just... show up. We fill the blank. I didn't leave a blank behind-"

"-except the need for the Fourth Horseman-" War interjected.

"-right, and that means that he doesn't have a real blank to fill."

THERE'LL BE OTHER BLANKS, said Death. WITH HUMANS, THERE'S ALWAYS OTHER WORK. BUT HE SHOULD'VE-

There was a pause, during which the other Horsemen gave Death an anticipating stare. "Well?"

HE'S COMING HERE, said the reaper. WE'LL FIND OUT SOON.

There was a crash of thunder outside. Some of the visitors hurried outside to get home before the storm.

"Him," Pestilence said disapprovingly, turning to scrub another mug. "Showoff." The others didn't question that info; they knew that weather was part of Pestilence's expertise.

brrr-rrrrrrRRRRRRR-RRRRRRRRRRR

War shot a look at his sword, his eyes glazing over, looking at something in some other dimension.

"No horse," he said just as disapprovingly.

Death, a born traditionalist, turned his head slowly. NO HORSE?

"Looks like... a Harley," said War.

RRRRRR-rrrrrrr-bopbopbopbop-bomp.

The combined stare of the four Horsemen at the tavern's doorway would've made any entering human spontaneously combust, but the man who strode in through that door a minute later was, as their senses told them at once, not a human. In this world of magic, swords, farmland and sailships, the combo of a leather jacket, blue jeans and sunglasses alone was a dead giveaway, but in addition to that, a Horseman can always tell another Horseman. The new guy had shoulder-length black hair, a lazy grin and a certain air of overflowing self-confidence to him. He had a look around the bar, drew instant conclusions from the colorful group by the counter, and strode over.

"Nice place," he said. "Well, hello there, coll-leeagues. Heard you had a vacancy."

The Horsemen stared back at him with the collective semi-friendly, semi-cautious expression of people who are already biased beyond redemption and don't think there's anything that can waive it, but are willing to make an effort so as to not look like jerks.

SEEMS SO, Death said - the champion of showing no emotion. I'M DEATH. AND YOU ARE?

"Ah, the scythe-and-bones classic," said the newcomer, still grinning. "Would've guessed. I'm TMC. Hey, what's the beer like in this grubby little place? You, barkeeper- oh, hey, you're part of the picture too?"

"Pestilence," Pestilence said rather icily. "Pleasedtomeetcha."

"So the predecessor," TMC said without a blink - not that it would've showed behind the shades. "Odd career choice. Well, get me your best beer then."

He did, namely the same viking beer War had got. His opinion of the guy was getting worse by the minute, but he wasn't going to let him insult his beer on top of all that.

"I've had worse," the newcomer admitted after a sip. "Yeah, heard you have a vacancy, and about this whole thing with the universal balance and the world going boom when it doesn't have four Horsemen, so I figured, hey, let's give them a hand." He waved his beer mug around as he spoke, leaning on the counter at the same time, and seemed to be completely oblivious to the chilly atmosphere in the conversation - or simply choosing to ignore it. "So you must be War over there, bit of a dead giveaway, and you, whoah, Famine, I take it, even more of a dead giveaway." He bent towards the girl in a remarkable fail of subtlety. "I believe we'll become very good friends, wouldn't you agree?"

Famine gave him a classic 'like, ew' grimace as the other three Horsemen puffed up in an equally classic 'leave our girl alone, sunovawhatsit' manner.

"So what do you do?" War asked, his voice a badly veiled growl. "What's your name stand for?"

"I'm what you could call a modern fear," TMC said cheerfully, ignoring the second question. "I do, well, this."

He made a quick, casual-looking motion with the fingers of the hand that wasn't currently lifting the beer mug to his mouth.

-time froze.

The noise in the tavern went on undisturbed as the four Horsemen found themselves trapped in time, unable to move, unable to do anything, without a single twitch of a single cell in their bodies - not that they needed it to live, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was the most helpless feeling in the entire universe.

Time snapped back into place. The Horsemen relaxed, shooting confused stares at their new colleague.

NOT THE... KIND OF DEMONSTRATION I'D LIKE, Death said, radiating chill all over.

TMC grinned at him. "Saved the words, didn't it? Well, that's what I do. Time and suchlike. Something people always miss, and kill, and stretch, and redefine. I control it. Fun stuff, really."

OUR WORK IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FUN, Death said with what managed to come off as a working scowl, despite his lack of facial features.

"With you, of course not," TMC agreed. "With me, it's pretty cool. Hey, I'll have another one of this, okay?"

"That'll be thirty shinies for the first mug first," Pestilence said, his voice an oasis of perfect calmness.

"What?" The biker stared back at him, his thick shell of confidence cracking for the first time. "Hey now, man, you're charging me? We're colleagues, after all."

"Mmmmno," said Pestilence, smiling at him. "I'm retired. No more horsemanship for me. I need more mundane ways to make a living, and I've a wife and a kid, thirty shinies, please and thank you."

"Well, fine then," TMC backed off. "Put it on my tab."

"You don't have a tab."

"Start one."

"There goes the neighborhood," War grumbled into his beer. Subtlety had never been part of his nature - because diplomacy hadn't yet reached any remarkable levels - and he liked Pestilence's bar.

"Oh, come on now, boys," said TMC, already ignoring the money question. "We work together, after all. Mankind is at our mercy. We're the Great Four Horsemen - or, well, you should really upgrade from the horses, smelly and disagreeable beasts, the lot of them, and besides," his arm wrapped itself around Famine's shoulders, "you would definitely look good on a bike-"

Famine's bony fist landed square in his face.

"She used to just say 'like, get your dirty hands off me'," War said with a badly hidden grin as TMC staggered back with a heavy nosebleed, "but that never works on anyone, so I showed her a couple tricks."

TMC, glaring daggers at the girl who'd casually turned back to her Perrier as if nothing had happened, muttered something that didn't sound quite clear through his pinched-together nose.

Death's hands were on the scythe's snath all of a sudden.

WHAT WAS THAT WORD?

Silence reigned. All the humans in the tavern fell quiet one after another, trying to figure out what just happened and why they all felt like someone had just walked over their grave. A mass grave, at that.

"Outside, boys," Pestilence said. Those words were heard often in bars, and this particular bar wasn't an exception, and nobody ever defied it, even when his voice didn't contain this steely ring that it had at the moment.

There was a pause, then TMC straightened his back. There was no more blood and his face didn't have a single bruise on it.

"Oh, I won't fight him," he said with the already familiar grin. "You'd need a new Death too soon. Adios, brighteyes."

He left in chilly silence. It was broken by the 'wroooooom-bopbopbop-brrrrrrr-RRRRRR' of the bike, then seeped back as the bike's roar faded, and was eventually overcome by the everyday sounds of the tavern.

The Horsemen turned to look at Death who looked somewhat distraught.

I'D FEEL BETTER, he said, IF I DIDN'T KNOW THAT HE WAS RIGHT.

"He's better than us," War said bitterly.

NO, Death bit at once. HE'S STRONGER THAN US. BUT NOT BETTER.

"The fella doesn't know much about horsemanship," Pestilence said, having regained his cheerful composure and cleaning mugs again in his usual happy air of 'all in all, none of my actual business'. "Not really one of us. A careerist, s'what he is. Came from some distant dimension, saw a vacancy here, filled it, overrode the higher-ups - can't be that hard, you know how tied up they always are in paperwork and rules and blah, easier to confuse than a drunk rat on a nightclub dancefloor."

"And now he'll turn our world into his playground," War growled, emptying his beer mug.

WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT, Death said grimly.

"Because, like, there's always a way, right?" Famine asked. Her voice was a little shaky, but it was generally hard for anything to really get to her, she was too happy-go-lucky for that.

YES, Death simply said. WE'LL SEE WHOSE WORLD THIS IS.