Shadowrun Legends: Poison Agendas by Stephen Kenson

Author:Stephen Kenson [Kenson, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs
Published: 2017-02-13T00:00:00+00:00

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The so-called Elven District near the southern shore of Lake Union was what most Seattleites thought an “elven neighborhood” should look like. Whereas Tarislar was filled with derelict and abandoned buildings covered in a fine layer of ash from Mount Rainier, the Elven District was home to brick-front townhouses and renovated nineteenth- and twentieth-century buildings. Ivy grew in profusion across many of the buildings, and there were murals painted by metahuman artists. The whole neighborhood had an artsy, bohemian feel to it, carefully planned to attract both tourists and locals interested in elven culture.

Orion hated the place. From the moment they parked their motorcycles and began walking down the pedestrian-only streets, he insisted on pointing out to Kellan all of the Elven District’s flaws, starting with the genetically modified strains of ivy and continuing with the murals, the “traditional” elven and dwarf architecture, and the shops filled with “handmade elven crafts.”

“Yeah, handmade in little faerie tree houses,” he sneered. “More likely made in Tsimshian or Hong Kong by underpaid child labor.”

“It’s just drek for the tourists,” Kellan said, in an attempt to pacify him.

Orion snorted. “Most of them think Tír Tairngire is like faerieland or something, and Seattle has the exclusive trade agreement.”

He continued his rant by moving on to racial stereotypes, and only stopped talking because he was struck momentarily speechless when Kellan stopped in front of a shop and indicated it was the address she had displayed on her phone.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Orion muttered, looking up at the shop’s carved wooden placard. It showed a sword and hammer crossed above an anvil, with the name mithril arts arcing above it in pseudo-runic script.

“What?” Kellan asked.

“Tradfant,” Orion spat, as if that explained everything. When Kellan gave him a quizzical look, he continued. “This place caters to people who expect metahumans to be like something out of a fantasy novel. You know, elves all in flowing gossamer, carrying bows, dwarfs wearing furs and chain mail and saying drek like ‘By my father’s beard!’ It’s all a bunch of fraggin’ racist tourist crap. The worst thing is that some metahumans actually buy into this drek.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “It’s the traditional fantasy types who make it so nobody can see metas as normal people.”

“Well, this is the address the guy gave me,” Kellan said. “So behave yourself, okay?”

Orion sighed. “Fine. But I don’t know what kind of talent you expect to find in here.”

A bell jangled as Kellan opened the door to the shop. It was like stepping into the past, or onto a set for a simsense production. Or maybe the props department of a simflick. The inside was paneled in rough-hewn wood, also used for the shelving and the counter running along one side. Racks and display cases held swords, daggers, axes and other medieval weapons. Some were beautifully detailed, others much more functional looking. There were heavy shirts of fine chain links ranging in sizes from dwarf to one displayed on a troll-sized mannequin, which dominated the back corner.

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