Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers

Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers
Sentrovasi	Nov 15 2007, 01:22 PM
White Night Posts: 278 Group: Dimension Warriors Member #1 Joined: June 3, 2007	Episode One - Prologue In Search of Pandora The first blow came unexpectedly: she had just noticed two of the assassins flinging daggers forward before the curved, horn-handled Dakri materialized before her. She threw herself back and low to the ground, feeling rather than seeing the weapons fly over her lithe frame. More House interference: Zephyr was the only House which could translocate. She cursed as she landed with a jolt, her fingers barely managing to maintain their hold on the orb. House Zephyr was the one House she’d always had problems with: her in-born reflexes had made her an ideal candidate, but as things stood, the abilities granted by the House to even the most ungifted of men put them on par with her. There were eight of them, she noticed, but even in the shadowed room she could see that their colours were different. Oh gods, she thought, this can’t be good. The Dakri which had fallen to the ground behind her disappeared: she didn’t have to even look at them to realize that: the vague tingling sensation and subsequent materialization of said daggers in their owners’ hands was evidence enough. There were three of them agents of Zephyr, clothed in a dark green; another two were of Nycta, clothed in black; and the last three were obviously of Fyrre, clothed in a dark material with red markings: no other House favoured axes, even if they were ‘lightweight’. Surveying them, she was vaguely aware of the animosity between them – an animosity she could use to her advantage. She got to her feet as the forms of the three green-robed figures began to shimmer. Tensing as she held her ground, she waited for the slight, barely noticeable tremor that would be set off once they attempted to re-materialize. There. She spun as she felt the first signature: even while hugging the orb to herself, she moved with a speed few in Gaean could hope to match: the dagger was in her right hand as she plunged it straight forward. What once was empty space was now living, breathing flesh. And she cut. Thrust, twist, out: she turned away from the disemboweled man as she lightly jumped back over his corpse: she allowed herself an inward smirk when she noticed that his comrades seemed more than a little shaken. She heard a soft gasp from a few of the others who even now were spectators to the fight. She’d learnt that the magic displaced in a translocation was minute to the point of being nearly non-existent: even now, there were few artifacts capable of detecting such an anomaly: while the cost of activating such a spell was high, its efficiency, as with most spells which interfered with space-time, meant that hardly a ripple would be noticed at the ‘dead end point’, as the target destination was known. That much she’d learnt from Thief lore and the words off books Jak had read: the young, impish boy mechanic was probably one of the few people in the Thieves’ Quarter who could read. The truth through her eyes, though, was vastly different: despite most of Terres knowing of her ineptness with regards to magic, or perhaps because of it, few supposed that she could have developed a sensitivity that outstripped most Magicians’. Jak had expressed amazement at it when she’d told him: he was like a younger brother to her, a feeling she’d shared from when she’d taken a few odd missions to buy those damned books he loved so much. He was the one who’d told her to keep it a secret: translocation was one of the most feared tools in the arsenal of Zephyr house, after all, and that small ability might save her one day. He’s always been too smart for his own good, she noted with just a little amusement as she returned to the present situation. Hasn’t stopped him from being right, though. The two green-robes seemed to hesitate for a moment: there were inaudible whispers and discreet gestures passed; and then they pressed on forward – stepping over the corpse of their dead comrade, they approached with more purpose than before. She could tell that dealing with translocation would no longer be an issue… but Zephyr was known for more than just that. They engaged her on each side at the same time, their movements swift and their attacks focused. Eyes flashing, she moved in an instant: there would be no second chances now. Bringing her own dagger up to parry the green-robe on her right, she spun so she had her back to him and pushed herself against his body. The cool swish of a blade as the second green-robe’s dagger missed her by inches was accompanied by the stumbling of the first man behind her. Not missing a beat, she reversed her hold on her dagger so it had its blade pointing downward, and then used the hilt as a club to knock the Dakri out of his hand. Spinning about the man as she kept her body pressed tight against his, she felt a certain cold satisfaction as her knife came up again in a flash, severing his jugular. His death-scream died in his throat, and became a faint gurgle as blood began to pour from his wound. His weapon hit the ground an eternity too late, with a clatter that sounded deafening in the silence of what could be best described as a tomb. Their tomb, she thought grimly. She turned for a moment to survey the other five agents: she’d been right. No two Houses would work together, let alone three. They were all to have their turn with her: their only priority would be to recover the item she’d taken – why they wanted it was obvious: it was the same reason why they’d wanted every other artifact in Vis’faren; the same reason they’d wanted the artifacts in that other construct, Myska, near Oasis, too – she didn’t know. “Get that bastard, love!” she heard one of the spectators – obviously Fyrre – laugh out loud. She cringed at his tone. At the moment, though, that singular fact gave her the upper hand. With an effort, she pushed the surprisingly-heavy corpse she held before her at the last remaining green-robe. The severed jugular still fountained blood, but he seemed hardly to care as he side-stepped the distraction, pushing it out of the way. Noticing the opening, she turned to strike. And found her thrust neatly parried by his Dakri. She stared as the man turned her blood-smeared blade aside, leaping lightly back as he launched a counterattack. She winced as the weapon caught her on the forearm she had wrapped about the orb, the light kiss of its keen edge potent enough to draw blood. The curved blade of a Dakri was not for stabbing, but for slicing, and agents of Zephyr were very adept with it. Retreating further back, she hoped he’d continue trying to press his advantage, but agents of Zephyr were less predictable than most, except maybe those of Tundra or Nycta – the man wisely kept his distance, advancing slowly and leaving no openings than rushing forward. She realized that perhaps his comrades’ deaths had prompted him to caution: a shame, but there was nothing for it. “Three men attacking a helpless girl?” she ventured, her voice sounding strange in the silence, “I see that chivalry’s pretty much dead, huh?” She meant to sound casual, but her voice sounded more nervous than anything: something she didn’t really want to let on she was. The green-robe made a sound of contempt beneath the hood he wore. “Helpless?” He left the remainder of his statement unsaid – the silence of the corpses about him was eloquent enough a speech than any he’d need to give. She shrugged. It seemed almost a ludicrous thing to do, having a conversation with a man who was about to kill her, but she needed to come up with a way around this, somehow. “And before you speak again,” the man cut her off before she could come up with a suitable reply, “I see not a girl before me… but a woman.” She’d heard the words often enough: she was barely into her sixteenth year, but that apparently made her fair game – what she hadn’t expected was the tone of frank admiration – she hated the idea, but at least men of Zephyr put it in terms which were more… palatable than the brutes of Fyrre: one of which chose that exact moment to wolf-whistle. She supposed that they’d closed the door, as well. Choosing not to answer, she cast her eyes about for a plan. A head-on attack would be playing right into his hands, while attempting to escape would leave her as easy bait for the other agents waiting impatiently for their turn. Then again, she thought with a sudden flash of inspiration, perhaps that’s exactly the diversion I’ll need. “Hey,” she tried again, “since when did Zephyr liaise with Nycta or Fyrre?” There was no reply this time, but a quickening of the step. She continued her deliberate retreat now, looking for an angle at which she could run headlong through the center of both parties: she had no doubt that it would result in a free-for-all that might get her killed… or not. They couldn’t afford to destroy the orb, of course. So she would be attacked… and then what? She could only try. “There is no escape,” the man spoke, his Dakri still held out in a defensive stance before him, “Your way lies barred. Leave the artifact with Zephyr, and I can guarantee your safety, still.” He had read her gaze, it seemed: she just hoped he hadn’t seen through her ploy. “Guarantee her safety, ser’kril?” she heard one of the other men taunt back: he used the abusive word for men of Zephyr, “I don’t think we can stand for that. We’ll kill you, then take the orb and her.” At this, the agents of Nycta stepped in: they stepped away from the shadows, but seemed like walking shadows themselves as they challenged the few Fyrre fighters. “Take the girl if you want, but that artifact belongs with Nycta, not with boors like you.” The animosity was building up far faster than she’d planned: she smirked – her plan was working, if only because of a slip on the part of her adversary. Deciding that the time was ripe, she turned and ran. If they want me, they can damned well get me themselves. The green-robe cried out a warning: it mattered less who got the artifact as long as she didn’t escape with it – Houses were easy to track, but Thieves were nearly impossible to find amidst the populace in any town. Summoning the strength of his house, he sent his Dakri at her, only a little surprised when she continued running full-tilt for the door, batting it away with her own dagger. The other agents unsheathed their weapons: Fyrre’s axes and Nycta’s daggers were weapons common enough, but like any other weapon, they were deadly in the hands of professionals. Even as she tried to advance, she found herself surrounded by the six remaining combatants: too many for her to take alone… unless – The circle closed: there was no time to think. Ducking instinctively, she flailed out with her only free hand, feeling her dagger cut flesh as she rolled: the owner of the injured leg howled as he brought his hatchet down, smashing a small crater in the ground: agents of Fyrre were not fast, but their strength and endurance knew no bounds. Still, there was no better opportunity to break the circle than the one presented to her now: brutal blows which missed their mark were no more effective than feathers in a wayward wind. Getting to her feet, she pushed herself into the man behind her. Despite his injured leg, it took almost all her weight to force the heavily-built man to stumble back. Almost immediately the others closed in on her: she deftly sliced a wrist open, causing the hatchet it held to fall to the ground, and then leant all her weight on the man behind her, pushing off with both her feet. The man fell to the ground with an audible grunt, her atop him. Plunging her dagger blindly into the solid mass below her, she rolled off of him, getting to her feet to notice that her forearm was drenched in blood. It didn’t take long for her to realize that some of it was hers. Two shallow slashes, each a long red ribbon of blood – both seemed out of place on the white skin of her arm: she realized that it’d been a long time since she’d been injured. “Krarthos’ spit, this job was definitely not worth so little gala…” she cursed as she ran towards the door. “Money?” a voice spoke. She started; she’d been too distracted to notice the magical energies which had cloaked the two agents of Nycta: now they appeared before her, barring her from the door. “Is that all you want?” She began to calm down: the fighting was over for now, if that was it. The orb was still safely nestled against her chest, her left hand holding it close to her as thought it would slip away at any moment. She very darkly reminded herself that it could. As her breathing slowed, she realized with a start that there were only two of them left – the two agents of Nycta were the only men left standing. She looked from the corpses of the other men to the two who stood before her. “There was no other way,” the agent who had spoken continued in response to her unasked question, “it is imperative that Nycta has the orb you hold.” His emotionless voice sent chills down her spine – they weren’t the words of a trained assassin, but those of an agent of death. “How much were you offered? A thousand? Two?” His voice didn’t change: if it hadn’t sounded so… normal, she wouldn’t have had to be so goddamned spooked. In the recesses of her mind she flailed about for an explanation – she was uncomfortably aware of the blood still seeping from her wounds; the sting was only just beginning to set in. “… Fifteen thousand gala,” she ventured, wondering if she’d overstepped her threshold on first bluff. If she had expected their countenances to change, though, she was mistaken. The man, who seemed to be acting as correspondent, shrugged. “Twenty thousand, then: we’ll pay you twenty thousand gala if you’ll give us the orb.” She froze. She’d only been offered a tenth of that when she’d taken the job: twenty thousand gala was a princely sum – something she could hardly hope to get in a month. “And we’ll guarantee your safe passage,” the agent continued, “you’re one of those mavericks, aren’t you – working for the highest bidder: House Nycta would have your services this one time.” She hesitated, looking down at the orb she held: a seemingly insignificant magical artifact that powerful organizations fought for – an object with a purpose she knew nothing about. Already she realized she was caught in currents she scarce understood; the shifting machinations that were empty ruins one moment and treasure troves the next, the indecipherable cryptic words that were written on the walls, and the dark agencies which would send men to their doom to quest for this relic. The dark agency that had sent her to her doom. “Well, I guess if it means so much to you…” She sheathed her blade slowly, shifting the orb from her left hand to her – The clash of steel on steel made her wince: her right arm jarred as she parried his blow, her wounds tearing and bleeding anew. The black-clad assassin seemed more than a little surprised. “It takes a dirty, insignificant Thief,” she grunted as she pushed him back, lashing out with her dagger, “to know a dirty, insignificant trick!” She pushed through, feeling the dagger cut a path of burning pain across the breadth of her back before stumbling through the door. The scary thing, she realized as she ran down the stone corridor, was that she’d almost taken the deal: she loathed the Houses with every fibre of her body – would never do anything for anyone related to them… and yet, she had almost succumbed to the lure of money. She feared she was becoming more like a Thief than she cared to be. An item worth that much to any House was an item she couldn’t allow them to ever possess. She couldn’t hear her pursuants behind her as her own footsteps echoed down the corridor, but then that wasn’t surprising: if agents of Nycta weren’t as fast as those of Zephyr, they were at least far stealthier. She was running herself ragged, but she dared not pause: she couldn’t tell if they were gaining on her or falling behind, but she had the complex and her route mapped out in her mind: there was no way either of them would be able to intercept her by any other route than the one she’d taken. And once she was back in the Thieves’ Quarter, she’d be able to hide. Just like she’d hidden when they’d looked for her, years ago. She was uncomfortably aware of her heavy breathing and loud footfalls, now. Her clothes flapped in the wind, her back almost laid bare by the dagger which had so nearly severed her spine. She was tired, and the wounds she’d sustained hadn’t helped: her mind was set on escaping and nothing else. Which was why she barely noticed when she rounded the corner and ran into a second group of agents. A helmed visage, a silver flash, and then her world went dark.


[PG-15] The Seekers · Original Fiction