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| [PG-15] The Seekers; Set in Gaean [NaNoWriMo 2007 Entry] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 15 2007, 01:21 PM (459 Views) | |
| Sentrovasi | Nov 15 2007, 01:21 PM Post #1 |
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White Night
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I thought you all might like to know exactly what I'm doing this month for the event which I'm sure at least one of you must've heard of... the NaNoWriMo, where we attempt to write 50000 words in a month. I'm 12000 words behind schedule, but meh, this'll just be a good way for me to get inspiration to keep writing, I guess. Now I'll just copy the whole code over from another forum I put it on. The Seekers - Contents Episode Zero
Episode Zero The Seeking The gleam of a steel knife in the darkness confirmed her suspicions. The question wasn’t a difficult one to answer: kill or be killed. It was one of the perennial questions of life. Questions with only one answer: questions which prompted decisions which cut, like a blade, through any loose threads which might have once held up a bridge one might no longer cross. Questions which left one no time to think; only to move: to act, so as to live. So why was this paragraph so damned long? She leapt to a side, turning her body so the dagger only caught the side of her open vest: she hardly felt any resistance as it tore a neat slit across it, so keen was its blade. The rush of wind which succeeded the slash was a chilling reminder of how close it’d been to actually wounding her: her skin seemed to tense against the deceptively gentle caress which threatened to numb her senses. She hadn’t expected any of this… Then again, why shouldn’t she have? She barely had time to chastise herself as she dodged a second slash from her adversary: he was nimble, but not especially well-trained. Leaping back, she watched as his wild swing overbalanced him just a little: with the proper encouragement… She unsheathed the slim knife she’d strapped against her thigh as she made to attack, herself: if she couldn’t take him out, she’d have no chance of getting any further with the mission. At the same time, she knew that any commotion would force her to retreat. Killing an agent was enough cause for her to have come in the first place, but she knew well enough that her client would not take the same view. With trained dexterity, she brought the hilt of the knife crashing down into the nape of his neck, at the base of his skull: the concussion would probably last long enough for her to get in and out. Probably, she reminded herself, but remember what happened the last time you relied on that word. Cursing under her breath, she reached out to pull the man’s shirt up. She hesitated for a moment, not because she was conscious of the sexual implications, but because she couldn’t help but wonder if his House had warded him especially. Tentatively, she reached out to touch him: there were none of the familiar buzzing sensations which indicated House interference. Reassured, she lifted his shirt, tracing a line down his vertebrae with a single finger. It was a nice back, she thought as she lifted the dagger again. She found the bone she wanted: it collapsed without too much of an effort. The man would never walk again. If it was any consolation, though, his back still looked quite as nice as before. --- Of course the other Houses would have sent their own agents, she reminded herself angrily: she should have realized long ago that any important job would always be fraught with competition: not the friendly contests like the ones at Yul’cet or the Dawn-Waking Festival: they’d greet you with smiles, just the same, but they’d be just as likely to cut you a new one in your neck. That’s how it is, she half-thought amusedly, we bare our teeth in a smile like those damned Varos do in a snarl. The corridor was silent, now, and given her heightened senses, that was saying something. That other had only been able to sneak up on her because of House interference: Shadow Walking was an ability she’d never dared underestimate: even if she’d managed to sense the interference before he’d managed to kill her, her own reflexes had barely saved her from the first attack. She was uncomfortably aware of the torn vest slung about her shoulders like so many strips of cloth: Krarthos’ bile, she’d spent gala on the outfit when she could’ve just as easily stolen it: she’d meant it as a reward for herself. And now it was ruined. Just as well, a small voice within her spoke up, red never was your colour. Sighing inwardly – even the slightest sound she made would have betrayed her – she continued her navigation of the maze of corridors with renewed vigour: the fact that an untrained agent had managed to get so close was enough of a warning for her to want to stay on her toes; initiates were rarely sent alone. She rounded another corner at a pace which seemed less like running or walking than gliding: her eyes roved from one shadow to the next, trying to discern any suspicious figure from the darkness which was broken only by the moonlight which filtered through the narrow slits which passed for windows in this fortress. For years, Vis’faren had been little more than another odd ruin: one of those immense buildings that looked intriguing from afar, but were little more than crumbling stones when examined closely. There were no treasures, ancient writings, not even a Welcome to our Happy Home sticker: it was popularly referred to as Efis’faren – “wasted journey”, in the ancient tongue. Its proper name had known no true significance, even if it was the only confirmed fact about the construct. Until now, she reflected. It had been day when the immense ziggurat had begun glowing, but it still shone noticeably: rough, worn rock had never been too reflective a surface. The glow brought with it a metamorphosis: as though it were a giant puzzle box, the great slabs of stone had begun sliding away. Its unnatural movement was made all the more surreal by the silence which had accompanied the shifting of its massive walls. There had been no sound, no vibrations and not even the slightest impression made in the ground under it when the transformation had finally come to a halt. What there were, though, were rumours: countless multitudes of words perpetuated by the presence of the ubiquitous street-ears and the many coin-purses behind them. Books of history were consulted, to peer into the ruin’s obscure past; books of prophecy were consulted, to understand what this portended for the future. Both were singularly unhelpful: the building had always been there: a relic of the Age of Mysteries, and an enigma that none could – or would – unravel. The possibilities, of course, had not been lost to the Houses: a whole new series of passages had been revealed: passages which had never been explored; which had, to all appearances, never been walked in by any man… but then they must have, or who’d have built it? But there were others besides the Houses: relic collectors or the curious rich; people who would take just as keen an interest in the possibilities… and greater interest in their lives. House agents were merciless; the reputations of House Nycta and Sanctus struck as much fear into the people as their actual deeds: Nycta was the Shadow and Sanctus the Divine, but both were as efficient at killing, and as apt at covering their tracks. To that purpose, Thieves were hired – they were no organization, but a collective name for the mercenaries which were treated as dregs which left a singular, distasteful aftertaste in the cup of tea that was society. If the tales were to be believed, the Thieves would sell your soul for a mug of ale, and then sell their own for a refill. It was thus that whenever the upper castes required their services, the irony would not be lost on them. While they were by no means organized, the seedy taverns were headquarters enough for the most of them: job notices were pinned to boards behind the counter, while a few of the more experienced Thieves would be affiliated to one tavern or the other. The income the rich provided them was fortunate, though: the taverns had yet to declare souls an acceptable form of payment. Thieves and agents, she thought to herself, a fine complement this evening. If it was any consolation, she had a good idea of what she was looking for: a plain, wooden door with a strange insignia cut into it – an insignia which would match the one stitched into the handkerchief he’d given her. She supposed he’d sent a runner ahead of her the previous day: the ruins had already been open three days, but the first few nights were always for reconnaissance: checking for wards, mapping the floors and discovering possible hidden chambers always took time. That things were heating up so fast was another sign that the ruins held items of considerable interest. Not that that was any of her concern. She removed the ragged piece of cloth from where she’d tucked it into her top, examining the door in front of her as she did: a circle with seven lines radiating from it, the tips of which ended about the two ovals on either side of the diagram, and a diamond which bordered the circle. She frowned for a moment, and then turned the cloth at a right angle. It was the right door, then. It was perfectly nondescript, built into the side of the wall in a recess deep enough so the shadows hid it from view. It was perfectly unnoticeable: which was probably its single weakness – anyone would have been struck by its singular ordinariness: in such a place of mystery, there was little chance it would have been overlooked. But its peace had been undisturbed: the ring which served as the handle for the door was coated with a layer of dust thick enough to match the condition of everything else in the place. The untouched cobwebs, the absolute stasis of the place hinted that this door had never been approached, let alone opened. She would change that. … Vis’faren… Lost in a moment’s contemplation, she felt a slight amusement touch her. For years, it had been ignored by all, but now they had become its namesake. “The Seekers,” she whispered, “and that’s all we are.” Pushing the handkerchief back down into her top, she reached out for the door handle, feeling layer upon layer of dust fall away as she pulled at it. The feeling was clean, in a way: it wasn’t grime or dirt, but a clean, dry powder which coated her palms in gray. Bracing herself with a hand against the wall, she pulled. The door swung open without a challenge: the lack of resistance unbalanced her, and it was only her natural dexterity that kept her standing when it gave. She was surprised: it opened far too easily for a door that had remained shut for so long. The room within was exactly as he’d described it: for all the humbleness of the door, what lay on the other side was beyond words. It was a high-ceilinged stone chamber, but the walls might well have been made of marble for the way they shone in the light cast upon them by the torches which hung from brackets at the sides. “Torches…?” she murmured, approaching the one closest her cautiously. As she let its flame flicker shadows across her face, she realized something other than the fact that torches could never have burned for thousands of years. The torch gave off no heat. It flickered without sound; burnt with no smoke: without the least indication that it was burning at all. It provided light, but that was all. She wondered just what it meant as she turned toward the altar. The chamber was large, but it was, for the most part, empty. The ground was wood, but lacquered in a way she was unfamiliar with. The smoothness of the walls, floors, and the complete immaculateness of the place seemed… otherworldly. The strange structure which took up most of the space at its center only added to the overall effect: one of intrigues and secrets. Secrets she’d rather keep a damned good distance from. It wasn’t made of any material she’d seen before: that much was certain. The structure, an altar set at the top of a pillar with steps cut into it, was made of a luminescent, vaguely translucent stone that reflected none of the light thrown upon it by the torches. It left no shadow, despite its apparent solidity, and seemed to exist apart of the rest of the room. Intricate designs weaved across its surface: its surface undulated in a series of swells and dips which gave it the appearance of water, frozen not in substance, but in time. Its scalloped edges were fine enough to appear smooth, and the many lines which spanned its surface – spreading in whorls and stars; crisscrossing in myriad patterns – were carved so exquisitely into the material that it was hard to imagine that they had been put there at all – she could almost fool herself into thinking that they had always just been. And she recognized some of the designs, too – for they were designs: constellations like Narudin and Sankutos; fantastic creatures almost too lifelike for their reality to hold them in their prison; symbols and runic scripts which ran every way across every available space. Logic told her there was no pattern in their placement; or even in their subjects – the figures and scripts seemed to have been randomly drawn. She found her eyes drawn to a Terrean script: a single sentence she recognized instantly. It was from a fairy-tale she’d read as a child. “Än pas mös’il insile inde…” she breathed, her accent flawless, “so the moles kept on digging.” Other scripts seemed just as cryptic, if not more so. But even as she turned her eyes to study them, something at the back of her mind reminded her that this was none of her business. She shook her head clear of the confusing thoughts uppermost in her mind now: she had no wish to get involved in any of the intrigues which foolish adventurers constantly lusted over, or desired to participate in anything to do with the Houses at all. Her mission was simple: retrieve a plain, non-descript orb from where it rested in the altar. Her skin tingled as she approached the imposing pillar before her. Simple indeed. She had never been on good terms with magic: she was better than most at sensing its presence, sure, but that was because she’d want to avoid it. House interference was something she particularly loathed, but she would never forget the time a well-meaning mage had managed to burn the skin entirely off her left hand – magical artifacts and spells would go haywire around her for no apparent reason whatsoever: she’d been banned from entering the Wizards’ Quarter for that purpose. The Houses had been more than a little interested in her, but she had ways of getting away from them. For her part, she thought she shared its sentiments with regard to their mutual relationship: she only wished she could be the one to do the electrocuting, burning and freezing instead. Her client, though, had assured her that the handkerchief would be more than effective in nullifying her apparent magical incapacity. She’d thought at the time that he seemed far too prepared for the eventuality for it to be mere coincidence… but asking questions was not her prerogative: he’d promised her a thousand gala for the orb, and money had its way of smoothing the rough corners out. Trying to ignore her misgivings, she began to climb the steps towards the altar. Crossing the threshold felt like stepping through a veil of ice. She started involuntarily as she instinctively stepped back and out of the structure. She rubbed her hands against her arms as feeling flooded back into her nerves. It didn’t hurt, but damned if it didn’t ghost her. She made a quick sign: her hand went to her temple and then across her chest – a perversion of the gesture of thanks traditionally used in times long past, this was meant to ward off ill luck. Tentatively, she reached forward with her hand, pushing it past the invisible threshold. The icy feeling washed over her again: she resisted the urge to shudder until it passed. Wincing, she stepped through it, herself. That this barrier was one she could not detect at all indicated that it wasn’t a very strong spell. Or, she reminded herself darkly, that it’s exceptionally strong, and your life’s just been shortened by another ten years. A wan smile crossed her face for a moment, making her seem somewhat pensive. Ten, fifteen, twenty years… none of it really mattered. The more popular a Thief was, the shorter he normally lived… and she, Äris Windblade, was one of the most desirable Thieves on the Western Continent. In more ways than one, she thought disgustedly, glad that she had never to apply her distinctions past killing. Thieves rarely had last names: only those who commanded respect would be gifted with names which suited the skills they were known for. Her skill with the dagger and her reflexes was something of a legend for a girl so young: that she had almost allowed herself to be ambushed by a lone agent tonight, though, was something she’d have to make up for. She had no eyes for the legendary beasts which lined the walls of the stairs she strode up, now: they watched her, their countenances both baleful and benign in the same instance. The saturation of magic about her seemed to intensify as she continued climbing, making the short ascent far more taxing than it would normally be. “This is it,” she breathed, lightly leaping over the last four steps and landing with barely a sound: a good thing, she reminded herself: no matter the esoteric properties the structure might have, it could be as fragile as glass, for all she knew. But now the object of her expedition lay just a short distance from her. With all the magical flux she felt about her, its presumed source was ordinary beyond description: a sphere slightly larger than her palm, resting in a bowl-shaped depression sunk into what appeared to be the mouth of a Dyrgos. The air positively crackled with magic as she reached a hand out to take the orb: for a brief moment, she was afraid the Dyrgos would clamp its jaw down closed on her if she tried, but the thought passed. Clothing the hand in the handkerchief, she willed her fingers to close down on the orb. Pain lanced up her arm, sparks of magical energy spontaneously bursting into life and flaring up about her forearm: the cloth was obviously enchanted, for it to generate such friction. Wincing as a stray spark burst an inch from her face, she threw her weight forward to combat the immense pressure, managing to close the few inches that separated her outstretched fingers from the orb. The instant she made contact with it, the magic faded. It retreated faster than she’d thought possible: magic wasn’t normally something that winked in and out of existence, but this was exactly it: she steadied herself by pressing a hand against the altar, but quickly drew away again as she felt its cold rob her off her warmth. Gasping under her breath, she realized she’d not known how intensely concentrated the magic about her had been until it was gone. She considered the orb in her hands with trepidation: the cloth alone would barely be able to wrap it within, but touching it at all would possibly render her efforts void. She hadn’t spent three hours in a dangerous labyrinth to have to go back and receive nothing for it. She cursed for the lack of any place to store it: when her client had described the orb, she’d thought she could’ve easily wrapped it in the cloth and pushed it down her front: a bag would only have been an encumbrance; a piece of loose material that could easily catch onto something or make a muffled noise. A large sphere she had to be sure not to touch with her bare skin, though, was something else. She was just grateful that the magical power within the orb was dormant, now: were it still active, her holding it so close to her magically-incompatible self would probably be suicide. But she was done here: she’d gotten what she’d come for, and she’d survived – she was lucky not to have had to fight more than a single battle on her way here. It was more than luck, though, she thought smugly: the fact that the Houses – Sanctus, Nycta, Tundra, Fyrre and Zephyr – were usually more engrossed in their own petty conflicts to bother with Thieves was probably another factor in that particular equation. Turning from the altar, she made her way down the steps, only slightly impeded by the care she had to take keeping the orb steady in her left hand. She kept her right hand dropped low, close to the hilt of her dagger. A Thief only dropped his guard when he was drunk… or dead. It was as she crossed the threshold and heard the snicker of half a dozen blades being drawn that she realized the latter prospect was very likely to be in her future. Author's Note: This story is set in an alternate universe from the events in Final Flame, and also in Painted Dirge, another story I never put here. They all use the same setting, though, and the plots of Final Flame and Painted Dirge were very much related. I just am not sure about where I'm going with this one yet ^-^;[/big][/big][/big][/big] Edited by ClarinetWrathArineko, Jun 3 2008, 05:22 PM.
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| Sentrovasi | Nov 15 2007, 01:22 PM Post #2 |
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White Night
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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. |
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| Sentrovasi | Nov 15 2007, 01:25 PM Post #3 |
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White Night
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Episode One - Chapter One Too Many Questions The bright sphere of flame that was Fyoris rose almost lazily over the horizon, its rays breaking through the darkness with a hesitancy that seemed almost tentative, as though unsure of whether or not it was quite the time. Once light had taken root, though, warmth came with it, and the Eye of Fire rose, now, with none of the same reticence it had before. The velvet blanket of night, perforated in an instant, obligingly drew back from Terres, taking with it sleep and leaving wakefulness behind. In the Thieves’ Quarter, though, the sun and moon were impotent as far as day and night went – each individual woke and slept as per his own agenda, while the taverns practically never closed. The Silver Wolf was one such tavern, set deep within the Quarter – it stood apart from the other buildings about it in that it seemed unlikely to collapse upon itself at the slightest provocation. While the exploits of the Thieves, as a result of the constant strife between the nobles inviting brisk business, allowed the Quarter much in terms of improvement, many a man would hoard his gala than spend it on what was, after all, just a place to stay in between jobs. This particular establishment, though, had a reputation that almost demanded its constant renovation: it was one of only four taverns with affiliates, and perhaps the most respected of the four. Greth Stonefist, the Guardian-class Thief, and Andreas Locke, of the Assassin class, were both almost legendary in their fields. Besides these patrons, a few other select Thieves of potential made their homes here – as a result, the job requests were invariably of a higher quality than those found in other, seedier taverns: a fair trade-off for a modest amount of gala, its occupants thought. The few individuals who sat at the many tables which occupied the first floor of the tavern were not making much of a noise: the Wolf was most alive in the evenings and well into the night: those here now were most probably waiting to fulfil meetings with their clients, or else just idling time away until their next missions. Most of the men preferred brothels than drink as a method of passing the time, but the man who stood behind the counter could hardly care less: the musky bar was all he had – all he wanted – and that was enough. The landlord cum barkeep was a man who could keep secrets well-enough – Elric had had his tongue severed by an Assassin before he’d reached twenty. He’d killed the older man eventually, but that he’d done so as an Assassin, himself, gave him little comfort. Once a Thief, he no longer had a last name – while he could make himself understood when he needed to, Elric never made too much of an effort with anything to do with his past. As the owner of the Silver Wolf, though, he was impeccable. He asked no questions, nor demanded any explanations – he had no desire to be caught up in the life of a Thief again: helping the Quarter out, though, was a whole different matter. At this moment, though, Elric was curious: curious about one of his Rogue-class Thieves; curious because she’d always been an enigma to him – even more so than the others, and that was saying something. That she had a mysterious past at the age of thirteen – when she’d first become a Thief – was remarkable: that she had skills enough to earn her a last name in a mere three years was something else. But that was secondary. She was a child with the mind of an adult, and like most adults, she was predictable: as far as her habits went, anyway. That she’d come home – he’d always regarded the Wolf as their home, even if they would never acknowledge the emotional significance that came with it – without launching into a tirade of how much work she had to do, or commenting on how many agents she’d killed – he knew for a fact that she detested the Houses: another mystery he had yet to unravel – was curious enough. What had been more disturbing was that she’d returned covered in blood – mercifully, dried – with her clothing practically ripped to shreds. She hadn’t seemed to be conscious of the stares coming at her from every direction: hadn’t looked in any direction but straight ahead, heading to her room. The slam of a solid oak door had returned the tavern to its usual cacophony of sound, but unlike his patrons, Elric could not forget. The fact that she was not down yet, with Fyoris burning bright in the sky, was one other thing that had him worried. But the landlord had never been one to pry. And he wasn’t about to start. --- The warmth of day on her skin told her what she didn’t have to open her eyes to see. She should’ve been awake hours ago. She struggled to open her eyes, but they refused to obey her – she recognized the symptoms of acute tiredness when she felt them. Stuck in a state of limbo between being asleep and awake, she made to at least roll out of the sun, so she might sleep in more comfort. She winced. It hurt to move, and no wonder – her wounds had been numerous, if none of them had been fatal, and— The sudden realization struck like lightning, jolting her out of her paralysis and forcing her to sit up: she opened her eyes, seeing nothing for a second as the thought filled her mind: she shouldn’t have been alive. The flash of a blade; the brief, fleeting pain of a blade slammed into her chest; the merciful release from life that had followed… and that should’ve been it. She shouldn’t have been able to sit up in her bed, even if she was hurting from… She stared, not believing what she saw. Her skin was tinged with blood; at points, it was soaked in the liquid… but there were no wounds: not even the slightest scratch on her body. Her body ached, but her unblemished skin was all the proof she needed that she was very much unharmed. That she had been in a fight was clear: her outfit hung from her body, cut to ribbons – there was even that damned tear about her chest where the blade had gone into her, but there was no wound behind it: just a dark brown blossom of blood like a wilted flower, and the dark streaks running down her naked midriff which indicated that blood had once flowed down them. Her red vest was gone, but at the moment, she hardly thought she’d miss it. “I am alive,” she spoke to no one in particular. She knew she didn’t sound convinced at all, but it was all she could do to prove her existence. Logic demanded that she would be dead, her corpse perhaps lying on the ground in Vis’faren, or, she reminded herself darkly, given to those of Fyrre as they’d been promised. But she was alive. That fact, too, was incontrovertible – if she could speak, could talk, could breathe – and could feel hungry, her stomach reminded her – then she could hardly be said to be dead, could she? And now she saw that last – the proof that the previous night had happened – that she had fought the agents and defeated them and escaped and continued running and got stabbed—no, scratch that part and what? The orb lay on her bedside table, resting on the cloth he’d provided her to hold it before: beside the leather straps bound to her sheathed dagger. She could not remember how she’d managed to get it back to her room: it was all she could do to hope she hadn’t touched it in the process. It looked pristine, the cloth that held it also as undefiled. She was relieved for a second, when she realized that her hands, too, were covered in dried blood. “How…?” she spoke in a throaty voice, her tongue feeling heavy in her mouth as she struggled to come to terms with everything. There was too much she didn’t know – too much for a two-thousand-gala-job: too much for anything. What she needed was a moment to calm down; to release from herself the nagging pain of the day before and remove the lethargy that still claimed her body. She needed a bath. She opted to just tear her top off her body than waste time trying to pull it over her head – in the state it was in, it probably had more utility as a rag, anyway. Her shorts, though, were mercifully unharmed – as were her legs, she noted: apart from the crusted blood which coloured her skin a dark brown, her body seemed in pristine condition. She soaked the tight leather in a bucket of warm water and threw her knife in with it: it wouldn’t do much for the stains, but it would do for a start. The Wolf had bathrooms for every room: it was a luxury few other taverns could afford, and one reason why a few clients had even deigned to stay in it – albeit only if they had some reason to hide: the baths still paled in comparison to those in the Merchants’ Quarter. Still, it was more than ample for a Thief – hot baths were luxuries normally enjoyed only in the few bathhouses scattered about the city. She liked to think the tub served a more practical purpose: as she slowly lowered herself into the hot water, she tried to remind herself that she only meant to make herself presentable, and perhaps clear her mind a little. The steaming water lapped over her skin, taking with it the blood and turning a dark red as it did. But now as the water covered her belly, then her chest; as she lay back against the side of the tub and felt her tense muscles begin to relax, she realized just how much she needed the bath. Her eyes closed involuntarily, her hands pausing in their efforts to rub some of the harder stains off her body. Her body lay still but for the gentle rising and falling of her chest as she breathed – it protested even the slightest movement she made, and she could do naught but oblige it, lying, relaxed in its luxuriant warmth. Her worries melting away, she felt herself succumb to unconsciousness again. The lull might have lasted a minute, or it could have lasted an hour. Judging by the temperature of the water now, the latter estimate was probably more in order. She was vaguely aware that it was long past the hour at which she would have been up and about already, but it was still only with a tremendous effort that she opened her eyes. And found herself in a lake of blood. Oh gods, not— She panicked, the red liquid about her sloshing as she flailed violently. Her head went under for only a moment, but that moment of sudden asphyxiation seemed an eternity as she tried to fight her way out of her red-tinged prison. She choked as she breathed, against her better judgement: a gasp as much in desperation as surprise. Release came suddenly as the tub tipped over and allowed the water, discoloured by the blood she’d washed off her, to merrily bubble down the drainage grille. She shivered, her dark, shoulder-length hair now plastered against her cheek as she knelt on the lacquered floor, as much because of the sudden contrast of cool air to warm water as the memories she’d almost been forced to revisit. As she struggled to calm herself, her face began to colour – the absurdity of her situation was only made worse by her stark nakedness: still shivering, she dried herself with the coarse towel hanging from a nail by the bath, then removed her one of her only other two sets of clothes – and this the only fresh one – from the small, slightly dank cupboard. She wouldn’t normally wear a skirt: even ones which were short enough not to hinder her movements; but today, she had a client to meet: a fact that required her to at least look somewhat presentable. She made to strap her dagger to her thigh, and then remembered that it wouldn’t make any difference: her skirt was short enough that it wouldn’t exactly be a concealed weapon, and she had no wish to agitate the man, anyway. Sighing at her sudden lack of coordination, she slipped the knife into her boot instead. Smoothing down her blouse – which smelt faintly of the same musky wood – she took the orb, throwing it into a leather satchel she slung over her shoulder, and left her room, not bothering (or wanting) to right the tub. There would be time for dark memories later. No, she corrected herself flatly; there will never be time for those. --- The silence of the tavern as she stepped into its main room was as much as she’d expected: a few raised heads turned her way, but most of the other patrons were either too nervous or too engrossed in their thoughts to give a single nod. Returning the greetings, she turned to notice the barkeeper staring at her. “Give it up, El,” her voice sounded strange in the silence, “you know I’m too young for you.” Her light tone hardly matched her own sombre thoughts, but the serious look he gave her was something she found far more uncomfortable. With a sudden jolt, she realized that he must have seen her enter the Wolf whenever it was she’d come back the night before: remembering the sheets streaked in dried blood and her top practically torn to rags, she wondered if— “El, tell me: when did I return last night?” Her voice was serious now, with none of the flippancy she’d used before. The barkeep had invented a language of sorts, over the years, to remedy his lack of a tongue: it was impressive, really, the way he’d managed to come up with a language used by none but himself. Over time, though, most of his close acquaintances had become familiar enough with the language to communicate with him effectively – it had almost become a ritual to learn it upon gaining his trust: a ritual that Äris, too, had gone through. While she was not able yet to articulate herself in the words of Riklan – hands of Rik, quite literally – she knew enough to understand that she’d gone straight up to her— “What’s that word?” she interjected. Elric faltered, before pointing in the direction of the stairs. —gone straight up the stairs to her room… and that she’d been in exactly the condition she’d woken up to find herself in. Her face flushed as she realized how many men she must have walked past in her state of relative undress, but that, too, passed. She summoned the courage “… And was I carrying this orb in my hands?” The translucent surface of the sphere winked innocently back at her as she removed it from where she’d kept it, holding it out for the barkeep to see. But there were no long sentences this time – the man just shook his head. “Then how—”she paused: there was no point in trying to get any further: it was at times like this she wished the barkeep would be a little less discreet – but then she had enough reason to be thankful that he was as professional as he was. However she might have looked the night before, he would never have checked up on her, or given her more than a cursory – if effective – glance. There was little else she could do than offer a hurried thanks and farewell as she left the Wolf for the bustling square beyond; the facts corroborated, and that was as much as she could discern. The mystery of the orb was one she would have to leave up to her client to explain… but she was afraid that it was a mystery she’d rather not have solved. He’d arranged for them to meet in a private room at a tavern at the outskirts of the Quarter – most of those who lived outside the Thieves’ Quarter would have as little to do with the place as possible, and it was probably most convenient for him there. That she had awoken at the tenth hour and lingered an hour in the bath meant she had to hurry to get there on time – hurrying, though, was one thing she was relatively good at: few could stand in her way when she had somewhere to get. In three leaps she had scaled the ledges which jutted out from the Wolf’s main façade. The Quarter was busy at this hour, filled with the colour and sound of everyday life: the shouts of the street hawkers touting their wares – some of them contraband – competed with the din of a constant stream of people moving from one end of the Quarter to the other: while the Thieves’ Quarter was shunned by the merchants and the Houses, men and women of all other walks of life still found the place convenient enough: even the wizards deigned to stop by from time to time, the artefact emporiums where Hunter-class Thieves auctioned their rare finds almost always at the top of their agenda. There were four classes of Thieves – decades ago, jobs could be taken by any class of Thief, but there had come a time when the clients had decided that specifications would have to be supplied: the failure rate of all but the best of Thieves had become somewhat embarrassing, even, with the Houses gaining the upper hand with their own specialized agents. From the practice of putting up specific requirements came the time when the Thieves themselves had begun their division – a few individuals, at first, but eventually everyone had learnt to classify themselves under a specific group: two, if they found themselves adept enough – Assassins, Guardians, Hunters and Rogues. The Assassin-class Thief specialized in ranged weapons, most of the time: melee fighters were not nearly as preferred: while they’d work well at close quarters, most Assassins would gladly bide their time for the clean, undetected kill. Andreas Locke was a renowned Assassin, armed with his gun Beowulf – it was a remarkable achievement, given that the nature of his work meant no one actually knew when he did kill someone: that his clients had never been disappointed were all the clues they had. The Guardian-class Thief did not normally have to kill: intimidation played a big part in his role. Still, their melee skills were still impeccable – they had to be, acting as bodyguards or delivering high-priority goods: treasures like the one she’d obtained. Greth Stonefist was a master of the broadsword and also, more notably, unarmed combat. His weapon, the Sinstriker, seemed almost too large to be of any earthly purpose: a giant blade of glowing moonsteel which was almost as long as she was tall, and as wide as the trunk of a good-sized tree. Like Greth, its imposing size seemed to serve enough as intimidation, but she’d seen him perform at the Fyr’cet, and knew that the weapon was no idle threat. If it’d been for her to decide, she knew he would’ve been a better choice than her for the mission – she knew for a fact that in the close confines of a room, the agents would have stood no chance against him. The Hunter-classes were again different: stealth was their key attribute – that, and an almost uncanny knack for knowing where to look. What seemed almost like child’s play to others was really a lot of hard work on their part, learning to discern fact from fiction in the rumours passed by the street-ears and training themselves to be able to sneak in and out with any given item without being noticed. As a result, though, few were especially good at fighting – probably the one reason they weren’t popular in any intrigue the Houses took an interest in. As it was, though, the mercenary role of the Hunter-classes had already begun to take a backseat to a newer trade – that of finding treasures on their own to sell: the curio and artefact shops in the Thieves’ Quarter were among the best-stocked in the Western Continent, let alone Terres. And then there were the Rogue-class Thieves. They were considered the jacks-of-all-trades by most: a class which was neither here nor there. That might have been true, but they were extremely good at what they did, nonetheless. Unlike the Guardian-class, which specialized in protecting and killing at close quarters, or the Assassin-class, which focused on killing from a distance, undetected, or even the Hunter-class, which hardly killed at all, the Rogues were a scouting class: speed and dexterity were their strengths. Useful for a variety of purposes, but rarely put to any one specific task, they focused on incapacitating enemies and moving on: killing would take too much time, and be far too messy. They had not the stealth of Hunters, but they were fast enough not to need it. And she, Äris Windblade, was a good enough example of that. “Good enough?” she murmured to herself, hardly believing that others thought so highly of her, “then explain what in Lenval’s name happened yesterday.” Her voice sounded calm despite the anger she felt towards herself now. She landed with barely a sound on the roof of the Wolf, looking out over the busy thoroughfare: her keen eyes sought out the spire rising from the building that was to be their rendezvous point, and in another second, she was off. Rogue and Hunter-class Thieves were the only ones who knew to successfully traverse the Serafa – the Windway, as it was otherwise known. Guardians and Assassins lacked the requisite agility and luck to successfully traverse the rooftops of Terres, replete with surprisingly strong winds, the city being situated atop a large hill – and even the most agile Assassin wouldn’t know which roofs were solid enough to leap to and which were rotting wood. The Rogues and Hunters had a grapevine all their own, which served as information enough: over the years, too, a few Thieves had set up their own residences where they might conveniently serve as stepping stones over routes that were just a little too difficult to traverse. The Wolf itself was one of several congregation points which were built conveniently in such a way as to allow easy access to the Windway. She always felt free up here, away from the stifling crowds and loud noises. Here, there was naught but her and the wind – her namesake. In a leap she had cleared the width of the busy street below her, barely touching the ground where she landed before she was off – some of the more suspect roofs necessitated such technique, but it had served her well in more ways than this one. Her course took her veering at a thirty-degree angle away from her destination: where winds were concerned, a straight line was not always the most practical route – one might easily be knocked off by a single malevolent gust. For the Rogue and Hunter-class Thieves, this was an embarrassing prospect – their dexterity was probably the only area in which they could trump their stronger cousins. For that reason, reading the winds had become almost a quintessential part of their lives: a part she relished. She leapt again, the wind almost throwing her across the length of the gap – a light step, and she was over. None of the peddlers or passersby below had noticed her: if they did look up, it was to monitor Fyoris’ passing – none of them had ever bothered, and in all fairness, she’d never bothered, either. They were but passing shadows, moments of life, fleeting, with the brevity of a word in a sentence in a paragraph in a page in a chapter in a book in a volume in a library – a brevity like the single, silent flicker of a candle going out in the Cathedral of Lenval: without significance. Like her own life, she reflected. But I’ll make that candle shine brightly, she promised herself, as she had so many times before. She jumped up as well as forward now: now that she had come into a denser residential complex, the buildings were getting taller – working through them was a strenuous work-out for even her lithe body, but it was better than the alternative – the tightly-packed buildings blocked any marauding wind from spiting her efforts. To the left, right, left and left again: she moved about the taller buildings than scaled them, not wanting to try contesting the winds which raged above her head. She leapt from the last building onto the roof of the inn he’d chosen as their meeting point: The Hunting Stag. Nimbly she swung from its drainpipe to the sill of a window to the tarpaulin drawn over a stall to the ground. There were few stares – she was still in the Thieves’ Quarter, after all, and she wouldn’t have drawn any more attention if she’d materialized out of thin air – although she thought perhaps they might have suspected she’d applied translocation in that case; it would have been a little more difficult to explain away. Dusting herself off as she stepped back into the warm press of the crowd, she made her way casually to the front of the inn and stepped in. She surveyed the room a trifle distastefully, her eyes lingering on the few distended patrons and the less-than-pristine bar counter – she was used to far less than this, but she felt more than a little resentment at how her client would have preferred the Stag over the Wolf. Beads of perspiration she’d scarcely noticed before made themselves known now as her body thawed in the gentle warmth of shelter – she brushed them off irritably as she approached the counter. The boy tending the bar seemed scarcely older than she was: he didn’t seem to know how to interpret the look in her eye as she approached him – he paused his absent-minded drying of a mug for a second to speak, then stopped before a word passed his lips and closed his mouth again – probably new, she thought silently, and unaccustomed to seeing young females in a bar. Exasperated, she was about to speak when a gruff, broad-shouldered man made his appearance through a stout, oak door set in the back. His step was enough excuse for the boy to mumble a few words in a tone that was almost comical before ducking into the back. She watched his retreating back quizzically for a moment before turning to the man before her. She’d met Klaus Irido before – the proprietor of the Stag, he was friendly enough, but inclined to be curt towards other Thieves – his was an establishment with affiliates of its own, as well. She was well aware of the animosity between them today: that her client would have chosen such a place as their meeting point indicated either ignorance on his part… or a lack of tact that she found quite unsettling. The former, she decided, was the more probable. “’Scuse the boy,” he spoke: his voice was a gruff, sonorous one, but with a certain dulcet quality, “don’t think he’s had much experience with girls like yourself.” The tone he used was casual, and his words carefully chosen, but she knew that the phrase ‘girls like yourself’ was not meant as a compliment – an insult, maybe, but not a compliment: maybe he was just irritated at her being here, she thought. Or maybe, a voice deep inside her voiced the uncomfortable truth, he’s just as distrusting of you as most of the others here. It had always been that those of her profession – especially Assassin-class Thieves – were viewed with mistrust: the Thieves’ Quarter owed its success to their resident mercenaries, and she’d helped the Quarter on more than one occasion, but the unwelcome thought was still there; the Thieves were mercenaries – if the day came that they’d to kill one of the common folk, there could be no refusal: not with the right price. But we wouldn’t do such a thing, she’d reasoned on more than one occasion. The answer had always been a mocking silence that revealed more than she wanted to know. She roused herself from her thoughts in time to hear that her client was waiting for her in the second private room: nodding in affirmation and thanking him as an afterthought, she headed up the stairs and located the room: the door was of rough oak, with the number two carved into it – she had an idea that the Stag’s affiliates were none as generous with their reward money as the Wolf’s had been. The door opened at her tentative knock. Her client, seated in a chair at one end of the sparsely decorated room, seemed to have been expecting her – expecting her enough to have two men flanking his sides – not Thieves, she noticed, they were clothed in the livery of a Family she did not recognize: inconsequential; since the man before her had taken every pain to disguise his identity, she didn’t doubt he’d altered their uniforms as well. “You’re late,” he informed her, the cleverly-hidden look of anticipation on his face hardly escaping her notice – she had the feeling he’d have waited another hour. The orb seemed to be gaining importance by the second: the Houses might have their own, macro agendas, but that this noble had his eyes on it as well suggested something deeper. Something, she reminded herself again, that she had no business getting into. “It was a rough night,” she answered off-handedly, suddenly stretching as though to emphasize the point. She glanced at the men: none of them had moved a muscle: they were either well-trained enough to judge sudden movements, or else slow, and just smart enough to hide it. She turned to face her client, his eyes asking the question neither of them had any need to voice. “I did get it, so stop with that look already.” Her client seemed to start for a moment – she’d known when she’d first met him that he was unused to being treated with anything less than complete respect: a commodity she was less than willing to trade. She pulled the strap of the satchel over her head, dropping it to the ground before him before striding over to the nearest chair and settling into it. “Go on, check if it’s the one. I’m in no hurry.” She leaned against the somewhat dingy armchair, lounging with an almost nonchalant air which belied the fact that her eyes were still on him. He wasn’t too bad an actor, she thought as he brought the satchel onto his lap with an almost casual indifference. It might’ve helped if his hands were not shaking, but even that was a slight detail only a trained eye might notice. She sighed luxuriantly as she leant against the armrest, swivelling as she brought her legs up to dangle off the other end: the epitome of exaggerated boredom. She was that, but her hand, as she brought it to her forehead, left a subtle space between the fingers for her eyes to see through. He was taking the orb out now, casting away the cloth, and— Now he turned toward her, the anticipation in his eyes draining away to be replaced with puzzlement, then mute horror. Recognizing her own vulnerability, she flipped herself off the armchair, smoothing down her skirt as he made to speak. “You didn’t – did not touch it, did you?” His voice was a strangled whisper, laced with a perplexed tone she couldn’t quite comprehend. “You couldn’t have—” “No,” she replied instinctively, with just a slight hesitation, “I didn’t.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, and the slight arrogance she’d shown was gone, now. But she knew her real answer – I don’t think I did – was going to cut any ice with him. Damn the Houses and damn this intrigue, she caught herself thinking, two thousand gala was no price to pay for any of this. A failed mission would mean a sharp drop in her reputation: one she’d worked hard to attain. But it was more than that – for some reason, she knew the orb had far greater implications: a story she’d become a part of, now, however much she wanted to remain out of the web of delicate threads which shone with mystery but cut with the keen sharpness of cutting-wire. She found herself bound in those threads now, constricting, cutting her, leaving her defenceless. “I never screw up,” she stated, her words more of a whisper than the cocksure answer she wanted to hear, “and you’d best remember it.” Trying to recover her composure, she thought that perhaps it might’ve been he who’d been mistaken, who was only trying to find someone to blame, now. The dagger in her boot, though, was just another reminder she didn’t need at the moment. She started again as the man rose from his seat, holding the orb up for her to see. It shone innocently in the light a single window provided them – a prize many men had died for: that she’d almost given her life to retrieve. For all its supposed importance, it seemed harmless enough: an opaque mirror which reflected nothing and everything. An opaque mirror which crashed to the floor, shattering; forming a million other crystals, none of them round; glimmering, reflecting light without substance, winking merrily up at her from the hard, wooden floor on which her client – the one man to whom she thought it’d have mattered – had dashed it to pieces. She took a step back – no, two, she thought futilely; two steps – in the direction of the door, trying not to tread on any of the pieces of what once had been a priceless magical artefact. Her client, though, had made no attempt to move: he knew, she thought, he knew that she wouldn’t be able to escape. She was caught in it now, and her escaping now would only complicate matters for herself. But what, she wondered, had she gotten herself into? If she had expected answers from the man before her, though, she would have been sorely disappointed. Questions were cheap, she knew, and answers were just too damned expensive for her to pay. “Where in Lenval’s name,” he spoke, enunciating each word clearly as he walked towards her, his boots crunching on the remains of the orb underfoot, “is the Vol’Sera?” Hundreds of miles away, Sybil Ilran, Mistress of House Tundra, wondered the same thing. |
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| Yankee Blaze | Nov 15 2007, 01:58 PM Post #4 |
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Flaming Chicken
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Wow, interesting story. I really liked it! |
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| Sentrovasi | Nov 15 2007, 02:17 PM Post #5 |
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White Night
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... Are you sure you read it ._.? |
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| Phoenix | Nov 15 2007, 08:53 PM Post #6 |
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Comical Henchman
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You really like bounty hunters and stuff like that, don't you, Sentro? There was...what was his name...Andreas Moonsomething. Lock. And now Äris Windblade (I just copiedpasted that in, in case you were wondering). -just noticed- Oh, look. There's even an Andreas Locke mentioned. Assassin. With a gun. Anyway, have fun and good luck with the NaNoWriMo. That thing creeps me out. |
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| Sentrovasi | Nov 16 2007, 03:35 AM Post #7 |
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White Night
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Nya, glad you noticed, Phoenix ^-^; But what you mightn't have noticed (that I'm sure I included somewhere) was that these are all parallel universes running along alternate timelines, so I'm drawing parallels at every turn. Andreas Moonlock was an above-par NeoShade in Final Flame: in The Seekers, he's an Assassin-class Thief who's become renowned the world over. Heck, I even made his guns similar: Beowulf is the gun he has made after Fendred gets destroyed as part of the plot in Final Flame (which was, alas, never finished =3). Still, I'm glad you spotted its significance, and I'm glad you've actually read both =O |
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