Find an elf, find a job, keep flying

(closed)

It had been raining. A few hours had passed since the rain had fallen, but the humid air still carried the smell of freshly wet earth along with the arid smell of rusted iron. Molotov stood calmly on the platform, waiting for the tracks to creak again, signaling that his train would be there soon. “I bloody hate Ettermire,” he thought to himself. Of course, he remembered as much as he might have hated the capital of the Drow, it was not like there were other places he liked all that much better. He had forgotten how much he had hated being an assassin. One person was far too hard to find in a city as big as Ettermire, even if they were a former general and a Raiaraean high elf.

This was the mutant’s first job since ending his self imposed sabbatical. He had regretted leaving Kyo to fend for herself with a group of aspiring bandits, but Molotov knew he had few other options at the time. He had been losing too many friends to keep up with the rate he had been gaining enemies so quickly. Still, it had been good for Molotov to have some time away from the politics and conflicts that had occupied so much of his time when he’d lead his army to Gisela. He had read, he had eaten, grown a little fat, known his own desperation and become comfortable in. But most of all, the mutant had found a way to pray.

Molotov didn’t pray to anything in particular, at least as far as the religions he had been taught in school. Instead, it was an act of humility, a way of accepting contrition for the mistakes he had made and the blood he had spilled without having to punish himself for the sins he could not undo. It allowed him to return now to an assassination job with a clearer perspective on the things he needed to do. More than anything else, Molotov knew that if he was going to keep a low enough profile for the people who wanted him dead in Corone, he was going to have to make an ally in Alerar or Raiaera pretty soon.

It was the search for an ally that had lead Molotov to accept a bounty that few others were foolish enough to attempt, that of Findelfin ap’Fingolfin, the former general and now deserter of the Raiarean army. The reward for Findelfin’s capture was six hundred gold coins. It was a handsome fee for the general, but what had really attracted Molotov was the chance that he could ingratiate himself with Nalith and the rest of Raiarea’s leaders. He had no strong opinion of Findelfin, and under different circumstances might have passed up the job. However, as the former Gisela combatant had said when he had agreed to the assassination, Findelfin had been a general, so he had to have been guilty of a few crimes along the way.

Whatever the politics of the situation were, none of that changed a few basic facts for Molotov. He was standing on a train platform in the middle of Ettermire, waiting for a train on a wet day amidst humid air. Soon the train would be there, and he would be able to put a stressful day of searching for his target behind him by enjoying a cigarette and a glass of drow brandy. He poked at the cement platform with his toe listlessly as the sound of a train approaching began to fill the ear. Molotov did not react visibly, but he was pleased. In the back of his mind, he could already taste the brandy…

I met a mutant on the overnight express from Ettermire to Knife's Edge. Tiny guy, ugly as sin. I don't know how I knew he was a mutant; it was something about his hair. Or maybe it was something he told me later, and then I pretended I always knew. The mind plays tricks. I had seen him on the platform, looking eager, maybe a bit awkward in the space. Like someone who didn't get out much. He was twitchy in his skin, too, prodding at things with his feet, kicking along. He changed when he saw me, that's for sure.

It had been raining in Ettermire for most of the morning and afternoon, and I'd been out in the thick of it, trying to get to the library for one last look and then trying to navigate the streets towards Tenebrae Station, Platform Six. These trips were unavoidable necessities, as my own meager library was not nearly enough for what I had to do. And I had friends here, among the librarians. Friends who would hide me for a week, or even a month. I hadn't come that long, yet, but I knew that Izzit would show me hospitality whenever I asked. In fact, we had planned this trip for a week later; I was supposed to be arriving on the train that I was now leaving on. Shift of fate, change of plans. Mainly I had picked up a tail in Knife's Edge and so had left early before it got too hot. Izzit didn't mind, he was a stand-up chap.

Chap. Funny word. Picked it up from Sir Leopold, for some reason it seems to fit when you're in Ettermire. Leopold said that he had come from a city like Ettermire, even, a city of metal sewer grates and unpleasant smells. For all that, it had its charms. Vulgar ones, yes, but they grew on you. I wish I had traveled here more, as a child. Though I was still a child, in some respects. Though few children missed as many friends as I did now, thinking on Leopold. And Wyn, Wyn who for all I knew perished in Eluriand. I wished for a moment the rain would come back. It would have been appropriate.

But I had my cowl up around my face because of the rain. My arts at disguise were rudimentary, and the showers had washed away what little glamour my crafts could concoct. I was trying to keep a low profile, especially here. Thankfully, it had been some time since Raiaera had been much threat to Alerar, and the guards at the turnstiles were no longer as suspicious as they might have been of a high elf. Just another formerly well-heeled refugee. Better out than in, to them.

But when the train arrived I noticed the little man, looking about. He was becoming irritated as folks swept from the train, as if he was looking for someone. Maybe a lover? His hair seemed to flash through its colors with a little more speed, or was it my imagination? He was increasingly erratic as I swept past towards the train. I paid no note of it, but he must have seen me then, and behind me walked with purpose, direction. I wonder what might have happened had I not arrived a week earlier than Izzit and I had originally planned. Would have been easier, I think, to gut me in an alley.

As it stood, I was surprised as I settled into my private car. I was trying to pretend to be a refugee of simple means, but I allowed myself some small comforts. The chance of running into someone who might report my appearance elsewhere outweighed the chance that someone might notice a high elf taking a private sleeper. I was surprised because a few seconds later, he shouldered open the door and sat down across from me. His apparent twitchiness had vanished, replaced with something else.

He was a nice guy, in the end. Though it took us a while to get to get on speaking terms. I suppose I'd better let him tell the next bit.

The mutant hadn’t expected to see a high elf when he entered the train. For a moment, he cursed his good fortune. Molotov would have to be careful, he didn’t want any more innocent blood on his hands. If time had healed the Mutant’s old wounds, it had made him especially concerned about spilling the blood of any more innocents. Immediately, inside the car, the mutant couldn’t help but curse his surroundings. Even if he were able to summon a firestorm or thunderbolt, there would be no way that he could do that without destroying an entire car and a few lives.

Most importantly, Molotov knew the high elven general was a bard. The mutant highly doubted he was the only one in the compartment who possessed highly destructive magic. Assassinating a gifted bard would be hard enough, doing it without casualties would be near impossible. Still, Molotov knew he was in a position where he really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He briefly rued getting back involved in the dirty business of assassination, even if it was against a general who likely deserved it. “There’s always a bloody cost,” he sorrowfully remembered. “A bloody, sodding cost…”

Still, the was an identity to be resolved. Molotov knew he would be giving away a huge advantage in doing so, but if he was already going to risk collateral damage, he wasn’t about to take the chances that he killed an innocent elf as well. “When all else fails, give a bloody classic a try, eh?” the mutant thought to himself, a wry smile appearing on his face.

“Hey Findelfin,” the mutant barked. The high elf reacted. Molotov smiled, but the joy at seeing his ruse work quickly faded as he realized the reality of the situation. He sighed and tried to steel himself for a battle that would likely end in the deaths of many innocent people.

“I just… I bloody can’t do this…” Molotov realized. “I can kill a sodding general, but not at the cost of this many damn lives.”

With that, Molotov sat down next to the high elf. Broodingly, his body was faced adjacently, an uneasy vulnerability keeping the mutant’s body and gaze adjacent to the high elf. “My name is Molotov,” he said. “And I’m here to kill you. I’m hoping you’re a man of enough honor you don’t want to see anyone else besides one of us die today. What do you say we do this just you and me here, weapons and whatever bloody thing you can grab, but no magic that could hurt a poor wanker walking by. Fair enough, eh?”