That Which Can Never Be Taken Back

[The Cinderella Man]

How the hell did it come to this?

She’s a strong one, not of the kind that would wail and weep and break down out here, where the entire world can see. She sits in her black garment like an offset of a bride waiting for her man, patient instead of jittery, woeful instead of merry. A handful of people crowd around her, behind her, a dark assembly of haggard faces and shuffling feet. A handful where there should’ve been hundreds. But a man is a fickle, two-faced beast that ultimately cares about one thing - its own survival. And in the jungle of the Corone capitol, only two types prevail: the clever and the wicked.

Victor Callahan is the latter, or at least that’s the general impression he has gotten recently. How could he not after all that had transpired? He sure as hell isn’t smart; never was, never will be. Smart people didn’t box for a living and take shady jobs that earned them trouble instead of coin, hate instead of respect. He stands now at a distance from the congregation, a blurry outline of the man in black, wondering why he’s even there as the rain pounds on the world around him.

The rain. It’s been pouring for seven days straight, as if heavens decided to open the floodgates and wash the scum from the face of the earth. But the scum are stubborn. All it does is add an even more somber tone to an already dreadful tale.

Victor Callahan was hitting the sauce even though he knew he shouldn’t have. He was on the job after all, and was probably supposed to behave in a fashion befitting an employee of the Corone Armed Forces. But then again, he wasn’t technically a part of the CAF, now was he? Leeahn Festian, Major of the Radasanth City Watch, hired him as an outside contractor of sorts, to do some wet work that was too hot to be touched by the official hand of the Empire. Sure, the official papers said that he was bestowed with the power to act on their behalf, but there was a lot of fine print that Victor didn’t bother to read. He was pretty sure what it meant anyways. You get the job done, you get paid. You fuck up, we’re cutting all ties. Standard stuff really. When you have the bull by the horns, you either hold on or get thrown in the dirt.

The assignment was Walter Jimes... or rather Jotham DeVir, the name he was going under nowadays. Jotham DeVir was apparently the main culprit behind the last week’s assault the Rangers executed in the very heart of Radasanth, the leak inside the Empire that gave off information that led to the attack. As the main secretary of one of the viceroys, he had both the access and the opportunity to divulge the information, and as a member of the clandestine group known as the Coalition, he had the motive. What the Coalition was, why they had no love for the Empire and why would Walter be working for them, Victor didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. He had been looking for this man for years and now was the time of the reckoning.

There was a bottle of scotch on the bar, less than a quarter or its contents already coursing through Vic’s veins, making him tipsy. He never could hold his drinks. He remembered this one time, years back, when a sassy girl from Akashima drank him and half the room under the table. He wound up in the bed with her that night, though as far as he could tell nothing really happened and she kicked him out of the room first thing in the morning. Good times. They drew a smile on his face as he poured himself another.

The tavern around him had very little worth noting, just another shithole in a long line of them specked all over the Radasanth map. The barkeep was fat and bald; the wenches were middle-aged and able to carry more mugs in one hand than Victor could in two; the smell was a familiar one, carrying traces of smoke and puke and stale water used to wash the hardwood floor; the roof was leaking, the rainwater tap-tap-tapping into several bowls strategically placed in the main room. But the reason Victor picked the Hole in the Floor wasn’t the dingy atmosphere and sure as hell weren’t the chicks. No, the Hole was one of the places that mercenaries liked to frequent, actual mercs and not the back-stabbing knaves and rookies that were yet to whet their blade. It was a hard place for hard people serving hard drinks, and if there was ever a place where Victor could hire some backup, this was one of them. He had spread the word to some other reliable shitholes, but this was where he’s been meeting those interested.

Not that Victor actually wanted help. His first impulse after being told that Jotham was actually Walter had been to just storm his place, guns blazing, tearing it down one bullet at a time until he found that piece of shit and ended him. But the Empire was paying for what he now saw as his personal vendetta, so if they didn’t mind parting with some coin, he didn’t mind hiring some cannon fodder. He interviewed several already, but most weren’t interested once they heard the details. Some bowed out, saying they were professionals and did not take sides, which meant they didn’t have the balls to stand up to either faction. Others complained it was not enough money for such a job; they were after all going after a public figure and should anything go awry, they would be hung out to dry. Or just hung. There was even one guy who seemed ready to brandish his sword, mouthing off how Victor should be ashamed for working for the tyrannical Empire. Vic displayed Aicha to the man and introduced him with the lovely sound she made when you cocked her hammer, and the righteous bum scurried out of the tavern. It was an eventful evening, but rather pointless and tiresome as he failed to hire anybody.

But the night was young still and Radasanth was chock-full of people who liked to stick other people with their swords and other pointy objects, so Victor waited and drank, and fantasized about the moment he faced Walter Jimes again. This is it, baby, he thought, looking at the pistol that rested on the table, a namesake of the one he loved all those years ago. His fingers passed over her name engraved on the barrel and it was cold and black and hard, everything that Aicha had never been. Time to do you justice.

[Silence Sei]

There were three certainties in the world. The first certanty was that one was going to die eventually, be it elf, human, or other. Nothing was truly immortal. The second certainty was that there would always be people trying to capitalize on the misery of others. Propaganda spread by the Corone Rangers to try and besmirch the good name of the Corone Empire was all the proof anybody needed of that. The final certainty was that bars were always a hot spot for crimes.

Sei Orlouge was a master at resolving the third certainty.

Whether it was breaking up a mugging or stopping a massive riot from breaking out all across Radasanth, most of the Mystics time at night was spent around bars. He had become so used to the combined stench of vomit and musk that he was afraid the odor had seeped into his clothes. The unremarkable bar seemed to be a cliché among the dozens of cliché bars that littered Althanas, let alone Radasanth itself. The Hole in the Floor had seen better days, the mute assumed, sitting at the bar on one of its (allegedly) immovable stools. He shuddered as he watched a cockroach run its disgusting little limbs over the mirror in front of him. By all rights, the Corone Department of Health and Safety should have shut this place down weeks ago. The Mystic simply had to assume that the Corone Empire had better things to do than to close every rickety bar in its capital.

He wore a hood tonight, as he often did when he felt the need to get out. With the attention that he had called to himself by assembling the Ixian Knights, the telepath found it harder and harder to leave his castle and simply do what inspired him to form the group in the first place; saving lives and stopping crimes. He wrapped his hands around the crystalline glass, bringing the cold milk to his pale lips. After taking a few sips of the dairy product, he set the glass back down and wiped his impromptu white mustache off with his fingers. It had been a relatively uneventful night, save for a man or two arguing over a girl. Bouncers could take care of those kinds of things; Sei was more focused on the real dangers that would present themselves.

Sei's ear seemed to twitch with the sound of a gun being cocked. Turning towards his east, Sei watched Victor as he placed the firearm to the face of his potential employee. The man with the gun had been there all night, discussing something involving the Empire and the Rangers, or some nonsense, but the sudden expression of hostility is what really grabbed the Mystic's attention. His eyes shifted to the would-be target, locking on to the sword hilt he was holding. It would seem as though Victor was merely defending himself from a possible attack, something, like the bouncer, would have resolved itself.

Sei took another drink of his milk as he pondered on this, watching as Victor was once again left alone to his seat. If this man were to get hostile with someone else, it could end very badly. The youngest Orlouge brother set his empty glass down as Victor did the same with his gun, though the chilling feeling in his hands still remained. The mute adjusted the gray hood over his head, letting his hair down to try and further his facade. He shifted his head towards the gun, and then to its owner, before raising a hand to the bartender. As the barkeep started to make another glass of milk, Sei began to speak to this most interesting fellow.

"I see you've been drinking quite a bit," Sei moved his lips in correlation with his mind, giving the illusion that he simply had a way of talking that 'got into your head' as others had phrased it before, "That's a pretty decent looking gun you have there. Not many people in Althanas would be so willing to flash such an expensive piece of equipment, even under attack. It's the mark of a man who's desperate to get something that he wants. My name is Silas, and I think I would be very interested in getting to know what has you so on edge, friend."

[SirArtemis]

'I should have just asked Daros to teleport me again,' Artemis thought while meandering through the streets of Radasanth as the light of the world began to dim. The ship had taken longer than he had expected due to a troublesome storm that had caught the travelers and slapped the vessel around, sending them off course and into a wide arc toward their target. The storm punished the travelers for daring to traverse through its fury, but Artemis felt thankful that he had paid the little extra to board the sturdier looking ship – both crew and vessel. Despite the storm knocking them quite off course, at least they did not sink.

Upon finally arriving on land, all Artemis wanted to do was find a place to rest. The darkness of the night masked the ominous clouds, the stormy remnants threatening to begin anew, blocking out the starry sky that could fill anyone with a sense of awe. As he walked through the city streets, the strange architecture intrigued him. He could not quite label the style, as it seemed to be a hodgepodge of everything, but it certainly seemed different from his familiarity with Knife's Edge – which now stood mostly in ruin, to be fair. Soon hunger and exhaustion overtook admiration and curiosity. Meals on the ship were of poor quality and left one feeling less than satisfied. He noticed a dingy little tavern named Hole in the Floor and stepped inside, satisfied by the lack of a ruckus.

The vagabond approached the bar and took up a seat that, though it looked sturdy, seemed to wobble slightly. The room spread out enough for two dozen tables – a decently sized place, though not decently kept. The lights shone dimly, the glass so dirty that the light of flickering flames could barely find its way through. The smell of the place, rather putrid, lingered like an aftertaste you would prefer to wash down.

Behind the bar stood an unimpressive man with a goatee that seemed in sore need of washing, shimmering as much as his bald head. He leaned back against the counter behind him, his hands placed between some of the countless bottles of liquor. He stood with ankles crossed as he waited for something to do, one toe pointed toward the earth.

"Excuse me?" Artemis asked, the man licking the few teeth he had and approaching the customer.

"What?"

"Could I please have something to eat? Whatever's on the menu is fine." Artemis felt a bit put off by the lack of manners, already missing the dwarf barkeep Harki from the inn he had stayed at back in Knife's Edge, The Bearded Gnome. The dwarf always seemed to know exactly what to say and he certainly had a knack for knowing just what the customer needed.

The man clicked his tongue and turned to walk into the back room. Artemis' regret of traveling traditionally grew with every passing second, and he silently promised himself that future attempts to visit his father in Underwood would always be by magical means.

The young man glanced around and noticed that a couple seats over sat a pair of men. One of the two wore his hood up and seemed to be mumbling something too quietly to be overheard. The other seemed to be staring at a strange metal object laid on the table before him, shaped similarly to a boomerang. Patiently, the young man waited until the hooded figure's lips stopped moving. After all, Artemis always admired metalwork and he had never seen anything that resembled this metal boomerang, and his curiosity got the better of him.

"Excuse me," he said while leaning a bit toward the man, "what's that thing?"

[The Cinderella Man]

The priest is mumbling his holy litany, words of false comfort that nobody really hears or cares about. Priests. They always remind Victor of his father, Hector Callahan, who was a reverend himself and hell of a man. Hell of a man. Nothing like his son, it would seem. This apple seemed to drop and roll far away from the tree. An acolyte holds an umbrella with shaking hands and does a piss poor job at it, the rivulets tricking over the edges and down priest’s back. The rain muffles the words, makes them just a murmur, a whisper in a storm. Then a crash of thunder, everybody flinches. Everybody but the grieving widow and the man in the distance.

The ritual continues for minutes soaked with rain, each one lasting an hour. At one point four sturdy men dressed all in black grab a hold of the ropes and start to lower the casket in the muddy hole in the ground. A couple of sniffles, nobody cries. The woman with the front row seat is stone-faced and stone-cold. Is it sheer emotional strength or just a dam holding up the tide, postponing the flood of emotions for some other time? He doesn’t know, but would put money on the former. He had seen the power of this woman and it was substantial.

The monk in a fancy white garment finally closes the oversized tome and hands it to the kid at his side, then proceeds to dirty his hands for the first time in months to throw a ball of mud on the coffin bellow. The sound is wet and dull, the sound of finality. There is nothing quite so ultimate as the sound of earth falling on a coffin. The sound of death.

Well, ain’t I the lucky one. A tourist and a weirdo.

The day hasn’t been kind to Victor Callahan so far. He had woken up with a new ache in his back (this one flaring up whenever he pivoted his upper torso to the right), got a half-cooked oatmeal for breakfast in the inn he was staying, got charged a small fortune for some bullets in the Bazaar and the pouring rain got him soaked thrice. Even the scotch was lousy, watered down and tasting a bit like the stuff doctors gave you in a clinic before they started digging through your teeth. And the hits seemed to keep on coming with these two walking in.

The hooded man was certainly the more disquieting one. There was something in the way he talked that put Vic on edge, as if his voice was coming from anywhere and nowhere, crisp clean despite the silent bustle of the tavern and the constant patter of the rain. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The man was drinking milk. Victor knew a few bars where one could get a sound beating for even ordering something that couldn’t knock a small horse off its legs after a couple of shots. The Hole wasn’t one of them, but that didn’t make it any less puzzling. Then there was the starry-eyed greenhorn who seemed to have a penchant of asking dumb questions at the worst time. In all truth, on any other day Victor would’ve replied in a kinder manner, maybe even offered the kid a drink. But the whole Walter ordeal put him in a foul mood and he had had a couple too many already.

“It’s a porcupine,” he responded to the young man. “What the hell does it look like?! It’s a gun.”

The word didn’t seem to mean much to Artemis and the strange-voiced guy ahead of him was still waiting for a response to his question. It made Victor massage his temples shortly before he continued. “Look, are you here for the job or what?”

“The job?” Artemis asked, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Depends on the job,” the eery voice said.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told the others. I need a couple of guys to assist me in taking out a... certain individual, shall we say,” Victor started, wetting his throat a little with scotch, then regretting immediately afterwards as the liquid burned its way down the back of his throat and into his stomach. The warmness was both comfy and slightly sickening.

“And it’s no shady deal, mind you. Sanctioned by the City Watch. See here?” He pulled out a folded envelope, took out a letter of authorization signed and sealed by none other than Leeahn Festian, the Commander of the Watch. “Means we would be acting on behalf of the Empire. Get paid by the Empire too.”

“Why would the City Watch hire outside their ranks to deal with this... individual?” Silas asked.

“Well, see, this individual we need to take out is a traitor... But he’s kind of a well-known figure, ranked pretty high on their ladder,” the ex-prizefighter answered, pocketing the letter once the two managed to give it a onceover. “They could make an official arrest, sure, and then it would be all over the city how they had a rat in their midst. Apparently they don’t want the bad publicity or something, I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter. The point is, they don’t want this tied to them officially. So we’re supposed to go in at night, all hush-hush like, and apprehend the man by any means necessary.”

Well, that wasn’t the complete truth. The actual orders were to kill Jotham DeVir by any means necessary, but Victor needed this man alive. Needed him alive so he could kill him slow and proper, introduce him to the world of pain for that one moment in time when the slimy bastard decided it was his right to end the life of something precious. Something beautiful.

“Oh, one last thing. If we mess up in any way, get arrested or caught by his security, we’re on our own. The government will deny all involvement and the paper you just saw would turn into a forgery.” It was the punch line that sent everyone running. Everybody liked the mention of the Empire’s gold, but when it came to risking their ass over it, suddenly everyone threaded softly.

“So, either of you interested?”

[Silence Sei]

"I must say that I am rather intrigued by your offer," 'Silas' spoke before taking another drink of milk. His potential employer seemed to be eyeing the white glass from which the hooded man was drinking, as if partaking of the stuff offended Victor in some way. The man who had joined them was somebody the mute had met once before, in the town of Valdta. Luckily, Artemis seemed far more interested in Victor's gun than he did with uncovering the true identity of 'Silas'. Sei looked back to Victor and nodded his head.

"I am all for giving some credit to my name," came Sei's answer. He found it ironic that he was a hero trying to be someone who in turn was trying to make it sound like he was a hero. Perhaps giving Silas more of a reputation in Radasanth would distract men like the Ixian Knights enough so that their leader could continue making these moonlit excursions. Furthermore, if the trio (provided Artemis also agreed to the employ) were to be caught by the Empire, perhaps revealing himself as the Avatar of Alerar and using some well placed clout would outright prevent the hang man's noose from making an appointment with the necks of Victor and Artemis. The telepath really hoped that there would be a peaceful solution to all of this, though that prospect seemed bleak.

His hand tightened around his glass, taking the drink within and chugging it down as if it were some sort of hard liquor. He once more wiped away the milk mustache that tickled the top of his lip. He looked over to the bartender, mortified at the unholy smell that came from the plate he was carrying. The thing on the plate resembled a ball of hamburger meat, only it had been overcooked to the point that serving such a thing should have been considered a crime against nature. Small flakes of black peeled off of the food with each step the bartender took, and Sei was genuinely afraid that the server was giving it to the Mystic as some sadistic punishment. The tense feeling in the telepath's gut eased a little once the man set the plate (which, for the record, had spots of old salad dressing on it) in front of Artemis.

"What is this?" Artemis asked the man, who had already been in mid-turn before the question had been spoken. He turned around and grumbled, apparently he got that inquiry more times than he would have liked.

"You'll enjoy it" the barkeep replied in a monotone, showing his apathy towards the situation, "It's like meat."

"Excuse me? -Like- meat?" Artemis picked up a fork that had been laid upon the plate, and poked the mystery substance. The object let out a kind of hiss and released more of its fumes into the air, a vile concoction of burnt hair and unwashed mushrooms. "Either it is meat, or it's not, and it looks like the 'it's not' option."

This got a small laugh out of Victor, and nothing out of Silas, who made a slam with his empty milk glass onto the bar. Though traditionally, such a maneuver was called a beer jerk, the fact that Silas was not drinking beer made it a more complicated than the route tradition typically followed. The bartender grumbled once again and grabbed the glass, going for another refill. Silas turned back to Artemis, awaiting his response to Victor's question.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis sat poking the amorphous blob of meat-like substance, completely forgetting the pair of men that sat beside him awaiting a response. It is often said that presentation is just as important, if not more so, than the taste of a meal itself. That being the case, this thing looked like shit and smelled like shit. Even more bizarre, poking the blackened chunk and hearing it hiss made it sound like shit.

'Three out of five,' Artemis thought. 'Should I really take the chance?'

Artemis always tried to give new things a try, broadening his experiences, but even Silas seemed to be whispering to Artemis not to do it; and if he weren't completely distracted by the 'food' in front of him, he might have recognized some familiarity in that voice. Still, he took a small bit of the blob while holding his breath, trying to mitigate the likely horrendous taste. As soon as the small chunk hit his tongue, an uncomfortable rush of acidity and sourness struck his taste buds so hard that he might as well have swallowed a shot of fermented garbage juice.

Immediately, his body reacted, heaving up the single bite and anything else that might have been even slightly contaminated. Chunks of partially digested food flopped onto the plate, covering the blob like disgusting gravy equally inedible. Artemis turned and ran out of bar, leaning against the side of the building and letting his spasms calm down.

"Let's get started," Vic mumbled to no one in particular, chuckling at the small show and taking another shot of scotch before slamming the empty glass down and making his way out of the bar.

Silas left coin on the table to cover Artemis' supposed meal as well as his many cups of milk before following Vic out. The pair walked out and past Artemis as he continued to heave, Silas the only one to give even the slightest glance as Vic walked toward his destination.

"Wait!" Artemis shouted when he had sufficient time between heaves. "Wait. Why you? Why did the Watch pick you?"

Vic stopped mid stride and turned to face Artemis, a look of contempt painted across his face.

"Let's just say I owe this guy a favor that I've been waiting to repay, and I've finally been given the chance."

"I'll help," Artemis said while contemplating the words. He felt unsure of what the gunslinger meant but felt too curious not to find out.

At that, Vic showed signs of the slightest smirk before turning to continue his walk, assuming the pair would follow.

'As long as you have good reasons, I'll help,’ Artemis finished, though only in thought. Meanwhile, Silas seemed to be carefully taking note of Artemis before turning away, and the two followed Vic's determined lead.

[The Cinderella Man]

The small crowd disperses in a matter of minutes, walking away in silence, not too fast, not too slow, a mute procession of dark shapes. A few stay, some distant family bound by blood to stick around, others to offer their condolences to the widow. Empty words spoken in hushed voices, friendly touches on the shoulder, that is all they have before they make themselves scarce. She bears with it stoically, nods when she’s supposed to, looking at each and every one of them and through them. The last amongst them is a government official, a sleazeball in an ironed three-piece suit. He speaks softly and tries to take her hands into his own. She pulls away as if he came at her with fire, then proceeds to slap him with the back of her pale hand. The man looks stunned for a moment, then bows his head and walks away.

The four men that minutes ago lowered her husband to his final resting place wait patiently, hand on shovels instead of ropes now. They wait while she hobbles closer to the hole in the ground, leaning heavily on a crutch and dragging her right leg like it’s deadwood. But the rain had made the ground treacherous and she is still weak from her wounds, and halfway between her chair and the grave she falls into the mud. One of the graveyard employees helps her back up and she forces a smile on her face and a word of gratitude. She absently scrapes some of the mud from her dress, then decides to take another go. By then her family is around her, supporting her as she makes her painful journey to the grave. She takes something out of her purse once she’s close enough to the edge, a metallic object which she bring to her lips before she tosses it into the hole.

And then, as she picks her head up, for the briefest of moments she seems to look in his direction, her eyes cutting through the downpour and distance. He wants to duck away, wants to be anywhere else but right there under her gaze, wants to jump out of his skin. Because he knows those eyes.

The rain was a refreshing change from the stuffiness of the Hole in the Floor. It was summertime in Corone, a season when usually the downpours were short and warm. But this particular one has been going on for two days straight now, highly uncommon for this time of the year, and it was annoying just about everybody in Radasanth by now. But Victor Callahan found it quite beneficial on this night. It was a great way to clear his head, chase away the fuzziness brought by alcohol and retrieve the focus. He walked through the benighted streets with his head tilted slightly upwards, allowing the rain to have its way with his face. He took a couple of deep breaths, then regretted it once the reek of wet garbage wafted his way.

That’s the Slums for you, he thought as he wiped his stubble and shook some of the rain from his short hair. Always something to remind you that you’re knee deep in shit.

“I guess I should introduce myself, what with us working together now,” the gunslinger said once some of his clarity returned. He reckoned that by the time they got to DeVir’s mansion in the Government District, he’d get most of it back. But hopefully not all of it. It was easier to do these things with some firewater in your veins. “The name’s Victor. Victor Callahan. And to further ease your concerns, this is not my first employment with the City Watch. Been working for them for a couple of months now. Mostly domestic stuff, patrol duty and the like. That hustle in the Watch’s Headquarters about a week ago with the Rangers? Yep, got tangled into that one as well.”

The voice-guy, who had introduced himself back in the Hole, only nodded. The young one, however, quickened his pace and approached Victor with an extended hand. “Artemis Eburi,” he said as they stopped for a quick handshake. There was some acid in his breath from his encounter with the ghastly meatball, but the gunman made no notice of it. After you spent enough time in the gutters of Radasanth, you met far worse things than bad breaths. They continued down the length of a cobblestone avenue, passing under the sporadically lit street lamps and their shimmering oily glow.

“And if you don’t mind me asking, what hustle with the Rangers?” Artemis added.

“You haven’t heard? The entire town is full of talk about it,” Silas spoke, once again his words coming to the two as if the rain wasn’t pounding the world mercilessly all around them.

“Afraid not. I just arrived today by boat. A storm nearly sunk us not too far from the shore,” the young man replied.

“Well, some Rangers made a move against the City Watch last week, tried to tear the whole place down,” Victor said. The world around them grew brighter as they walked, the gaudy light of the brothel seeping into the streets. A couple of worn-looking hookers offered their services half-heartedly, sticking to the dryness of the porch and displaying their wrinkled wares, but none of the three really paid heed to them. “See, what the bastards did, they passed some false info to the Watch about some spies in the city. The Watch sent patrols to apprehend them, but got ambushed instead. Lost a lot of men that day. And then they moved against the Headquarters. Even had a Marshal with them.”

“Was it one of the Big Three?” Silas asked.

“What? No. I don’t think so at least. It wasn’t Ravenheart, that much I am certain. Some elven tree-hugger with a big goddamn spear. Man, you should’ve seen him move,” Vic said with a grin. His shoulder still ached where the elf’s spear went through to pin him to the wall, but he still thought it was worth it. “Anyways, long story short, the Marshal wound up headless and the Watch wound up with half a dozen prisoners. All in all, a solid day.”

They were slowly making their way out of the Slums, the lamps shining more regularly now, the debris and litter slowly being replaced first by wooden fences, then gradually by iron ones with lawns behind them. Victor always found the transition fascinating, the way the city changed as you walked, a metamorphosis of a sleeping behemoth. Staggering drunkards and shady characters started to disappear, give way first to more respectable looking folks – merchants rushing to close their shops, women with bales of linen – and then to no folks at all. By the time they were in the Government District, it was well past bedtime for the rich and the famous.

As they started to close in on the mansion, Victor felt it was time to lay out the plan, such as it was. He led the way into one of the smaller alleys, found a relatively dry spot where the roof above hanged over a part of the sidewalk and halted their advance. “Now, listen. The man we’re after is Jothan DeVir. And if you’re familiar with the Corone politics, you know he’s a secretary to viceroy... Shit, what’s his name? I always mix them up. The one with the face and the hair... Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the gunslinger spoke in a hushed tone, occasionally looking around to be certain of their privacy. “Apparently, he’s the one who gave the Rangers information they used to mount the last week’s attack against the Watch. So we’re here to put him out of business. Now, look here...”

From one of the interior pockets of his leather overcoat, Victor produced a crudely drawn blueprint of the DeVir mansion. He tapped the other breast pocket, then the other two. “Shit, either of you have a light?”

Silas snapped his fingers and a tiny ball of white light came to existence above the three, like a bulb without a glass casing.

“Well, that’s handy. Thanks.” He turned to the map.

“This place has an iron fence all around it except the back. There’s a garden here that the mansion shares with four others. We’ll enter here, through the hedge...” He pointed at the place where the circular garden touched one of the badly drawn side streets. “He probably has sentries posted at the garden. We take those out as silently as possible, then proceed into the yard. There are probably going to be a couple of men there too. We take them out and make a move to the mansion exits as quick as possible. There are three...”

His finger moved to the square that represented the manor. “The front, the service door to the back and the parlor balcony here that looks on the garden. I’ll go in through the front, you two each take one of the others. Now, chances are that there are no guards inside, but don’t let your guard down. He supposedly doesn’t expect us, but you know what they say about army intelligence, right?” He smiled briefly, then returned to the matter at hand.

“Anyways, move in as fast as possible and secure the target. Take him alive, you understand? He has to be alive,” Victor said, his tone perhaps a bit harsher than he intended. He recollected himself and concluded: “Any questions?”

[Silence Sei]

The heat radiating from Silas' light warmed the exposed skin of all who had earlier been caught in the middle of the torrential downpour. The plan seemed rather simplistic, but sound in every way. Covering all three exits would ensure that there would be no souls going in or out of the mansion, at least not without somebody knowing. Sei thought about this plan for a moment, trying to find a folly in its simplicity. When he had found a minor issue with the strategy, he decided to speak up, lifting his head up so several strands of orange could be seen peering out from the disguise.

"What about communication?" 'Silas' asked to make sure everything was truly taken care of, "If we go in, and one of us gets captured, how will the other two know?" Victor looked at the man long and hard for a moment, his narrowed eyes hinting the slightest tinge of frustration that his well placed ambush was questioned by this mysterious magician. Artemis was still scanning the map with his eyes, taking a bit longer than the other two to notice the distance between each of the doors. It was a reasonably sized mansion, and yelling simply would not do, lest they alert anyone inside of their presence.

"He's right," the vagabond finally spoke out, pointing to each of the doors. "If DeVir hears any of us talking, he might have an emergency escape route. Don't most high-ranking people have something like that?" The question caused Victor to look back down at the map, taking a look at his strategy with the perspective of the others placed in his mind. The gunslinger slammed a fist down on the makeshift table and looked at Silas, as if it had been his fault that there was such a detail overlooked.

"What do you suggest then? Run through the front door, weapons ready?" Victor’s hair was starting to mat to his face again thanks to the help of sparse raindrops slipping past their makeshift shelter.

"I actually have something that can help," 'Silas' spoke, reaching into his coal colored cloak and taking out three different colored earrings, "These will allow us to communicate through telepathy, so long as we have them on our person, and only for a short distance." He set each piece of jewelry on the table. In front of Victor, a small diamond dangled off the end of the silver rings, shimmering in the magical light Silas provided. To Artemis, a tiny ruby stood at the end of a gold ring, highlighting a part of the mansions schematics in a blood red hue, as if to forebode something sinister afoot. Finally, in front of Silas was an amethyst gem on a platinum ring, its transparency making it shine all the more beautifully. Victor picked his accessory up and looked back to Silas, a quirked eyebrow being his mark of suspicion.

"You could have told us you had these before, you know," the fighter deadpanned and gripped the gem, placing it somewhere in his clothing that the mute did not quite see. Artemis also grabbed his item and placed it on his being, leaving only the telepath to grab the last one and place it back within his shroud. The telepath lifted his head a bit further up, flashing his white teeth to his leader while still masking the azure of his orbs beneath the blackness of the cloth.

"I did not think they would be needed. Now if you gentlemen would excuse me, I shall take the balcony..." Silas dropped his head once again, and turned to look out and await his fellow warriors. The light from the magician's magic slowly began to fade, succumbing to the constant attack of sporadic raindrops upon it. It was time.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis spent more time than the other two studying the floor plans for the target's mansion, taking note of all the rooms, their locations, and the routes available. Given the details listed, the home had a second story as well as a basement, and each exit led to a different level.

'I'll take the service exit on the north side into the basement.' Artemis thought, testing the functionality of the earring.

"Well, with Silas taking the balcony on the west, that leaves the main entrance to the south for me - front and center." Vic smirked at the two and rolled up the parchment, stuffing it into a pocket. "Better for me. Never was big on subtlety." With that, Silas stalked off to keep watch at the end of the alley.

"Can't we just bang the door?" Artemis asked Vic with a concerned look.

"That's just what we're doin'." Vic smiled wickedly at the vagabond before pulling out his gun and giving it a fond glance before he too stalked off. Artemis did not understand the reference.

With a shake of his head, he joined the pair and they quickly made their way to the small alley designated on their crude blueprint and poked through the hedge that led into the garden of DeVir's mansion. Vic pointed to a man strolling along one of the many pathways. "This one's yours, kid. Silas and I will take care of the guys on our side."

As the gunslinger waited for Artemis to make his move, the young man pulled out his bow, Judicis, and pulled back on the string without an arrow strung. "Are you forgetting something?" Vic asked.

Artemis continued to focus, his thoughts reaching out to the sentient spirit of his bow. 'Paralysis arrows, Judicis. I don't want to hurt these guys.'

Silas grinned as the bow conjured a black arrow of pure energy, the shaft of the bow also turning a charcoal hue. As Artemis let the string go the projectile flew at the guard patrolling the garden and stuck him in the back, dissipating upon impact. The guard fell without a sound as his body hit the soft grass. It even appeared that he never felt the bite of the arrow upon impact.

Artemis stepped through the hedge quietly and crept toward the back of the house, expecting the others to make their way toward their respective exits. He made his way to the service exit on the north side that led into the basement. Every room of the massive home seemed aglow, the dark night muffling the light.

Mud sucked on his boots as if not satiated by the recent heavy rain. He pulled a boot up, the small pocket of air making a squeal and he cringed at the sound. 'So much for being subtle,' Artemis thought to himself

He began to tread lighter, staying on his toes and moving too quickly for the mud to catch. His steps were unwittingly in harmony with the crickets that chirped nearby, making Artemis appear much like a caricature not to be taken seriously.

'Let's see who we're up against,' Artemis said as he switched his vision to the infrared spectrum. He tried to look through the walls for heat signatures that resembled humans, but unfortunately, the many lights and stone exterior prevented him from seeing much beyond the room beside him, which looked empty.

He switched back to the normal spectrum and turned the corner; he saw the service exit jutted above the ground - a hatchway into the storage room, if he recalled the plans correctly. He quietly stepped toward it, crouching down toward the handle and saw a solid steel padlock and realized he had forgotten to prepare for such a simple detail.

Artemis knelt down and examined the metalwork, noting the poor quality of the mechanism. It served more as a deterrent than an actual barrier, as most people would turn away after just seeing it. He contemplated picking the lock with a magical trinket he carried with him, but that would take more time than he had. Instead, he pulled out one of his many mythril daggers and slid it through the hoop of the lock. Standing upon the hatchway, he gave a good heave, breaking the locking mechanism open. Unexpectedly, the lock's old age and low quality made the break nearly silent, maintaining a bit of secrecy.

He threw the lock aside and cautiously began to open the door, and just as the well-worn hinges gave a screech, he heard a loud bang from the other side of the house. 'I guess they know we're here,' he thought, quickly stepping down the few steps and into the basement of Jotham DeVir's manor.

[The Cinderella Man]

She never looks back. As they start to pile the muddy earth on top of her dead husband, she walks away serenely without ever stopping for one last longing look. It’s not that she doesn’t care, Victor knows. It’s because there is steel inside of this woman, and looking back at the final resting place of her husband might melt it, turn her into one of those crying and screaming wenches that made a scene that people later talked about in hushed tones. The carriage isn’t far, but still the walk seems to last forever, and every second Victor expects, almost hopes, she would look in his direction again with that sharp accusation stabbing at him like broken glass. But she never does.

They help her out of the rain and into the black coach, and with a cluck and a snap of the reins the driver in a top hat takes the last of the congregation away. Nobody left now but the four men with shovels, working almost hastily now, eager to get out of the rain. Victor finally decides to move out of the relative dryness beneath the tree and makes his way to the fresh grave. He soon stands at the foot of it, staring at the disappearing coffin.

“You knew him?” one of the gravediggers asks, not terribly interested in an answer.

“I killed him,” the gunslinger responds.

Subtlety had never been a tactic that Victor Callahan used. He had no taste for it, and more importantly he had no talent for it, so when it came to clandestine business and pussyfooting, the ex-prizefighter was about as subtle as a buffalo. This lack of finesse cost him many a time both in the ring and life, but there was little to be done about it. Even his old boxing coach, Arslan, had given up on changing him all those years ago saying that he could easier shift the course of a river with a spoon than turn him into anything but a slugger. So he gave him simple advice: keep your head low and keep swinging. And for thirty-plus years, Victor had been doing just that. Sometimes it got him through. Sometimes it got him beaten to a pulp.

Silas and Artemis were nothing like him, though. The duo eliminated the yard sentries with very little hubbub, some with arrows, some with magic, some with just a good old fashioned hit on the head. The hooded weirdo was particularly efficient, distracting a guard with his light magic tricks before bopping him on the back of the head, then taking another down with what looked like a spinning metal disc. The only action Victor saw prior to approaching the main entrance was a guard that stood restlessly in the shadow of the porch, and the gunman tackled him and smashed his fist into his face before the man managed to alert the others. All things considered, it was a good start. If he had went solo, Victor figured he’d already be about two dozen bullets shorter with half a neighborhood aware of his presence.

But once all three reached their entry points, he saw no point in playing it quiet anymore. Secrecy was fine and all, but from his experience surprise and shock worked much better. You catch people with a dick in their hand, nine out of ten times they will panic. And panicking people were like headless chickens: they made easy targets. So he pulled the sawed-off with his left, wrapped his right around Aicha’s supple grip, and unleashed terror.

“Move in,” he muttered, not really knowing or caring if his companions heard him. They’d hear soon enough.

The first buckshot tore a head-sized hole in the door, blasting the lock, knob and a chunk of wood inwards. A slam of his foot opened both wings of the main entrance. Xanthous light hit him from the interior, spreading out onto the porch and into the night in a diminishing cone. He was a black figure in the middle of it, an angel of death coming to collect what was due. An unusual number of lamps shone in the foyer, the entire ground floor lit up as if it was early evening and not the middle of the night. They even had the huge chandelier all lit up, the angular crystals fragmenting the light of the flames and spreading it benevolently over the room. Victor reckoned the four men scattered around the anteroom had something to do with that. The quartet didn’t panic, rather unimpressed with the big entrance. Three of them stood in the main hall with brandished swords, with the fourth (possibly the leader of the group) standing halfway up the curved staircase that led to the second floor. A pair of flintlock guns hung lowly on his hips.

“Drop your weapons and you can leave!” Victor advised half-heartedly. He knew they wouldn’t comply, and they were keen not to disappoint. Brave amateurs all four of them, they gave it their best. The leader drew with his right and fired from the hip, the flintlock spewing fire and smoke, forcing Victor to duck and roll forward while the melee trio closed in. They were on top of him in a two blinks of an eye, but they never got a chance to do damage. The first came at the gunman with a thrust which Victor pushed away with the barrel of his shotgun, then proceeded to shoot the man in the chest twice from point blank range with his pistol. He swung the sawed-off beneath his extended right and blasted the second man away, splattering his lungs over the fine tapestry of the elven hero Radasanth on a pale horse. The third man was already swinging his broadsword by then, bringing it from up above with all the strength he could muster. The gunslinger blocked the blow by crossing both his weapons above his head, then swung the guns and the sword vigorously to one side and out of the way, making room for a headbutt that shattered the man’s nose and sent him sprawling.

The second flintlock went off, and this time there was no time for dodging. The pellet struck Victor’s right bicep, pivoting his entire torso and making him drop Aicha to the lush carpet below. The pain was like a sharp hot poker which someone stuck into his flesh and left there until the heat wore off. He pushed through it, recovered. The two gunslingers eyed each other for several seconds, both painfully aware that they were out and in need of reloading, both waiting for the other to make the move. But then the guard threw away his guns and brandished a dagger, and Victor dropped his shotgun and threw himself to the ground, grabbing Aicha with his left. He shot the advancing sentry six times while lying on the floor, the body in front of him dancing a bloody polka like a puppet whose master got a muscle spasm.

And then everything was quiet again.