Bark's Worse Than His Bite

[Arden]

Moonlight vista by night. Windswept heath by day. The plains of Corone were as idyllic as they were inhospitable. No cover sheltered caravans, save for the length of road that bordered the primal forest of Concordia. Only when you reached the forest could you claim sanctuary, and even then, you passed into the druid’s care. Few people survived both ills to state wherever hurricane or bramble vine fever was the worst misfortune.

It was, as far as Arden Janelle was concerned, the perfect place to prove a point. He had returned to the Scara Scourge’s throng barely a week ago, and already he was inundated with reports of an organisation probing too deep into the ruins and rises of the island. He had expressed concern to his consulate, and it was decided an investigation was in order.

“Any sign of the caravan?”

His voice was soft, pensive almost, but still carried authority in the twilight. His colleague, an initiate with a penchant for subterfuge skittered out onto the road. Arden watched his protégée with growing admiration, and waited expectantly for his report.

“A wagon approaches Maester, but I can’t confirm if it’s him.”

The swordsman reflected on the intelligence provided by his contacts in the Kinshara. For whatever reason, the man Ioder was to pass through the northern entrance to Concordia on a journey south to Jadet. Perhaps there was another destination in mind, but Arden could only guess where. Little of worth was left in the forest for those with anything less than a death wish.

“Good enough,” he said. He pressed a hand flat to the ground and patted it softly. The initiate retreated into the shadows. “The Red Hand gives,” he continued. It was the start of a sign off, a dismissal.

“The White Hand takes,” replied the initiate.

Alone again, Arden peered out along the road towards the plains. Dark enough to enshroud even torchlight, he relied on his hearing to gauge how close the wagon was. He began to breathe heavily, a meditative process to stay his inner rage. His mission was to warn, by force if necessary, the man that his presence in Scara Brae was not welcome. For once, the assassin pledged to not kill, though he held no promise not to maim.

He was the Hound once again, the beast that guarded the Scourge’s door, and all those good folk who relied on their guiding Hand.

[Ioder]

Wooden wheels turned with rickety creeks as the caravan of The Risen moved along the moonlit road. Concordia was merely a stepping stone before this faction of men would reach the eastern coast of Corone. A company of men moved with the four covered carts that was what they referred to as their home. Other than the fellows at the reins everyone walked behind in a lazy fashion. There was only room for the provisions in the carts, these hardy men were used to sleeping under the stars.

Ioder, the white winged general, strolled along with the commen men who served him. With faint torches in hand they appeared as a procession of saints in the thick shadows of night. Everyone wore matching orange cloaks tattered and covered in ancient runes, hoods covering their identities.

"Sir, there is a strange chill in the air." Kyle, Ioder's field medic said as he tugged at the angles coat tails. "I have a bad feeling about this." Ioder could sense a quiver in his voice. Now Kyle was one tapped with the gift of divinity, though he may not be as aware of his power. This was something that Ioder noticed when he first met this young physician.

"Be calm young one, you are merely worried about nothing." he answered while putting his arm around his medic. Giving him a small shake of reassurance, Ioder released his grip and walked faster moving to the front of the caravan. "Beside who would think of taking us on?" he said with a confident snicker. Still he had to be sure he must consult his cards.

Once out of sight of his less than confident field medic he quickly reached for his side. Grabbing at his cloth sack he found his small wooden container. Unlatching it's lock and flipping it open Ioder saw his fabled artifacts. The Deck of Fate, possibly the most powerful tools of divination ever created. He closed his eyes and grabbed one card at random pulling it free from the case. He waited for a moment before glancing at his card.

The Nine of Swords, a card that represents aggression, flashed in front of him. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow as he looked wide eyed at the image. It was almost transcendent watching the collection of swords morph and contort into a slide show of images. Kyle was right or at least partly correct, his gift was growing everyday.

"Stop the wagons!" he yelled as he quickly stowed his possessions. Glittered whispered resounded as the caravan came to a halt. Ioder without saying anything further moved to the front of the wagons giving a signal of patience to his men. An awkward hand was held firm behind him ushering the caravan to stay put.

He stood alone facing the darkness of the road ahead of them, unable to see anything more than the outline of the forest looming ahead of him. I know you're out there...

[Arden]

Undulating cold silence filled the space between swordsman and purveyor of cheap tricks. Arden watched through the gloom, just able to see the outline of the lead wagon through the shadows. He smirked. That his quarry had stopped here meant he had already underestimated the Tarot. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to their infamy than hearsay and magpie fetish for relics.

He had come this far and carried out his intent with brazen style. He emerged from the undergrowth all but naked. His red hair his cloak, his loose trousers his poultry offering to defence. Loose feathers hung from his belt and his blade, silently drawn trailed a thick steel chain along the rough pebbles and rubble of the highway.

“I do not yet mean you harm.” His voice, carried by anticipation and malice ran through the caravan like a bolt of lightning. The silence gone, the sound of the forest filled his ear drums. Owl hoot, branch sway, and midnight cry unseen. Pathetic fallacy brought Concordia to life in dead times.

“Who goes?” replied one of the guards.

Arden expected such a trivial question. He came to a halt at the centre of the road, precisely a hundred foot from the baying mane of the lead stallions. It was close enough to cause concern but far away enough to afford him an advantage.

“I am Arden Janelle. I am the Maester of the Scara Scourge. I have a message for the card shuffler and intend to deliver it.”

[Ioder]

The angle lifted his chin to peer out at the raggedy man standing before him, daring not to lift the vail that was his hood. The pressure that this man exhumed felt like the weight of a giant. Taking slight offense to his comment regarding his cards Ioder moved his deck back to the safety of his rucksack. In the same motion he found the hilt of his blade Halure secured and out of sight hidden under his orange cloak. His eyes darted all over the man as he gauged him based on his appearance and sheer arrogance to stand before him and his army.

Keeping true to his nature Ioder didn't quite reveal himself to his enemy. Rather in a fashion most befitting the warlord he in a flash created a golden shimmering copy of himself. As if stepping from an enigmatic porta this representation of himself stepped forward. With wings spread out wide and dawned in a more traditional garb he a was convincing replacement.

"So deliver it, I have not the time nor energy to deal with this now." The visage spat as it allowed it's flight feathers to ruffle. All the while the true angle held his ground behind his distraction. Not that he was in any form worried about this man, he was no stranger to danger. Being that his men were in such a close proximity he needed to play his cards right.

"Sir!" Alfe cried as he made his way to the front of the caravan. "Let me handle this."

"Silence!" The visage exclaimed with one hand demanding Alfe to halt. "Take the rest of the men and do not get involved with this man, disengage and move along." Both sets of Ioder's eyes stayed fixed on the man. Alfe waited for a moment before doing as his master wished and turned to address the crew. It wasn't long before the stallions and work horses were rerouted off the path and the caravan was mobilizing.

[Arden]

Arden saw two things in Ioder. Bravery and tradition. The first would lend the man well in the coming and inevitable conflict between Scourge and Tarot. The second would not, for it tied him to honour and there was no place for that when tyrants warred over petty misgivings all around them.

“Come and claim it,” were his only words.

He slipped an envelope from his pocket and tossed it forwards. From the manner in which it projected and landed with a thud, Ioder assumed the contents were weighty, and not just a mere scribbled threat. Shadows danced around his arm as he withdrew it, a neutral stance promising danger despite good intentions. He stepped back, to appease his quarry, and sat cross-legged on the roughshod highway.

To steal away deviations from his plan, Arden cast his aura wide. It touched Ioder, stealing away his ability to talk and in turn, his own. Seated silently, the swordsman sheathed his plate and set its tip on the rocks. As the caravan trundled on, it’s presence of little concern to the Akashiman, he watched the straw haired youth with murderous intent.

[Ioder]

The winged visage of Ioder and the true seraphim watched as the weighted letter fell to the ground. Their unexpected guest stood in such a fashion he appeared to be an enemy. It was a pity really that all the rough looking gentlemen lead a life of crime. If only he knew that the world was brighter not working a petty servant for a gang lord.

The true Ioder took a few steps back to the edge of the road taking a seated position just opposite the dog of a man. He found himself unable to speak, perhaps some form of magic. Nevertheless he was not worried, his men were on their way to the seaside coast to their new home. Which was their ultimate goal after all, to find a new safe haven. A place where even the piercing eyes of Vincent Cain the Bastered Tyrant of Fate can't find them. In fact they were on the run this very moment to keep safe one of their artifacts.

Ioder's visage slowly walked over to the neatly packaged parcel, cautious to take his eyes off the assassin. With stares locked he knelt down to pick up the letter. But before his hands touched the parchment he hesitated unsure to weather it was a threat in and of itself. If it was a trap he only needed to keep this guy tied up long enough for him men to get a few leagues away. So on a whim he lifted the letter up, and to his surprise it didn't explode. What a relief to not be obliterated in such a unkind way.

It felt like gold and with one motion he tore open its seal. He dared to look inside taking his gaze away from the dog. Yet he did for the slightest of moments. Subcontiously the true Ioder was in complete control and this slight waver was merely a lure.

It was gold packaged with a notice, this guy is at least upfront about it. Ioder thought as he fished through to get the paper. He lifted it up to his face keeping it and the assassin in the same gaze. It read giving this man the mission to keep the Tarot Hierarchy off the isle of Corone at any cost.

The true Ioder froze momentarily taking in this information. Guess there not so secret anymore. Here lies conflict, Ioder was no longer a member of the Tarot but what were the odds of this man believing his claim.

Judging based on the payment he meant business. Quickly the visage took his finger to his mouth and chomping down with his teeth. Drawing blood to write on the letter, "you got the wrong guy." Before tossing it back over.