Stealing Thunder

[The International]

Stealing Thunder

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Fact

All locations, customs, and items including Outlander's Post, and Survani's Oasis are canonically confirmed by The Fallien Almanac (http://www.althanas.com/world/forumdisplay.php?f=277). This quest is simply an expansion of those ideas. All bunnying has been planned and approved.

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The Fields of Khu'fein held a bad reputation. Common people who didn't know Alerar thought these plains to be cursed and filled with danger and death. Adventurers expected great fame and fortune from this region. Most times both adventurers and commoners were in for a great disappointment. The reputation all started thousands of years ago when a group of Aleraran Elves performed the largest ritual in Althanas history, sealing away the souls of nearly a million indigenous Valinthe in another realm called the Anti Firmament. From then on the entire land was thought to possess some type of supernatural property. Small segments of it did, but the Fields were at least one third of the country's landscape and it harbored almost all of the country's farmland. To Alerarans, the Fields were nothing more than a breadbasket with a story behind it, and if there were possessed or cursed lands, they just didn't farm there.

Vespasian Villeneuve was once one of those adventurers who thought the Fields to be a source of fame, fortune and thrill. Evan Calico, the pale Coronian horse breeder, was once one of those commoners who thought the land to be filled with danger and death. Ritter Anxiy Poulux was one of those native Alerarans who knew the truth about the plains, and was the one to dispel all the rumors for the two of them. The Aleraran knight had invited the horse breeder and the covert operative to a weekend at his estate, which was near the dead center of the region, and now they were enjoying a morning walk in the infamous Fields. The jaunt was filled with laughter as the three gentlemen followed a path along rolling foothills and exchanged humorous anecdotes.

“Everyone reacts very differently, but it's hilarious every time.” Vespasian said in between chuckles. His hands were buried in his pockets, for the blanketing warmth of the morning sun was not yet a match for the chilling wind of the now gone twilight.

“Playing anonymous tick-tack-toe with someone at a restaurant.” The bald Aleraran Elf of mahogany complexion said with a smile. “I've got to try that out.”

“I have a feeling this works with the women, too.” Evan said. The horse master said as he crossed his arms and smiled.

“Like a charm. But really, Ritter...” Vespasian said as he halted. His tone became a bit more somber although he maintained his ear to ear smile. “What do you want? I've had a great weekend, but that must mean you need something big.”

“You know this man just as well as I do.” The Coronian horse master put his hands on his hips and attempt to pierce the Aleraran knight with his blue eyes. “I was going to ask the same thing, but those women last night just had me forgetting all sorts of things.”

“Just like a bunch of Humans to be paranoid about a Dark Elf's intentions.” Anxiy said as he put his hands in the air. The two humans made humorous objections to his light hearted double entendre of accusing them of racism through a racist comment of his own. “Maybe... Just maybe I have something for the two of you. And if you'd just listen for a moment you may figure it out.”

Anxiy raised a finger and pointed east above a hill in the distance. What was first ambient noise assumed to be morning winds became clear now. It was low, almost subsonic, like the thunder of an ominous storm cloud, that is if that storm cloud came from the ground. Vespasian's feet tingled from the vibrations in his boots as he trudged up the steep hill. What they saw as they reached the top brought Evan to his knees.

“The chaos in Raiaera must have scared them across the Mountains of Twilight and into Aleraran territory.” Anxiy said as the three gentlemen gazed upon three herds of Raiaeran horses. They floated as earthen hue amoebas along the emerald sea of grass. “They aren't flighty and they don't seem to be disturbed by the presence of sentient people. What do you make of them, Calico?”

“Oh this is premium stock.” The master equestrian said with a shaking voice. “This isn't the half bred bargain brand the Raiaeran's rip people off for. These are the future mounts of the Eluriand cavalry.”

“Not anymore.” Said the Ritter. “Every attempt at a proper cavalry has failed miserably, but this is a sign. What do I need to get this thing right, Equestrian?”

“Well you need at least four hundred and fifty acres enclosed in high wooden gates, you need some shelter for the males and females separately. That's the only way you're going to be able to train them properly. And you're going to need about twenty five more of them.” Evan nodded his head. “Yup. Twenty five more will do.”

“Twenty five more horses?” Vespasian asked in a futile hope that the horse master meant something else. He immediately knew everyone's role in all this. Evan, being a man of no national pride in his native Corone, would be the man to train and take care of the horses, Vespasian would get the Ritter in touch with the right people to supply troops and arms, and Anxiy would take credit and glory for training the nation's first proper cavalry with little to no money out of the Monarchy's pocket.

“Twenty five more horses indeed.” Evan said with a nod to the head. “You need at least one hundred and fifty horses to maintain genetic diversity. If you want to breed more and at a faster rate I'd suggest two hundred. What I see here is about a hundred and twenty. Why don't you purchase some from Corone?”

“Horses from Corone are just pretty mules.” Anxiy paused. “No offense.”

“None taken as long as you're not talking about my horses.”

“Of course not, Calico. That's why I invited you, but I know how much you charge for your steeds.”

“And the throne isn't about to spend another penny on developing a cavalry.” Vespasian said with a sigh of anxiety. “Well I guess that only means one thing.”

“Yup.” Said Calico. “Anxiy, you're going to have to pay out of your own pocket for this one.”

“Hell no!” Vespasian said seemingly taking offense to such a statement. “We're going to steal some.”

“What?” Calico said with a double take to Vespasian.

Anxiy's reaction was quite different. An enthusiastic. “Alright.”

“From Fallien.”

”What!”

The Villeneuve family reacted in a very similar fashion as Vespasian proposed the theft of nearly fifty Fallien horses. They were eating dinner in a hotel room above El'inssring when he approached them. Silverware collided with fine china creating a harmonic ring that seemed to sting Vespaisian's ears with doubt. Everyone was frozen and staring at the baby of the family with shock with one exception. Ludivine, the middle sister, kept her head hung and her attention to her plate as if she had never heard the absurd statement in the first place.

“Keep talking.” She said nonchalantly as she continued to stuff her mouth with artichokes. She was the biggest eater in the family and naturally the smallest, for the gods of irony had their duties. In addition to being the biggest eater, Ludivine was the most skilled killer and most tempting seductress of them all. This was all because she was the most reckless so her reaction, or lack there of, was no surprise to Vespasian.

“Fallien's useless to us. They're Xenophobic, we're horrible with their language, and even if we know their language we don't know their culture. Mom and Dad are the only two in this room that can pull off Fallien looks.”

“That's because Mom won't give us Fallien forms to work with.” Maelle said as she sat cross legged on an oak desk in the corner of the room with her dinner plate on her lap. “If she'd just spend one night on this little task.”

“I've told you a thousand times, that's not how it works.” The Matriarch, Alix looked at her eldest daughter with a glare of disgust. “I'll draw up a Fallien form for you today. You can take a look at it before you go to sleep tonight, you'll wake up in the morning a deformed mess, and I can say I told you so... If you wake up that is.”

“Back to the point, ladies.” Esme said as he twirled a mountain of pasta with his fork. The father of the family leaned up against the window, plate in one hand, fork in the other. “Your increasing loyalty to Alerar is beginning to concern me.”

“That's a point.” Ludivine said as she gave Vespasian a menacing jade gaze. She knew him best, therefore she knew the real reason as to why Vespasian would want to go on a seemingly suicidal quest. He wasn't loyal to Alerar. Not yet. She just wanted to fuel the conflict, which was entertainment enough for her.

“I'm not loyal to Alerar. Show of hands. Who here would like a quality Fallien equine?” Vespasian said. Everyone but Ludivine put their hands in the air. Once again, she was simply enjoying herself. “I know you want one. Now think about it. What else could we possibly want from that place?”

A long moment of silence passed before someone spoke up. It was Esme, who shrugged his chestnut draped shoulders. “Spices.”

Ludivine was the only one brave enough to mock the Patriarch's suggestion in audible laughter. Her icy blue eyes rose from the plate for the first time in an open challenge to her own father, but it was backed up by the contained snickering of her sister and mother. They all knew that all they truly needed in this world was the good graces of three powers. Corone, Alerar, and Raiaera. Salvar, Fallien, and Dheathain were nothing more than after thoughts and vacation spots. Fallien's saving grace was their horses, and if the family succeeded in an endeavor to steal a heard these horses they would never have to set foot in Fallien ever again. Knowing that he had won the argument Vespasian proceeded with the plan.

“Lu, we need muscle.” Vespasian said to his best friend and favorite sister. “Can you hook us up?”

“Only the best of the best from the bottom of the barrel for my beautiful baby brother.” Ludivine said with a crooked sinister smile. “I know a Don who intends on getting in good with the Aleraran government. This can be his ticket in. I also know a thief or two who fantasize about riding a Fallien steed. Do you have a strategy.”

Vespasian plopped onto the bed beside Ludivine and plucked from her plate. “Don't I always?”

[Godhand]

He didn't know what was going on. One second he was having lunch at his usual haunt (a quaint little bistro that made the best turkey sandwiches in the city), and then the next thing he knew he was being dragged out into the street by a couple of wiseguys telling him to keep his head down and pop his collar while they led him through a series of back alleys finally ending in the building where his attorney's office was located. They told him to go see him immediately and then went off in different directions. By then The Fear had begun to grip Godhand, so he navigated the corridors as inconspicuously as he could and finally entered his lawyer's office. He was not surprised to see him and immediately launched into a spiel.

“What did you do!?”

“What...What do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea what kind of monster warrant they have out on you? As your attorney I advise you to SLOW DOWN MAN I CAN’T KEEP UP!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His lawyer pulled out a thick sheaf of papers.

“You’re being charged with everything from aggravated assault and battery to public displays of lewdness to intimidating a police officer-“

“Wait, intimidating a police officer? That can’t possibly be a crime.”

“-to SODOMY, manslaughter and murder.”

“What degree?”

“All of them. Jesus Christ, I’m pretty sure that if you disposed of a banana peel improperly you’d get charged with reckless endangerment. This whole list is so huge and frightening that I’d ask you for details, but frankly I don’t want to fucking know. There’s ‘attorney-client privilege’ and then there’s ‘accessory after the fact’. I’m probably going to get booked on conspiracy to obstruct justice as it is.”

“Christ, how did this happen!?”

“I don’t fucking know. Maybe the DA flipped somebody or you beat up a judge’s son; I don’t care. As your attorney I advise you to purchase a very fast horse and flee Radasanth at top speed. Don’t stop until you reach somewhere where they speak a different language. I’m gonna need at least a week, maybe two to sort this shit out.”

“Alright, thanks for the heads up.”

“Thanks nothing! From now on you’re keeping me on a ten thousand mark retainer. I can’t believe this shit.”

As Godhand walked out of the office, his attorney shouted after him.

"And leave through the service entrance!"

Afterwards there wasn't a moment's rest as Godhand ricocheted around the city like a pinball, vainly struggling to gather what money and equipment he could before the hammer came down. He managed to take his sword and some petty cash, but his sheath was being detailed and his guns were at his apartment which would undoubtedly be crawling with cops. He'd be lucky if the savage bastards didn't plunder and destroy his place in some sort of towering rage. The cop heart was a dirty and vengeful thing, and he knew that they wouldn't be civil no matter how much he explained his position. Better to just leave it alone and hope he had enough pull to get his things back after they'd been seized.

As he was about to leave town, however, the boys showed up again. They told him Giacomazzi wanted to talk to him, and though he was hesitant to stay in town any longer than he had to, he knew it was something he couldn't really turn down. It took some more back alley navigating but he finally managed to reach the don's mansion without getting pinched.

It turned out to be a job. It didn't take long for news of Godhand's warrant to reach the don's ears, and it was apparently quite fortuitous since there was a job to be done in Fallien. Seemed simple enough; work with some spies to steal some horses for breeding purposes. He could do that. Fallien was good, Giacomazzi explained, because since they were highly xenophobic there was no extradition treaty with other countries and he'd be safe there. Well, safe from the Radasanth government anyway. He'd still have to contend with the murderous desert. Godhand did some mental math and figured that the whole thing would take a couple of weeks minimum what with it being such a long trip, and that was all it really took for him to accept.

"You're always looking out for me, boss."

"Aren't I, though?"

So that was that. A hasty retreat from the city and a week long boat trip later, he was in some god forsaken, literally god forsaken, country where nobody knew him, nobody wanted to know him and where he'd been crammed into the same living space as a bunch of thieves and murderers left to ply their clumsy trade in a place that hated them now that they'd been chased out of every other city in every other country in every other continent for being irredeemably fucking obvious.

And now he was here, too.

He entered the hookah bar where he'd been told to meet his employers only to be immediately assaulted by the stench of stale smoke. He found a quiet corner and collapsed against the wall, putting a handkerchief up to his nose for a moment but then using it to wipe the sweat off his brow. His blood was too thick for this climate. He gripped the cheap replacement sheath he'd purchased in one of the port towns to briefly replace his real one, then pulled his hat down over his eyes. The mercenary resolved to get a bit of rest before his contacts showed up.

[Rayse Valentino]

It was a quiet day in the deserts of Fallien. The sun's glow warmed the yellow sands, the breeze gently pushing along the rolling hills. The unbearable heat prevented any life from flourishing in this wasteland as no plants could be seen anywhere, not even cacti. To survive in a place like this, you would need to be immune to heat itself.

Two small mounds of sand rose out of the ground, and as the sand trailed off the mounds turned into elbows. The rest of the man's body slowly rose out of the sand, him spitting and coughing as the pulled himself up. Standing up, streams of sand still fell from his body, as if he was some sort of creature born from the desert itself. The man looked around, his dark eyes seeing no end in sight to his lifeless surroundings. With a grimace, he grit his teeth and tensed his muscles.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" he roared at the sky, before breaking into a fit of coughing from the dryness of his mouth.

Rayse Valentino had been waking up in some strange places recently, but this takes the cake. He was only wearing his black shirt, his blue jeans, and his sand-covered shoes in dire need of a shine. Brushing the last of the sand out of his hair and clothes, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white container and shook it. The result of this displeased him, as apparently there were still some pills left in there. If one were to describe his mood, the most likely candidate would be murderous. The heat didn't affect him, but he was boiling with rage inside. The worst part was... this wasn't the first time he was in a desert. The idea of where he actually was pissed him off to no end. If he found out he was actually in Fallien again, he would kill a man. Maybe two men. Maybe a whole town.

Last time he was in Fallien, he was getting diagnosed for a magical sickness he picked up from improper placement of his fire rune. It turned out that unless he got the cure quick, it would be fatal. He eventually got his hands on the cure; two pills per day for several years. The side effects? He would be out for most of the day, or even the whole day sometimes. Not wanting to waste his youth on this garbage, he decided to take six or more pills every time he was lucid. Rather than blacking out, apparently this caused his subconscious to flat-out take over during his blackouts, for days or maybe weeks at a time. He never knew where and when he would wake up, but there was always trouble left in his wake.

The thought occurred that he could take some more pills and deal with wherever he ends up next place. However, taking the pills again so soon would be fatal, so he had to take a break from it for a day. A day of walking around aimlessly in a desert with an aching thirst and a dry mouth. He didn't even care how he got here, he just wanted out. The worst part was that he was out of cigarettes. Actually, it only took about an hour of walking before he came across an oasis. A bustling town had been built around it, but by this point Rayse's thirst was at its limit.

The sound of water sloshing around in a canteen met his ears. He saw a large, tall man with a spiked club tied to his side, wearing full body armor and several green silk coverings over his head with a small slit for his eyes. Rayse could think of nothing but the words water over and over again in his head. He shambled over to the man's back, his hand reaching over to that liquid treasure. Suddenly, the man, still not noticing Rayse, felt the need for a drink himself, and reached for the canteen and brought it up to his face. Rayse's eyes looked like that of a demon's, his expression a mix between pure evil and unbridled rage.

"Damn! That hits the spot!" smiled Rayse, wiping his mouth and throwing the empty canteen over his shoulder.

The canteen hit the bloody mess that was the silk-covered man, and Rayse moved on. Now that his craving for water was satiated, naturally the next step was the one for smoking. He had gone far too long without that sweet sensation. Spotting a hookah bar nearby, he entered and was immediately overcome by the aroma of smoke. Unlike others, this sensation was a pleasant one to him, and so he sauntered over to the front, putting down what was left of his money for some Grade-A cigarettes. He propped himself up on one of the stools and spun around, nearly ripping open on of the cartons. Sticking at least three cigs in his mouth, he snapped his fingers and produced a small flame on his thumb, lighting all three and taking a long, much-needed drag.

Looking around the bar, he spotted someone he hadn't seen in a while. Feeling somewhat better now, he wandered over and got Godhand's attention.

"Thank God you're here, Striker. For a second I thought I was all the way out in fucking Fallien."

[Inkfinger]

Caelric Strandssen leaned against the frosted glass window, basking in the pinkish-golden rays of the early morning sun. The small cottage was quiet and still, the embers of the fire emitting just enough warmth to take the edge off the chill. His pen scratching and scratching was the only noise, the nib scraping against the coarse grey newsprint almost frantically. The outline of the crowded table was taking shape on the paper – the carved beer tankard filled with springtime’s first few wilting flowers, the delicate curves of the coffee-filled wine glass sitting next to it, the…

Rough, frustrated ball of smudges, lines and erratic loops that were supposed to be Ludvik Strandssen’s dragonling, Charlemagne…the dragonling was not cooperating. It blinked obsidian-dark eyes at Cael, irritably, from its upside-down perch on the towel rack, letting out an annoyed screel.

“I know, I know,” Cael sighed, wiping his pen nib clean on his already ink-stained trousers leg. “But we can’t let you out. You’d only get us in trouble.”

The dragonling had been carefully trained for years; it was (in essence) a carrier pigeon, if pigeons suddenly had fangs and steel-hard scales. If they let Char go free, even here in Ettermire, it would fly North - right back to talk to the far-too sentient dragons at the Cathedral. Cael had the brief mental image of the pitiful cottage stamped flat by heavily armored feet with razor-sharp claws, and shivered, reaching out for the coffee. It had gone cold, but he took a sip anyway, shaking off the thought.

“Maybe we’ll get you out flying today, alright?” Char screeched again, but twisted its snaky body upright, preening its scales as if it understood.

It probably did.

“I’ll try,” Ludvik’s deep voice boomed in the stillness, and Cael jerked, upending the coffee all over his sketch. His brother pretended not to notice, scratching Charlemagne’s pewter spine as Cael scrambled for a cloth. “But not you.”

Cael shot his older brother a sharp glance, leaving coffee fingerprints on the counter before he found a dishcloth. “Say again?”

Something hit the table with a promising, papery thump, barely missing the coffee puddle and Cael’s inkwell alike. Cael’s eyes only narrowed as he wrung musty water from the cloth. “That didn’t answer the question.”

“You’ve got a job.”

There was a short pause before Cael turned his back on Ludvik, mopping up the coffee and pointedly ignoring the thick brown envelope in his way. Ludvik’s tone went softer, suddenly, as Charlemagne coiled up his arm.

“It’s not political. I swear. It’s just-”

Cael’s shoulders tensed as he finally turned to snarl, his eyes as hard and grey as steel. “I’m not doing another job. I don’t want…” He couldn’t even finish. There were long months between him and the man who could have finished that sentence. He’d spent those months at the mercy of the Church of the Ethereal Sway…mostly discovering that the church didn’t have any. He still woke up screaming some nights. “I can’t.”

“It’s only forging,” Ludvik continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word his younger brother had just said. Cael’s fingers tightened around the washcloth, spreading coffee and dishwater around more then cleaning it up.

“I ca-”

“It’s forging horse pedigrees.” Ludvik blurted, before Cael could even finish the word. He reached out and pulled the washcloth from Cael’s unresisting hand. Cael stood staring at the watery tan-grey smudges on the table, feeling curiosity tugging at the corner of his brain. “Pedigrees and a registry.”

Gods, he’s persistent. Cael found himself meeting his brother’s eyes, reluctantly. They were sparkling and eager, almost feverish. “Why?” He asked, not willing to say anything else yet – not this time.

Ludvik threw the washcloth back in the sink, and poured himself a mug of the coffee left on the counter. He leaned against the table to take a sip – and instantly scowled.

“Ugh, Cael, this is foul. How long has it been in there?”

Cael flopped back down in his seat, shrugging one shoulder. “Five hours?” He thought for a second, then amended. “Maybe seven.”

Ludvik promptly dumped the rest of the pot down the sink. “It’s only eight,” he pointed out. Cael slumped further down in his seat, rubbing his eyes.

“I know.” And I don’t want to talk about it. He reached out and took the envelope instead, tearing the seal open carefully. A stack of parchments – good parchment, pale tan, clean and smooth – slid out. It was a thick stack, too – at least a hundred sheets. He looked back up at Ludvik. Ludvik was, unsurprisingly, suddenly very fascinated with Charlemagne’s horns, his thick blonde hair forming a curtain between him and his brother’s suspicious stare.

Cael growled, exasperated. “Ludvik…”

His brother coughed, finally looking up. “They didn’t say how many. I…decided to play it safe?”

“…yeah, Safe.” Cael rolled his eyes, setting the parchments aside. There was still one stubborn sheet in the envelope. He gave it a gently tug. It slipped from his grip, falling face down on the other sheets, but in the moment before it fell Cael thought he caught a glimpse of flowing loops and intricate swirls. Ludvik had gone very, very still, and – once again – refused to meet his eyes.

“I’m not doing anything for you until you actually talk.”

Ludvik’s gaze, when he finally managed to catch it again, was as guileless as a baby’s. “What do you want me to say?”

Cael bit down on the lurid torrent of curses he was tempted to unleash, one scarred finger held up as if to say ‘hold on’. His brother subsided and obeyed, merely watching as Cael flipped the parchment.

The sharp black curves of written Fallien stared up at him in wordless challenge. Cael shook his head, glaring at Ludvik – who just kept nodding.

“No.”

“Cael-”

“No. Do you have any idea what they do to thieves over there? Forgery’s just stealing by another name!”

“Do you have any idea,” Ludvik countered, “just how much one purebred Fallien horse is worth? They’re the best. Even if we stole all the horses in the Sway’s stables, we couldn’t even afford a saddle worthy of ‘em…”

“I’d rather not be force-fed my own hands, ‘vik. There’s not much demand for scribes who have to hold their pens in their mouths.”

“You could charge customers extra for that…” Ludvik shrugged off Cael’s poisonous, accusatory glare. His face softened, slowly. “Look. You’ve not been outside the yard in a month. You’re going to go crazy cooping yourself up like this. We both know it.” Cael opened his mouth to protest, not even sure what he was going to say but knowing he had to say something. The unstoppable avalanche that was his brother just plowed on. “You do this job, we’ll have enough to get to Scara Brae for good. You know what they’re like there. There wouldn’t even be a ghost of a chance of getting dragged back to Knife’s Edge. We’d be free, Ricci.” He didn’t seem to notice Cael’s violent shudder at the name. “The church wouldn’t ever get their hands on you again.”

Cael couldn’t stop the second shudder, unable to fight off the crystal-clear memories of hands and bodies and the cloying scent of blood, or of the desperate escape that had left him with another death – no matter how deserved – on his conscience. His brother seemed to realize his poor choice of words the moment they left his mouth. He looked, for that moment, as if he were about to cry.

He didn’t, in the end. He simply gathered Charlemagne’s steel-linked leash from the drawer they’d shoved it in, letting the dragonling curl around his shoulder to peer beneath his arm, and headed for the door. He looked back on the threshold, eyes somehow both sympathetic and pleading.

“Please, Cael. At least think about it.”

Cael managed a half–hearted smile. He must really miss Frida, he thought, feeling another pang of awkward guilt. His brother’s wife had fled Salvar months before they’d been able to follow, taking their children with her. It was the longest Cael had seen them apart since they’d been married.

And you’re only worried about your own stupid skin… He looked back at the pile of parchment, and at the scars and brand that traced over the backs of his clasped, trembling hands. Like it could get any worse than what you’ve already been through.

“I’ll try,” he mumbled, ignoring the inner voice that said, yes. It could get worse. It could always get worse.

“That’s all I ask,” came Ludvik’s reply. The back door clicked open, clicked closed, leaving Cael alone with his thoughts.

Five months ago, that very dragonling had brought him Ludvik’s first message; a carefully worded but desperate plea for help. One thing had lead to another, and he’d spent those long moths in the cells for his sins.

But this…

With this, he wouldn’t really be responsible for anyone but himself, right? He wouldn’t have to ask anyone to do anything that would get them a short drop and a sudden stop…

Besides. You told her you’d meet her there, didn’t I?

He hadn’t thought of his rescuer in long weeks, possibly as a defense mechanism. She was the only living soul who knew exactly what he’d gone through. Ludvik had an idea, they had told him some things, but Skyler…the young assassin had been the one to pull him from what would have been a messy, painful death.

But he had told her he’d find her in Fallien. He had promised. And she’d saved his life – didn’t that make him her slave, or something? And the least he could do was repay the favor, and-

Some small section of his conscience pointed out that he was rationalizing, that he didn’t really need to be so set on the idea…


**

But what it boiled down to – almost literally, his loose white shirt clung to his back unpleasantly with the sweat – was him, several weeks later, padding through Irrakam’s maze-like streets. There was a paper clutched, worn ragged and dingy, in his hand. The paper had the directions marked in a sloppy scrawl that was only growing sloppier the longer he walked.

The naginata over his shoulder was, he was pretty certain, the only thing keeping him from being mugged on the street; he’d already gotten lost twice. The first time he’d wound up in a stable with a very helpful stableboy who had pointed him the right way –

The second time, it was with the realization that the building he’d stumbled into was most certainly a brothel, and the secondary realization that the stableboy had not been as helpful as he’d previously though.

His ears still burned (though it was hard to feel embarrassed heat over all the other heat here) when he finally stepped through the doors to the hookah bar written on his decaying piece of paper. It was hard to see, between the sting of sweat and smoke in his eyes, and the smoke in the air, making the light through the windows go hazy and golden-gray. He could hear voices, but only really caught about one in three words in the midst of the general hubbub of conversation.

That brought a third realization.

I have no idea what I'm doing here.

[The International]

“Son of a bitch!” Evan Calico blurted out in frustration as he rolled out onto the streets or Irrakam. The equestrian's hair was a disheveled drape over his blue eyes, one of which could only open half way due to a purple bruise, and a tiny crimson stream of blood ran down from his mouth to the bottom of his chin. He now stood with an Exit Pass in hand, peering into the Outlander's Quarters with disgust. Its guarded archway was like a portal to the underworld. Vespasian and Ludivine were still on the other side engulfed in a battle royal that they had incited moments before. A handful of local authorities got themselves involved, but in no way did they manage to restore any order, and the militia charged with guarding the gate did nothing. They just stood and watched in amusement.

Soon enough though the ten man creature regurgitated its two creators. First came Vespasian who crouched under a threshold of flesh and cloth, with his sword in hand. Then a black mist seemed to emerge from the very fabric of reality to surround the melee. Ludivine emerged from that mist in a cat like strut harmonious with her demeanor. The two of them dusted themselves off and checked their belongings then looked up to see Evan frozen in a quizzical gesture. “What the Hell was that all about?”

“I find it useful to allow my sister to let off some steam before we go on a big mission.” Vespasian exuded a brooding smile as he began to walk.

“Violence is my stress ball.” Ludivine said with a childlike innocence that was accompanied by a matching face. “I get cranky without it, and no one likes baby cranky.”

“I'm not a fighter. I hope the two of you know that.” Evan followed behind the two siblings in haste. “The only reason I'm here is because Anxiy said this was an espionage operation on the up and up.”

“That's a lie.” Vespasian said as he adjusted the pin keeping his simple gray cloak together. “You came here because you're a great equestrian and nothing would tickle your fancy more than acquiring a quality Fallien horse.”

“And by the way.” Ludivine playfully jumped up on Evan's back and straddled him from behind. She spoke quietly into his ear. “Keep walking. My little brother must not have briefed you properly, so I'll be the one to deliver the cold hard truth. We do all the bad things those scum in Outlander's Quarters do. Lie, cheat, steal, murder, but we do them on the behalf of governing entities, which theoretically gives us a higher cause. We will be doing all of the above over the next few weeks so get over it now because we need someone with your skill set. Furthermore, we never refer to our trade by name unless we know we're only being heard by each other, so eliminate the words 'spy' and 'espionage' from your vocabulary, and learn to speak in a more ambiguous manor. Do we understand each other?”

By now Ludivine's thighs had slowly tightened around Evan's ribcage thus constricting his lungs and sending a world of pain through his torso. All he could do was nod as he walked. As soon as he did he felt a release. He would never ask a girl to spread her legs again.

“You'll learn to love her.” Vespasian said as he gave his sister a jovial nudge.

The trio took a walk down the Merchant's Walkway, which was quite possibly the most colorful street on all of Althanas. Baked white clay and stucco buildings were decorated with red, yellow, and blue patterns. Merchants stood at their elaborately decorated vendors adorned in exotic hues like violet and emerald. A wide range of scents from the bitter to the sweet filled their noses. The exotic native tongue spoken by the heavy pedestrian traffic was the cherry on top for the Irrakam experience. On the other side of the Walkway was the i'Jhain Abdos Headquarters. Compared to other buildings the long structure was quite plain.

“You know...” Evan had to point it out. He directed their attention to their left where the muted abyss of crime and disorder was just a stone's throw away. “We could have taken a shorter route. I mean Outlander's Quarters is right there.”

“If this succeeds, we won't be coming back to Fallien for a very long time.” Vespasian said. “So I figured it wouldn't kill us to take the scenic route. Anyways our first destination is there.” Vespasian directed their attention to their right, where a great pillar of thick white smoke acted as the only cloud in the Fallien's baby blue sky.

“Whoa.” Evan said as he looked up. “What kind of chimney is pumping out that much smoke.”

The siblings looked at each other then at the equestrian, and exuded a smile of guilty pleasure. Ludivine had read Vespasian's mind when it came to the first rendezvous point. No more than half an hour later the three of them sat at a table staring up at a three foot tall glass tower. It was bottom heavy, for it contained chilled water in the bottom and a compacted pile of flavored tobacco at the top. Three tubes made out of leather extended from its body like the tentacles of a marine creature, one for each of them. Every time one of them inhaled from their tube, the water from the bottom of the device would rise in effervescence and begin a process that intoxicated their minds and bodies. It was as if they were breathing in the entire world. Irrakam had the only hookah bar on Althanas as far as they knew, and if this was going to be their last time here they couldn't pass up a chance at this.

“Remember when I said we had nothing else to gain from this place.” Vespasian said in a muffled voice as smoke slowly poured from his mouth and nose. He laid back in his chair. “I had totally forgotten about this place. So who are we meeting here.”

“We'll be meeting two muscle men and a scribe.” Ludivine's voice had lost its sinister edge. She took one more puff from the hookah. “Two of them are already here.”

“Wha-?... Lu.” Vespasian attempted to sit up, but to no avail. He was too relaxed. “Why didn't you say anything before?”

“I know how you are. All work. No play. If I had said something you wouldn't have paid for the hookah and we'd be briefing right now.” Ludivine reached for a slip of paper on the large circular table. Se crumbled it up and chucked it at the head of a silver headed, muscle bound Human. “Happy now?”

“You'll learn to love her.” Evan said as he raised his fatigued head from the table, throwing Vespasian's previous statement back in his face.

[Godhand]

Godhand couldn't rest. The bar was adequately shady and cool as far as Fallien went, but cool in Fallien terms was very different than cool anywhere else. He'd lacked the foresight to purchase any appropriate clothes, so he was wearing mostly black and grey. The dark colors retained a lot of heat. Add to the fact that he was wearing a leather trenchcoat, which anywhere else would have looked quite stylish if a bit too widespread, and he was squirming like a toad belly up in the middle of the desert. Which, really, he was. He was wearing a dull gray t-shirt so the sweat was rolling off his arms and pooling in the sleeves of his coat, making him feel even grimier than the boat trip there. The swordsman pulled off his jacket, folding it and placing it off to the side. He considered joining in on one of the hookahs but he was a hygiene freak and frankly, he didn't want to put his lips someplace where too many people had already put theirs. It might have seemed silly but take away a man's home, his friends and his weapons and all he had left were his neuroses. He pulled the hat off his head, to hell with being recognized, and fanned himself. Just as Godhand was trying to convince himself that the odds of him being recognized a continent away from his usual stomping grounds were inconsequential at worst, he heard his moniker shouted from across the room and a man approach him from the bar.

Godhand grit his teeth and put the hat back on his head, hissing under his breath.

"I don't fucking believe this."

It was Rayse Valentino, one of the men he'd hired to help him in his war against Imperial, and the man who engineered the bombing of the Dirks' estate. Godhand respected him; certainly he was a fan of his work, but he couldn't have picked a worse place to be blissfully unaware of the delicate anonymity that was preventing Godhand from being dragged out into the street and murdered like a dog just on general principle. He licked his lips and the words seemed to catch in his throat, but he finally managed to get out one very simple sentence that conveyed the seriousness of his situation.

"I can't afford to know you right now."

To his credit, Rayse immediately read the mood, sticking his hands in his pockets and moving forward, past Godhand, and into the seat of an empty table behind him, making it look like as if he was just originally passing by. Propping his legs up on the table, he took another drag of his smokes and folded his hands behind his head. Clearly Godhand was here for a job, and as a fellow businessman Rayse wasn't gonna get in the way of that. However, since he was here, he might as well listen in. When Godhand was hit by the paper, Rayse kept looking up at the ceiling, speaking to no one in particular, "Friends of yours?"

The paper had given the mercenary a bad jolt. He had been focusing so intently on Rayse that as soon as the crumpled up sphere had bounced off his head, his hands immediately plunged towards his shoulder holsters looking for the guns that weren't there. This seemed terribly amusing to a nearby female patron, and so Godhand stood up and made his way over to the table. He sat down on one of the empty cushions, folded his arms and gave them all an extremely friendly but undeniably fake smile. He was feeling very fragile at the moment, as though even the slightest misunderstanding could cause him to descend into hysterics.

"Gentlemen."

[Inkfinger]

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the smoke filled room, the scent of half a dozen varieties of tobacco clogging his throat after the heat-clear air outside. He wasn’t even aware that he was still standing in the doorway, blocking the people behind him who wanted to get in – wasn’t aware until someone poked him in the ribs, and mumbled something he couldn’t understand.

He shifted to the side, ducking his head to avoid the angry, veil-swathed glare, and only moved from the doorway once he could see clearly. Even then, he leaned against the wall as he scanned the room. The nearest table held a pair of wyrmfolk deep in conversation with a robed and hooded figure, and all three turned to just look at him. He returned the look with an innocent smile.

“I’m just lookin’ for someone,” he murmured, not even sure they could understand him. “I’ll be out of your way in a moment.”

No need to go further in until I’m sure where I’m going, right? he thought, fighting off the paranoid itch up and down his back. The nearest table returned to their conversation, but they kept looking at him suspiciously. The itch faded, internalized into his mind. But you’re not sure where you’re going, are you? You just know you are going.

He had to admit his treacherous thoughts knew what they were talking about. But…not knowing where he was going was a problem he was used to, though. He worked best, thought best, when he didn’t know exactly what to expect. It made it easier not knowing what he should worry about. And it was better that way – the less worried he was, the less likely it was that his contact would figure out they’d hired a raging puddle of burgeoning psychosis.

At least you’re admitting you have problems, now. That’s a step in the right direction!

The hubbub of the hookah bar didn’t break, not even for a second, as he stepped further in; satisfied that the closest table wasn’t his contacts; nor the second or third - not unless the note was very, very inaccurate and he was supposed to be working with a pair of geriatric dwarf-women, or…what looked like a hairless, tattooed bear with twin swords sheathed on its (his? her?) back. That one caught his interest for a moment, eyes drawn to the braids and tufts of human-looking hair hanging from the belts holding the swords in place. It bared gold-plated teeth in what may have been a smile, or may have been a snarl. He acted on the assumption that it was a smile (that was the less-terrifying option), and gave the strange being a shaking grin in return before finally giving up and heading for the bar.

"What y'want?" The short, weathered man behind the bar spoke guttural, hostile, eyes fixed somewhere over Cael's head. Cael, on reflex, followed his gaze. He saw nothing but the smoke-stained ceiling, smudged here and there where someone had tried to scrub the stains away. When he looked back, the man was staring at him. "Ain't got all day."

"...you wouldn't," Cael asked carefully, not really wanting to offend, "happen to have coffee, would you?"

The man behind the bar gave him a dark look. "Coffee."

"Yes? I'll pay you as much as..." He waved at a table behind him, randomly. "As one of those...things would cost..."

The man eyed him again, clearly sizing him up. When he spoke again, his voice was a little less hostile. "Truly?"

Cael blinked back at the table he'd waved at. It was the bear-being's, with a hookah twice the size of most of the others. He bit back a groan, turned back to the bar, and nodded, lips drawn in a tight, tense smile.

Two minutes later he had a heavy glass carafe filled with enough coffee to drown someone in, and a cup that could have doubled for a thimble. He raised an eyebrow at the cup, but didn't breathe so much as a word until the bear-creature grinned at him again. "Trust me, human. You'll want a cup that small." Its voice didn't match with its scarred body; it was as deep and mellow as he would have expected, but it was also more melodic. And, unarguably, female. She patted the seat next to her, and Cael clutched his coffee like a lifeline. "Oh, stop it. I'm not going to eat you. You're too skinny." Cael sat with a thump, setting the coffee down hurriedly so the...woman wouldn't see him shaking. She eyed him up and down, and tsked beneath her breath.

"That was a joke, human."

He suddenly found he could breathe again, enough to let out a weak laugh. "Joke! Ahah, I, uh. I knew that."

"Ooh, yeah, and I'm a dancing girl." Those golden fangs flashed again, and this time Cael laughed without being prompted. Huge claws reached past him to close around the carafe itself, heedless of the heat radiating from within. "The name's Areesha, human. What brings you to Fallien?" She tipped the coffee as she spoke, pouring the thick black liquid into the small cup. The medallions tied around her thick wrists jingled and chimed with the motion. Cael found himself staring at the disks of polished wood and copper as they swung, trying to ignore the claws and the fangs so close.

"I'm...supposed to be meeting someone here," he said softly, looking around the bar. "But I don't..." He looked at her carefully before finishing. "I don't know who they are."

Areesha knocked back the hot coffee in one gulp, and snorted. Her breath smelled like tobacco and coffee and (disconcertingly) blood. "Ah, sneaky business, eh?" She filled the cup again and shoved it at him, golden eyes hooded. She fell silent, watching him, and showed no sign of speaking again. Cael coughed, and started to stand, but the bear-thing reached out and grabbed his shirt, claws piercing the thin linen - but not, mercifully, his skin. She held him in place without any effort. "Drink your coffee, human."

"It's Cael," he spat back with more defiance than he would have thought possible. She chuckled, but didn't let go. He reached out and took the cup, tossing it back as fast as she had.

...it was probably a mistake. It felt like drinking boiling water. But the taste was indescribable, as if all the other coffee he had ever had in an eternity was this stuff's shadow. He sputtered to breathe for a moment, eyes closed and watering. When he opened them again, there was a thin golden line - the same shade as the bear-woman's eyes - trailing from his fingertips and through the crowd. It looped around a corner, and out of sight.

"That should get you to where you want to go," Areesha sniffed. Cael was busy staring at his hand, confused.

"How'd you do that?"

"Trade secret, human. Get your ass moving, that's only gonna last another thirty seconds, at the most." She blinked, and yawned, helping herself to more of Cael's coffee. "You're lucky I like you."

"...um. Yes. Thank you." He waited until she'd lifted the cup to stand, hurrying back into the crowd, despite the loss of the coffee.

The hookah bar, he came to realize, had two halves. The other half, through a swinging door set in the stucco wall, was less full (though not by much) and...someone was throwing paper. He followed the paper's path - trying his best to ignore the size of the man the paper had hit - back to the table it had been flung from, realizing the ethereal golden thread originated from the same place. Two men and a woman sat there - two men and a woman who just happened to be glowing. The glow only lasted a moment before it faded out, but that was long enough

He dug his crumpled note out of his pocket, and looked at the descriptions, stalling for time. Even if Areesha could be trusted - and he wasn't so sure about that - he wasn't likely to just barge in. That'd be... When he looked back up, the muscle-bound paper-target had stood up and was joining the others at that table. He seemed to flash gold for a millisecond, the light catching the silver in his hair and turning it platinum. Cael's shoulders slumped.

Damnit.

He stood straighter, almost took a deep breath before he realized what a bad idea that would be, and headed for that table as well, trying his best to not look as nervous as he suddenly felt.

"I'm sorry," he said, staying a few feet away and almost - almost - poised to run, "But...I'm supposed to meet someone here; that wouldn't...ah. Wouldn't be you now, would it?"

[The International]

The monster that politely approached the party behaved very much like a gentleman, taking a seat and presenting a very courteous smile. Vespasian could see in the brute's reddish eyes that he was not amused with his current situation. He often forgot that the Villeneuve that he most got along with was the seediest of them all for it was she who was charged with the task of forming their crew.

“Vespasian, Evan, this is Godhand Striker. His employer has sent him to assist in our endeavor.” Ludivine said as she crossed her arms and straightened up. “I'm Ludivine, and this is my brother Vespasian. He's the mastermind of the operation, and Evan is our equestrian expert.”

“I'm guessing you're our security expert?” Vespasian said as he narrowed his eyes. But before Godhand could answer another approached. This man was quite the opposite.

The pale slouching man spoke in a timid apologetic tone. His eyes begged like a homeless pug, his hair was scruffy like a golden retriever, and his hands which were held to his torso as if to guard his fragile heart were an unusual rainbow of colors.

“Cael Strandssen? You must be the scribe. Your brother said you were good.” Ludivine invited him to join them. “Please have a seat. Vespasian was just beginning to brief us.”

“I was?” Vespasian said as he coughed out a cloud of cinnamon flavored smoke. “Don't we have one more coming.”

“He's always late. Give us the plan and we'll catch him up when he arrives.” Ludivine was anxious to hear the whole plan again and see how the two new recruits reacted to it.

“Alright. Just so you know we'll be speaking in very ambiguous terms for plausible deniability.” Vespasian leaned in, and his crew did the same. “We’ll enter the il’Jhain Abdos HQ, volunteering as runners taking papers pertaining to the sale of a specific horse from the Oasis to Outlander’s Quarters on behalf of the Windborne faction. Our large group will first be questioned but we’ll easily quell that with reports of ambushes of Windborne runners on their routes. il’Arkmanham will provide horses for us. On our way Cael will ‘correct’ those papers. The specific horse will not be sent to Outlander’s Quarters, but instead be sent to Oulander’s Post along with fifty of his friends, where the Villeneuve family will be waiting with a special ferry to take them to the patron. The Oasis tribes will have a hard time believing this, so we’ll convince them to send a few of their fastest riders to Irrakam to verify the purchase and get their gold. While they wait for the word Evan will be getting to know the horses, and one night...”

Vespasian stopped and allowed them to put the pieces together. Godhand calmly reached into his pocket and produced a cigar, placing it between his lips. Just because he didn't want to suck on some party pipe didn't mean he couldn't use a smoke. He produced a pair of wooden matches and lit them both with one swipe, holding them together and lighting the tobacco. The end of the cigar placidly unfurled and there was that delicious smell that only the best cigars gave off. He couldn't tell good wine from rat piss but he did have a nose for cigars. "How much will our traveling speed be and how badly will it be diminished after we get the horses?"

“We'll get to the Oasis in a few days barring any issues.” Vespasian said as he took a puff of the hookah. “Our purchase will slow us down quite a bit. It'll take us a full week to get to Outlander's Post where the ship is.”

Godhand removed his gloves and placed them in a pocket of his coat, rubbing his hands together to dry the sweat. "I assume that with these papers, at first blush this will all appear to be legitimate?"

“Yes, but once their fastest riders get to Irrakam and there's no chest full of gold they'll know they've been put on the honor system.” Vepsasian glanced over at the scribe, wondering if he was catching on to the spy's jargon. Cael's silence concerned him. “They'll be coming after us to confirm the sale, and in all likelihood they'll catch up to us before we get to Outlander's Post. But I have a plan for that part that I'd rather keep close to the chest until we get there

Godhand had one more question. The most important of all, actually. He unfolded his handkerchief and pressed it gingerly to his forehead. He gave a quick snort to clear his sinuses and then folded it again, placing it in his front coat pocket. He licked the roof of his mouth and took in a short breath. "Expected opposition?"

“Fallien herself will be our greatest foe. The elements, creatures, and terrain.”

“Very well. The conditions hostile but acceptable; I assume you have the path already planned out and secured supplies. Are we expecting anyone else?"

“We have everything we need in these here duffel bags. And if we need more we can acquire it.”

"Very well. I am, unfortunately, not as well equipped as I could be; troubles back in Radasanth. You understand. But I assure you that I am more than capable of doing my job. Assuming we aren't besieged by any unforseen troubles, the trip should go smoothly." Godhand pursed his lips, then tried to give them what might pass as a reassuring smile that made Vespasian want to laugh. "We are all professionals, after all."

“Didn't you say you were waiting for one more?” The scribe finally spoke.

“You're right.” Vespasian said. He and the rest of the table looked to his sister. “Lu?”

"This is rediculous. He should have been here by now." Ludivine threw her hands in the air. "Everyone look for a man in a silk green veil. His weapon of choice is a spiked club."

[Rayse Valentino]

Truth is a powerful thing. It seeps into hearts and purifies minds. There was really no denying where he was anymore, but sitting there reclined, enjoying a good smoke, none of it mattered. He still couldn't quite put a finger as to why Godhand of all people was here, as the man was about as discreet as a crying baby at a play. Nonetheless, he joined some sort of little group at another table, secluded from any curious ears that want to listen in. As Rayse blew another doughnut of smoke into the air, he thought the the whole place had gotten louder. He heard every word uttered in the bar, even if most of it was in some unintelligible language. He looked up at the cool mist that clung to the ceiling, and thought that maybe he was hearing everything through the smoke. He would be more excited about this new ability if he spent most of his time in hookah bars, but at least he could eavesdrop on Godhand's little briefing now.

As an experienced smuggler, Rayse immediately clicked with the conversation. It had been a good long while since he heard this kind of shady, low-down deal before. However, it wasn't until after the explanation of the job that The Contractor understood Godhand's part in all of it. In short, it wasn't a smooth operation, and they knew it. Maybe if their procurement of the goods wasn't so amateur. Maybe this kind of stuff worked in Salvar or Corone, but Fallien? These people were uptight about everything. Also, when he first heard horse, he thought it was some sort of code word for the real artifacts or gold or whatever, but suddenly he remembered his last trip here.

They really were talking about... horses. Rayse sat upright, almost shuddering at the thought of his last trip to this godforsaken place. He couldn't deny the value of those beasts. They turned what would've been endless trekking into a quick jaunt. Still, something didn't quite click right with the plan. Not only were they somehow planning to convince the wrangler to part with a horse to an unfamiliar face with just paper, but also turn one into fifty without security noticing. Who exactly were they going to get with that kind of clout? It was at this point that Rayse heard the last line of the conversation. He thought it was very unprofessional to be late for this kind of meeting.

...

...

Wait. Wasn't the guy he pummeled wearing something like that?

Shit.

Rayse bit down on his smokes. He couldn't even pretend to ignore what he did. Yet, what could he do? Go outside and check for a pulse? It's not that he particularly cared for the loss of the Villeneuve family or the very expensive polo game they were planning to play, but he didn't want to screw over a business partner like Godhand. So, he got to thinking. He took the cigarettes out of his mouth and put them out in a nearby ashtray, as playtime was over. He kept his eyes away from the group's table and looked up at the smoke again. Maybe he could...

In the vicinity of the table where the plan was being discussed, from no direction in particular came a voice from the smoke that only Godhand could recognize, "I wouldn't wait up for him if I were you. Last I saw that guy hopped on the first train to anywhere-but-here. Wouldn't blame him either if he already heard your shitty plan."

Due to where the voice was centered relative to where they were all sitting, Rayse hoped that they didn't think the bong was talking.

"First of all, there's no way in hell you're getting in that easy. You might as well try pulling their nose hairs without them noticing. A trade network built up over several generations isn't undermined so easily. If you're there for business, they would have already known days, maybe weeks in advance." That's for sure. No matter what he offered, they wouldn't do business with Rayse last time he was here. However, he did manage to catch wind of some usual trade procedures and some very particular routes. If he knew how close to the end of month it was, horse trading may be still happening.

He continued, "Secondly, there's no way you're even getting out of town with fifty horses without knives lodged into your spines. Even if they think you got them legitimately, unless you want them following you every step of the way, you gotta smuggle them out." When he was last in Fallien, Rayse managed to smuggle just one horse out, and that took everything he had. He avoided their ire by sending it back before leaving the region, but there's a fine art to leaving no trail after a theft.

Trying hard not to give into the urge of seeing the group's reactions, Rayse kept his back to them. For all he knew, they had all their weapons drawn and seconds away from tearing this whole place down. Actually, the biggest incentive to look was probably the image of legendary mercenary Godhand Striker shoving his face into his palm.

"Finally," he continued, thinking he should end this charade soon. "Your method of transportation is too slow. Sure, you could deal with the scouts easily enough, but with that kind of speed you'll have armies on your ass before you reach the destination. Maybe if you used the Glowing Sands Pass this plan would actually be possible." The Pass was a handy secret route used by some of the oldest traders in the region. No one would imagine a nice, neat road in the middle of a mountainous desert, but they existed here in Fallien. Trading of rare valuables would be nearly impossible around here without quick modes of safe transportation.

So, maybe his ordeal here wasn't such a waste of time after all. Their last man was probably a native who knew of most of these things, but nobody could execute it with style like Rayse could. Hell, maybe Godhand would be in his debt as long as he never found out that Rayse caused this situation in the first place. He sighed and tried to stay alert for this next part.

By the way, the name's Rayse. I'm the guy sitting over yonder. Please don't kill me. He wanted to say that next, but before he could, he felt something grab at his collar from behind and before he knew it, he was standing in front of the group with Godhand's arm around him. If it was anyone but Godhand, this wouldn't be such a peaceful situation. In his current state, Rayse couldn't do anything about but feel relieved that the mercenary who could break his spine on a whim was pleased with his potential participation.

[Godhand]

At first Godhand thought he might be suffering from a heat stroke induced hallucination. Well, either that or they were smoking more than tobacco and he'd gotten a contact high. The bong on who's ends everybody but him was sucking on suddenly began to speak, first to inform them that their backup wasn't coming and then to criticize their plan. The bong made several very good points. The truth was that the mercenary had thought of all these things, but he was already so strung out from having to make such a long trip that he felt it was just easier to trust his employers to be competent. It was not at all within his normal modus operandi but everyone couldn't be an outright fucking failure at what they did, could they? Could he really be the only truly capable person on the planet? But it certainly wasn't like he could plan every one of these things himself. Godhand had a good head for the business but there was absolutely no way he could personally take care of every aspect of a job, which was unfortunate because he was the only person he trusted to get things done right.

Still, he felt that the substance of the plan was solid. No matter how confident the sand people were of their trade routes and riders, it was still physically impossible to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be at all times, especially not in a place as hostile as the Fallien desert. He knew for a fact that ninety nine out of a hundred times someone got lost in the desert, unless they were somebody important's son then no search party was sent out. With all the dangers in the desert anyone missing over a week was considered lost.

There was also not much of a problem with getting some broken down mules from the local dispatch. The different factions that ran the postal system and delivery services feuded with each other so often and intensely that no one batted an eye when a new rider disappeared, a victim of the nearly clan-like hostilities between horsemen from different sects; there was always someone new there to take his place. Besides, what were the quarter masters going to say if they were presented papers by someone who's face they didn't recognize? "I know every rider, and you're not one of them"? Tall order in a city of several thousand people with new riders coming in every day. No, it was impossible to keep the system running as intended with such a high turn-over. Once you couldn't count on yourself to remember faces, you had to learn to trust paperwork.

He didn't even see a great problem with getting a single horse out of Fallien. It would be difficult, but not impossible. The biggest problem of all, the show-stopping problem that there was no getting around, was that there was simply no way of getting fifty prized stallions out of the desert. And the reason it was such a monstrosity of a fucking problem was that that was exactly what they'd been charged to do. A genuine Fallien steed was more important to a caretaker than his own family, the chances of him just waving them off paperwork or no fucking paperwork were so slim as to be non-existent. And even if they could, which they absolutely could not, EVEN IF THEY COULD there was no way of getting them past the guards watching the entrance to the Outlander's Quarter. The guards posted there simply could not, would not accept that the purebreds would have been cleared to be so close to the docks. The Jya herself could have claimed that she'd given a papal order to allow the steeds to leave Fallien and they would have immediately run her through as an impostor.

He didn't see any way out of it. It wasn't like they could pretend the horses were anything else; hide them in large wagons or disguise them as the second rate imitations they gave to the mail carriers. The minute those animals got within sight of any of the guards between the dock and the entrance to the city, they'd have to fight off the entirety of Irrakam.

Godhand licked his lips and stood up from the cushion before the bong could reveal it's true identity, walking over to Rayse and grabbing him by the back of the collar. He hoisted him up to his feet and turned him around to meet his new friends. The swordsman placed an arm around the company man's shoulders and addressed his current employers. The room had cleared out of any pain in the ass bystanders during the briefing, probably since it was the designated time for prayer for the locals, so he was free to speak relatively openly.

"This is my friend Rayse Valentino. And I assure you that despite the fact that he looks like a scrawny consumptive, he's actually quite capable. We've worked together before; I vouch for him."

[The International]

Vespasian’s right eyebrow shot up in the air as the outsider made his bold statements. The spy crossed his right hand over to his left side where the pommel of his International Rapier was sheathed in waiting. He had never killed anyone over discovering his plans. Usually he’d just change his plans and get what he wanted anyways, and if need be he’d simply outwit the pursuer somewhere along the way. This was different though. The dirty dolt throwing his voice from the bar in the distance was dimwitted enough to believe that he’d just divulged every bit of his plan to them.

They’d have to smuggle the horses out? Damn straight they did! That’s what they were talking about. He wanted to kill this man for that reason alone. This idiot was naïve enough to believe that he’d seen the entire equation. Ludivine was thinking the same thing. Her right hand was crossed over to her left side just like him, and she was closer to the target than he was, but she knew not to attack without Vespasian’s signal. He was about to give the signal to strike, but before he could Godhand stood and vouched for him.

What this Rayse didn’t know was that Vespasian had been planning this heist for years now, probably since the day he first became a clandestine soldier. He wasn’t a villain though. He was a spy, who did all the things a villain did – lie, cheat, steal, kill and all sorts of other bad things – but they only did it on behalf of governing bodies.

Silence seemed to be deafening for a moment that seemed to be lasting an eternity until an equestrian high off of spices and tobacco coughed before he spoke. “… This mother fucker.” Even Ludivine was taken back by Evan’s unlikely profanity.

“Everyone up. We’re leaving.” Vespasian said with a sharp note of irritation in his tune. He stood and stepped over the low hookah table pushing his boots into the pillow Godhand had just gotten up from. He stopped in front of Rayse and opened his mouth. He imagined a slew of curses and verbal daggers shooting out, but he held his tongue as he closed his mouth again. When he finally spoke it was an unlikely statement. “You’re with us whether you like it or not.”

Vespasian left the bar in a quiet rage. Evan followed closely behind, but as Ludivine passed Godhand’s acquaintance she stopped and looked to him. “He doesn’t like you. That can’t be good. He’s killed people that he likes. I can only imagine what he’s planning in his head for you.”

Ludivine didn’t give Rayse a chance to respond. That play was just for her amusement. True, Rayse managed to stumble across Vespasian’s pet peeve, which was challenging his intelligence. True, it was extremely difficult to piss him off. His family members weren’t even able to achieve that, but he wasn’t going to plot to kill Rayse… At least she didn’t think so.

Across the continent, in Outlander’s Post a large ferry proceeded to make anchor. Dwarves and Humans alike watched as the large ship squeezed into its pier far enough so that its entire width made contact with the dock. The off ramp, which spanned the entire width of the ship, slammed down on the dock, and three Humans made their exit. One was a dark and handsome, the other was a woman of auburn hair and emerald eyes, and the last was a woman of long dark hair an a youthful disarming face. They were the Villeneuves, and everyone here knew it. While Irrikam knew them for their legitimate dealings, most notably their charitable effort to bring in foreign contractors to rebuild the capital after the great siege, those at Outlander’s Post knew them to be a group of people who brought trouble into town. This time was no different. Correction; this time they would bring trouble to the entire country, and within the month they would be known throughout Fallien as the family who stole an entire herd of Fallien steeds and got away with it. For once, they would be okay with the attention.

Back in Irrakam the dubious crew of soon to be infamous outlaws was preparing for their ride. They had just completed filling out the necessary documents and were now riders for the ilJhain Abdos, the continental messengers of Fallien. They were specifically under the employment of il’Arkmanham, also known as the Windborne. Each of them held in their hands a leather portfolio case, and inside each case were various letters. Most were simple personal messages or letters of minor transaction, but Godhand’s held special papers of equine acquisition. It wasn’t every day the messengers of Fallien were graced with a strong crew of six to transport their content, so they took this opportunity to not just send one sensitive transaction but several. Just before they all mounted their ilJhain issued horses Ludivine spotted the infamous Azuban ash-Shamali approaching. They had managed to avoid the leader of the Windborne up until this point, but with such an unlikely crew appearing to offer their services they were bound to encounter him.

“Brother.” Ludivine said as she adjusted the saddle on her horse. “Incoming. Turn the charm on.”

[Inkfinger]

Cael stared down at the leather–bound missive in his stained hands, borderline perplexed. Fallien was purported to be the least civilized of the main continents. Sure, there were areas in Salvar and Raiaera and Alerar that were worse, but it had seemed that it was agreed that Fallien had the worst citizens, the least-safe terrain, the fewest amenities per square mile than anywhere on the planet…

So where did something as familiar and mundane as paperwork come in? Welcome to civilization, boys, he remembered hearing the scribe he’d been apprenticed to growl, the first day of training. We’re all just primitives in a swamp until we learn how to drown ourselves in paper.

It had taken him a year to figure out the master scribe was being sarcastic.

Looking at the papers, though, was preventing him from looking at the horse, which was quite alright by him. The last time he’d been on a horse, it had been a great black mare, war-trained, and raised to let her riders switch in and out at whim. She’d been fierce, but easy to handle when push came to shove, and about the size of an elephant. Or, put it in the simplest terms: she would have been hard to fall off of.

He held no such illusions of control over the painted thing dancing at the ends of the lines like an angry guard dog ready to leap for an intruder’s throat, big brown eyes rimmed with red-splashed white. Not that the rest of the horses looked any less homicidal, in the long run. It would be interesting to see who scared him more – the horse, or the two gentlemen from the hookah bar. They both had…a certain air about them, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

Of course, it could all just be piss and wind and they’re as intimidated by this as I am…

The girl-spy spoke, drawing Cael out of his careful reverie and waving down the small stucco-and-whitewash hallway that separated the stables from the processing office. There was a man stomping towards them, a short, shriveled man with skin the color of well-worn leather and a patch over his left eye.

The old man didn’t look exactly friendly, or healthy (or, most importantly, sane) and Cael found himself sidling off so the larger of the men from the hookah bar (and, conveniently, one of the other horses) was between him and the newcomer. The large, muscular man was about the same height as him, but the comparisons ended right there, full stop. He gave Cael a strange look, but didn’t say anything.

Maybe he’s not quite what he looks like, then. Don’t judge a book by its cover, and all that.

The native stopped in front of the group of horses, hands on his hips as he drew himself to his full height imperiously. It may have been a mistake; he was shorter, even, than Vespasian’s sister. The men practically towered over him, some by a good foot, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He simply opened his mouth and rattled something off in Fallien, something that sounded eloquent and angry and skeptical all at once, so fast that Cael didn’t understand a single word of it, though it sounded very much like a demand. He leaned over the back of the horse to tap the man who had been identified as Rayse on the shoulder.

“You catch all that?”

“Hell no.” Rayse returned, digging a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He stuck one of the cigarettes in his mouth, struck a match on the sole of his shoe, and started puffing. “Don’t really speak this shit. You?”

“Not a word, I’m afraid…”

“He said,” Vespasian interjected, giving both of them a dark look that reminded Cael, quite strongly, of an angry professor, “He is Azuban ash-Shamali. He’s the head of the il’Arkmanham.” Cael blinked, trying to spell the word in his head. Does everything in this language have to use a million syllables?

“…that’s the faction of couriers we joined,” the spy added in explanation, probably when he noticed Cael’s look of confusion. Cael could see Azuban over Vespasian’s shoulder. The Fallien man looked like he was trying not to laugh, and not in a good way. Vespasian just sighed, and turned back around. “He wants to know why he’s suddenly got six volunteers after months of next to nothing…”

“...oh.” Cael grimaced, muttering. “Have fun with that…”

“You do know he probably understands you, right?” Rayse said, blowing a stream of smoke into the dry air. Cael glanced back at Azuban, who was listening to Vespasian with the same amused-yet-not expression on his face. The young man was talking a mile a minute, faster than Cael could even hope to follow, though he caught the name Villeneuve once or twice...

"Yeah," he lied, shifting uneasily. "I knew that." He slunk a few feet further away, and simply listened, trying to ignore the fact that he was leaving sweaty fingerprints on the leather folder. Only half of it was actually from the heat...somehow, he didn't quite see that as a good sign.

[Rayse Valentino]

Jittery fellow. Rayse didn't think much of his taller companion. Although, maybe Godhand was taller? He couldn't quite tell without some measurement, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the two were out of place. Of course, Rayse himself wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place, but at least this job made sense to him. Not only that, but back in the bar he was expecting a few stabbing attempts, but Godhand's vouching seemed to skip past all that. Rayse felt that physical violence was a much better icebreaker. Either way, if you add it all up then you get a number somewhere between irrational and imaginary. The more he heard the word 'Villeneuve' the more the tiny receptors in his brain were firing off signals to his memory center. A bad memory? A good memory? Why couldn't he remember? Oh well. His gut feeling was to at least trust Vespasian. Although, he couldn't help snatching glances at Ludivine. What did a guy have to do to land a babe like that?

As he blew more smoke into the air, Vespasian apparently finished his conversation with a satisfactory response. Of course, it didn't help all the bad feelings Rayse was getting when as they were all about to walk away, the leader of the Windborne looked at Rayse with his one good eye and said some words that made Vespasian's eyebrows rise. The Contractor blinked, Vespasian said a few quick words, and the matter was settled. As they were getting on their horses, Rayse asked what that was all about.

"He asked if you had worked here before," Vespasian replied in a voice so monotone it made Rayse think he was tone deaf. "I told him 'No'."

Rayse twirled a cigarette on the tip of his finger, "Well, that's the correct answer, so what's the problem?"

Vespasian almost lost his nerve, "That he asked me that in the first place! Are you trying to blow our cover?"

Clearly this young man did not think much of Rayse since they met in the bar, but he had a point. Rayse honestly did not know why he was in Fallien. Maybe he did something regrettable in his drugged-up state. He figured it couldn't be anything that bad.

Villeneuve... Villeneuve... So familiar and yet he didn't know where he first heard it. He decided not to provoke Vespasian any further and didn't talk back to him anymore. Even if something was up, he was starting to get focused on the job. When Rayse Valentino had work on his mind, there wasn't any job he couldn't pull off.

They didn't get too far into the desert on their horses before the apparent problems slowed them down too much. The way everyone was handling their horse, it was like they all got them drunk before taking them out. Only Evan Calico was riding one without any problems. Rayse was having an easier time than the rest, since he had experience with this, but last time he rode a Fallien horse it took him days to get that thing tame enough to listen to him. While most of the group displayed some knowledge in dealing with unfriendly horses, Godhand seemed to control his purely through fear.

Cael, on the other hand, was getting knocked off entirely for the third time.

Rayse was getting sick of seeing it, "Listen, just get on mine and we'll drag yours by a rope." Cael embarrassingly obliged.

Honestly, when Rayse spoke up at the bar, he knew that there was more to the plan than his outlined flaws. However, nobody gets employment in criminal activities without assuming the worst. He just didn't know how much the potential plan in his head matched what was actually going to happen. As he spent more time with the Villeneuves, he instinctively felt that his worries were unjustified. For once, maybe he didn't have to assume the worst. After all, he could always use Godhand as a human shield if things got hairy. When he got better from this magical sickness, when he returned to Salvar at the war's end, he would craft himself a new underground empire. If Vespasian proved as competent as he seemed, he might be of some use later on.

[The International]

“Oh come on, guys.” Evan said with a mix of amusement and disappointment. He watched as his comrades made feeble attempts at navigating their mounts. Vespasian and Ludivine were the worst of all. “You all could probably kill a man with your pinkies, yet you can't ride a horse. I feel on top of the world right now.”

“I should kill you with my pinky.” Ludivine said as she tossed back her sable hair with one hand and held on to dear life with the other. She tried desperately to steer the horse steady with the reigns but every tug or twist she made seemed to make the mahogany creature grumpy. They could tell because it puffed about and threatened to rear several times already.

“Could you just tell us how to do this?” Vespasian yelled from the distance. Ludivine had the luxury of her horse actually responding to her signals. Vespasian's crème horse was simply ignoring him for it was far off the road inspecting a ball of tumbleweed.

“You're being way to rough with yours, Lu. Ves, you need to be a little more direct with what you want yours to do.” Evan made the next remark to everyone in the party. “And everyone needs to talk to their horse. They may not understand language, but they understand tonality. Show them that you're calm, content, and in control.”

“Can I be honest with you, Wilbur? You look like a Wilbur to me.” Vespasian said to his horse under his breath. “I want to put peanut butter on your bubble gums to see if it'll look like you're talking. We could take you from city to city with a ventriloquist and make some serious cash with the kiddies and any other retard who buys in. Besides, who could resist that lemony yellow smile of yours.”

Cael muttered under his breath, still uneasy with the idea of sharing a horse, but not about to argue with that one. “I’m not talking to a…” the words of the others, however, forced his complaints to trail off. “…horse….oh, fine. Uh…let’s see…” He kept his voice low, not entirely sure the horse could even hear him past Rayse as he began reciting what he could remember from any textbook that came to mind. Maybe he could bore the thing to sleep.

Rayse didn't care much for talking to things that were inherently evil such as this horse, but if it really did understand tone then he figured he'd give it a try. He leaned down and whispered into the horse's ear, "I promise not to turn you into horse flambée if you don't knock us off."

Godhand had one very simple thing to say. His horse was following his commands, so it was no surprise when everyone heard a simple "No." coming from the mercenary.

While others attempted to have conversations with their horses, Ludivine didn't have much to say. She simply let go of the reigns, crossed her arms in front of her chest, leaned forward and whispered... “You smell like shit and hay.”

Perhaps Evan should have divulged that information a while ago. Now everyone had choice words for their mounts, and it broke his heart a little. Tending to these majestic creatures were his life, and thus a part of him. Therefore, when his comrades made fun of their horses, they also made fun of him. He looked to the horizon, and chose to veil himself in a callous facade. “Are you guys done yet?”

After a good hour of shaky riding, everyone was finally able to smoothly control their horses. But that was only after some of them switched horses. Cael took Ludivine's mahogany gelding, a castrated female who was very sensitive follower. Ludivine took Vespasian's filly, which was actually an adolescent female horse with little training, and Vespasian took Cael's slightly rebellious ebony colt, an adolescent male horse. Finally Irrakam was but a distant pearl on the southern horizon distorted by the heat waves emitting from Servani's cursed land.

“Now that we're out here, would you mind answering some questions for me, Vespasian?” Evan said as he slowly veered his horse closer to Vespasian's. “It may help dispel some doubts.”

“Fine.” Vespasian said with a bit of contempt as he took in the sights. They were nearing the ruins of Kesta. Columns and corners of buildings reached out of the sand as if the memory of the forsaken city was holding on for dear life.

“How exactly do you want me to do this?”

“We're going to have to work out the exact details when we get there, but the four of us will create favorable conditions for you to bond with the right horses. Any other takers?”

[Godhand]

Too soon they were out of the bar and being beaten down by the furious midday sun. They got a lot of weird looks on their way over to the il'Jhain Abdos; it wasn't every day you saw an outsider outside of the Outlander's Quarters, much less a whole posse of them. But then, they would have gotten strange looks anywhere. They were an unlikely bunch: some sort of scrawny manwhore, an unhinged pig-feeding gangster, two incestuous siblings, a horse charmer on the take and him. God, what kind of group had he gotten muscled into where he was the normal one? Hazards of the business, he supposed. The high-risk, high-reward life of the mercenary was bound to attract it's share of freaks, creeps and crazies.

They reached the messenger's headquarters and got the paperwork sorted out without incident, but dumb fucking luck, right before they left they were harried by the most powerful and fatalist courier boss. Right away the man launched into a spiel and though he didn't know much Fallienise, only about enough to bribe any officials he'd gotten approached by in his earlier visits, Godhand could tell the man hadn't come just to wish them good luck. It took everything he had not to beat the mortal shit out of the dwarf on general principle; sure, they were actually planning to steal the horses. But he didn't know that. Couldn't know that. Any other day and he'd just be harassing an innocent bunch of outlanders trying to make ends meet in a country that hated them.

Oh well. If he just counted it as retroactive punishment for stealing the steeds in the first place, it wasn't so infuriating.

The horse they gave him...Well, he didn't know anything about horses. It had all four legs and that was good enough. When he hoisted himself up into the saddle though, that's when he knew they'd screwed him. Either this was the most solid horse in the world or it was wound tighter than the coil in a revolver; that he COULD tell. He didn't know much about breeding but he'd ridden enough horses into war to know when he got a nervous one. Those were no good; they ran at the first sign of trouble and they were so jittery that any little thing made them try and toss their rider.

Riding out into the desert, he was soon as tense as the horse. Knowing that just coming across something like a small scorpion was enough to send the beast into bucking seizures made him nervous too. But he got his legs in good around the abdomen of the thing and just when he thought the animal was getting a little too jittery, he tightened his powerful legs and that got him about five more minutes of peace. God, if he had to do this the whole time it was going to be one long trip.

The horse whisperer insisted they try and bond with their steeds by talking but Godhand wasn't in any mood to act like more of a jackass than he was. The horse could behave or it could get punched in the head and left to die in the desert. He didn't play those kinds of games.

Suddenly he jumped up on the saddle and leaped up into the air, clearing the Villenueves, taking his trenchcoat off in one movement and whipping it around him. The dozen arrows that seemed to have come from nowhere caught and bounced off the leather and harmlessly into the sand as Godhand landed safely a small distance away. It was dumb fucking luck that he'd seen them coming; he'd been trying to force the horse's head to look at the sun once he recalled the fable about the horse who was afraid of his own shadow. But now he could see them clearly on the horizon; hooded figures with bows flanked by men in leather armor wielding curved swords. How many were there? Two, maybe three dozen?

Godhand blasted away from where he was standing, leaving deep grooves in the sand and causing a large cloud of dust to rise from where he'd been. The archers reared back their bows and fired a couple more arrows at them but he swatted them away with his newly unsheathed sword. A few of the swordsmen ran forth to intercept him but they were cut down almost instantly; the adamantine blade zoomed right through them and Godhand was already on his fifth man by the time the first one's torso fell away from his legs.

They kept coming but they just couldn't match his speed. Once he'd cut down his twentieth man he looked back to see a separate detachment of the raiders attacking his comrades from the rear. The manwhore in particular seemed to be in real danger as one of the men advanced on him. The mercenary knew he couldn't reach him in time so instead he dashed away from his overwhelmed assailants, reached into his coat and threw a knife a good distance away into the head of the thug attempting to corner Cael.

They hadn't even gotten five miles out of town before they'd been attacked.

[Inkfinger]

Cael had never believed in reincarnation. There wasn’t a lot of room for it in the traditional Salvic lore, and when he’d thrown all of that away - all the laws, bylaws and rules the Church of the Ethereal Sway forced on the nation – it felt as if he’d greased his soul. Nothing else, no matter how good it seemed at first glance, stuck. The idea of living more than one life - that the events of this life were punishment and reward for his last life – had always struck him as rather ridiculous.

Ridiculous or no, he was about to start believing in it.

There was absolutely no way he’d done anything in this life bad enough to deserve this situation.

There was sand everywhere, despite the lack of wind; powdered and in the air, and he could feel it gritting in his teeth, turning to a chalky paste on his tongue. This is brilliant. Not even here two days and already you hate the place. Why would any sane person chose to live here?

At least he had his own horse now. He could trade the discomfort of sharing for the discomfort of riding in general. He thought about talking to it – her, Evan had said as they’d played Musical Horses– but she was alright now. And certainly her gait was nowhere near as erratic as Godhand’s horse seemed to have.

Small blessings.

The sweat stung in his eyes, and in the paper cuts on his fingers; sharp little pinpricks of pain where he clutched the leather lines. He kept fiddling with the reins until he realized. The horse was following by herself. He doubted she would even react if he pulled on the reins. So, he tucked them around the saddle-horn, and dug in his pack for a notebook and pen. There was a crust of sand around the rim of the inkwell’s lid. He scraped it off, grumbling under his breath all the while.

It gets everywhere.

He’d purchased the new notebook before he even entered the hookah bar back in the city. He cracked it open now, trying to ignore the low quality of the paper, and set his pen on the paper.

The sky above was almost white with the light of the sun, and the horizon wavered like it was a reflection on the surface of a pond…

Don’t think about ponds. Don’t think about water. It’ll only make it worse, he thought crankily, and then: Oh, come on, Caelric. You’ve only been on the road how long? Man up. The trip won’t kill –

Something moved in a subtle gust of displaced air and the not-so-subtle sound of multiple bowstrings twanging, the very air split with the waspish sound of arrows. By the time his head shot up to look, Godhand had landed, the scuffed sand around his feet transformed into a porcupine of broken and bent arrows, his heavy jacket wrapped around one hand. There were more arrows pierced through the leather, and the expression on the man’s face was somewhere between angry and thrilled to just be doing something other than sit on that horse. It was a dangerous look. It matched him better than the boredom had.

-you.

Cael shoved the notebook and still dripping pen back into his pack, ignoring the fact that it would leave streaks of ink on everything else. He shrugged out of the pack, one shaking hand fumbling with the strap that held his naginata across his back. It came unbuckled quicker than he expected, slipping through his fingers to land on the powdery sand. He slid off the back of his horse, floundering for the weapon.

The horse reared up, trumpeting her fear and anger in a loud bugle, the whites of her eyes visible. She barely missed Cael’s head with her massive hooves as Cael, realizing the stupidity of ducking down so close to a terrified horse, flung himself backwards.

He almost blundered right into the sword-blade of the cloth-swathed warrior who seemed to rise out of the sand behind him. He let out an aborted yell, barely managing to catch the blade on the still-sheathed naginata’s blade. The naginata shuddered in his hands, the vibrations reverberating through the oak and into his fingers, but he was too busy dodging the next swipe to notice. He planted the naginata’s steel-capped butt in his assailant’s stomach, holding him at bay just long enough to…

There was an indescribable noise – though his mind tried to classify it anyway as somewhere between a melon being split open and the grate of metal on bone – and the warrior suddenly had the hilt of a dagger growing from the side of his skull. Blood dribbled from his ear in a tiny splurting fountain, and Cael followed the dagger’s path back to – Godhand, of course.

He didn’t stop to gawk or say thanks. He just unsnapped the naginata’s sheath and pulled it off, baring the foot and a half of sharpened steel to the sunlight. He was gratified to see the nearest of the oncoming raiders hesitate, just a tad, at that. He didn’t give the man time to do more than that, as he made a preemptive lunge of his own.

Steel clashed on steel, silver-bright and blinding in the hot sun, but Cael’s awareness of the world dissolved into something that he didn’t recognize: something focused entirely on the shifting sand beneath his feet, the weapon in his hands and every motion of the man opposite, who was trying very hard to plant a three-foot-long blade in his ribcage.

…Especially that one.

The naginata kept the raider at bay - between Cael’s lanky build and the weapon’s long shaft, he clearly didn’t want to risk getting skewered. Well. That was alright. Cael didn’t particularly want to skewer him. He merely swept the weapon out in broad strokes, the motion-generated wind keening off the razor sharp edge. His assailant took another step backwards –

And Cael’s horse kicked him in the spine.

Cael winced in sympathy as the raider crumpled like a rag doll, back bent in a way that backs shouldn’t bend, but he didn’t waste any further time before regrouping with the others. Ludvine was grinning. Honest-to-all-gods beaming.

“Are you actually enjoying this?” He managed to sputter as the woman neatly ducked an incoming knife. The knife clattered against sand and stone, ricocheted back into the air and narrowly missed Vespasian’s thigh, sinking into the raider beside the spy’s shin instead. The raider didn’t even flinch, didn’t falter in his duel, eyes flashing behind his veil.

“Yes.” Ludvine replied, simply and sweetly, as she almost-skipped off to help her brother. Cael shook his head, and turned back to the fight at hand…

[Rayse Valentino]

Rayse didn't tolerate Cael's presence for long. Once it seemed that the horse he was tugging along would accept its former rider, The Contractor told Cael to return to his horse and it seemed to be more willing to accept him this time around. It was a good idea, too, since Cael immediately went to his notebook once he had the spare room. Regardless, it wasn't too long after that until more annoyances popped up. It was a good thing that everyone reacted quickly, or else that initial volley of arrows would've pierced through the horses like butter.

Rayse immediately hopped off his horse and stayed low, his eyes following Godhand who went the butchering route rather quickly. The mercenary was as impressive as always; managing to not only divert the attention of nearly all the attackers, but shielding the rest of the party almost entirely from attack. He even forced the archers into melee combat, making the attack look like a bunch of ants assaulting a boot. While a stray foe managed to attack Cael, the scribe looked capable of his own combat as well. It didn't seem like Rayse needed to do anything, which was good since he had no idea how reliable his abilities were right now. Yet, that line of thinking bothered him. He was doing just fine before when he didn't have the means to fight sorcerers and the like. With just his trusty knife and fists, he was able to take care of himself rather well. There's no reason he could do the same now.

It's not like he had a choice, since it seemed that a new group of raiders were attacking from the rear while Godhand was busy. Cracking his knuckles and his neck, Rayse was determined to handle this. I don't need some stinking fire powers to deal with this trash. He bent down and pulled up his left pant leg, revealing a large knife strapped to his ankle. Before the mess in Salvar started, he got by just fine with just this stainless steel baby. He grabbed the Liviol handle and pulled the knife out, standing up and twirling it about his hand. As he gripped the handle, he felt his hand lock into place as if they were meant for each other. Not wanting any of the Villeneuves to get themselves in any trouble before him, he charged out at the attackers.

He didn't run far before he found himself surrounded by men wielding all types of blades with their heads wrapped in cloth to protect them from the desert heat. Such a thing did not bother Rayse.

"I got a favor to ask you all," said Rayse, grounding his feet in the sand. "Try not to mess up the hair, alright?"

The raiders closed in and began taking swipes at The Contractor, who deftly dodged them and went for as many throats as he could. Although not as quickly or as messily as Godhand, Rayse was doing rather well dispatching his enemies. He ducked, side-stepped, stabbed, slashed, and even kicked a few of them. Although, it seems that his relative slowness in taking them out lead them to try to go around him and head for the others. Even if he didn't want to rely on his fiery abilities, he didn't want to be outdone by Godhand. He snapped his fingers and produced a flame on his thumb, which meant that for the moment his juice was flowing. Alright, let's see them get a load of this.

He disappeared into flames and reappeared in front of the raiders who escaped him, his back to Cael and company. The raiders stopped their charge, obviously perturbed by Rayse's sudden magic trick. They weren't exactly blind to Godhand viciously ripping apart their comrades as well. It occurred to them that they were over in their heads. The Contractor, with knife still in hand, pointed his fingers at the ground. His muscles tensed, and a great heat surrounded him. The air around him became blurry, and the sand shook beneath his feet. From below the sand there were small bursts of flames, as if there was a volcano below the desert. Rayse slowly struggled to pull his hands up, trying to control the torrent of fire he had created beneath him.

Suddenly, a great wall of fire erupted from right in front of Rayse. From right to left, it seemed to span a great distance as the fires reached into the sky and then began rolling towards the raiders. It looked like a wave of pure fire. Rayse was intending to wash them all away. They started running but the fire was too fast, and as the wave descended it swallowed everything within its reach. Bright, yellow fire that scorched everything it touched. The fire rolled across the desert and slowly became lower and lower until it disappeared hundreds of meters away from the group. The sand before him had partially hardened, becoming rocky with some glassy bits strewn about.

Rayse dropped his arms, his breath heavy. There was a look of surprise on his face. He actually just wanted to deal with a few raiders in front of him, not the whole reinforcement force. Not only that, but that wave was huge, bigger than anything he had created before. It was like his powers were exaggerated, amplified beyond his desires to conjure extreme versions of his abilities. Right after the attack, however, he couldn't produce anymore fire, since the sickness had returned. There was nothing he could do about what had just happened, since he had to wait until the sickness was over before he could discern any long-term effects of the medication.

"Well," said Rayse, scratching his head and turning around to the others. "I couldn't let Godhand have all the fun."

Despite not intending to do any of that at all, he might as well take credit. Hopefully he wouldn't have to do anymore heroics in this job.

[The International]

So sorry for the extremely long wait, gentlemen. I hope we can continue this.

Both Vespasian and Ludivine were still on their horses when the action ended. It had to have lasted no more than a minute as Godhand and the misfit disposed of the marauders quite quickly. Even the scribe got in on it a little, but the spy siblings let the muscles do their jobs. Vespasian looked over at his sister and noticed a feature on her face that he rarely saw, dimples that surrounded a puckered smile while she gazed upon the bloody and burnt scene around her.

“What are you so happy about?” Vespasian said as he managed to move his horse beside hers. He knew she took pleasure in the violence she was involved in, but she hadn't taken one soul this time around.

“Do I know how to pick 'em or what?” Ludivine said as she waved towards Godhand.

Vespasian leaned in with a rotten scowl on his face as he extended a closed fist for Ludivine to pound. “That's my bitch.”

She reciprocated the gesture then turned to the rest of the party. “The party's over. Let's get to the next station before we die of this heat.”

:::::

Events were faring much differently on the other side of the continent. They were much more placid… and boring in the eyes of the Villeneuve Matriarch. Alix’s hazel eyes darted around a burlap sack full of random vegetables. She scratched her rich red tomato main as she tilted her head in contemplation. She didn’t know what to choose for dinner. The family had packed a month’s worth of food but they made the grave mistake of eating what they liked first. Every sweet fruit and pleasant seasoning was either eaten, or with the other half of the team. So now it was a matter of choosing what Alix, her daughter, and her husband hated the least.

“Squash soup, or zucchini surprise?” Alix threw her voice across the deck of the state provided ferry. Alerar was generous enough to provide them with a boat large enough to carry several Fallien steeds. Of course if they were caught, the Dark Elven nation would take absolutely no responsibility. Why would they trust a bunch of Humans to do such a job anyways?

“Really?” Esme’s shadow zoomed past Alix, who didn’t bother to look up. The Villeneuve Patriarch had an ear to ear smile on his regal face as he swung from one giant mast to the other like the king of the jungle. He latched on to a wooden pillar and darted his dark brown eyes down at his wife. “How about… Squash soup!”

“Zucchini it is.” Alix glanced up at her husband, who shrugged his broad shoulders. She smiled “…Surprise.”

“Seven thousand years.” Maelle chimed in as she boarded the ship. “You two have been together for more than seven thousand years and you’re still managing to spite one another?”

“Aw honey.” Alix said as she raised a hand to caress her eldest daughter’s mahogany hair. Her comforting smile disappeared in an instant. “It keeps things fresh. What do you have for us?”

“This.” Maelle said with an amber eyed smile. She revealed her sketchbook and ripped out two pages, each had a drawing of an intricate knot made of curves and weavings. They didn’t form a picture of anything in particular, but they sure were pleasant to look at. She handed one page to her mother, and placed the other on the far end of the deck. She returned to her mother and simply placed her index finger on the center of the pattern. No more than a second later there came a rip in the fabric of reality from the second pattern. A great popping noise rendered everyone partially deaf. “This is the remote, and that’s the explosive. It’ll clear a path for our people when they come stampeding through.”

“That’s impressive.” Esme said as he zip lined down to the deck. “I’m guessing a larger version could take down some gates. How do you intend on planting them?”

“We’re going to have to run a long con like Vespasian said.” Maelle said as she crossed the deck again to examine her now burnt piece of paper. “Shall we run ‘Supply & Demand’?”

“That’s probably the best one to run.” Alix said as she crossed her arms. “But who will be our ‘advertiser’?”

“I have a suggestion. Actually it’s not a suggestion. We can’t make anyone else our advertiser. Outlander’s Post is too small…” Esme said as he stared into the distance. Alix and Maelle awaited a name. “You aren’t going to like this one bit.”

:::::

It took almost a week for the crew of suture thieves to make it to the waypoint of Suravani’s Oasis. After five days of nothing but the deadly hot desert in their sites, to see the horizon slowly become stained with the emerald tint of life was a relief. More trouble from raiders was to be expected, but it never came. Perhaps there was a survivor or two who returned home with reports of a savagely powerful crew. Fair enough. They needed to conserve their energy for the days to come, and for the greatest enemy they would all face. They reached a point where the green grass was all that could be seen, and then came the familiar sound of thunder from the ground. They were getting close to the horses… too close.

“Let’s turn to the east, gentlemen.” Vespasian said with a distracted look. “Look for a big white circus tent with a silver gem on top. That’ll be where we’ll settle in and begin the next part of our plan.”

“We don’t get to see the horses?” Evan said as his blue eyes dropped with sadness. He resembled a child who was just sent to time out.

“It’s too dangerous. We don’t need the tribes seeing us, whether we’re after their horses or not. Those bastards love torturing foreigners even if they’re doing Fallien a service.” Vespasian turned behind him as he tended to his sore thighs. “Everyone gather around.”

Vespasian’s fellow thieves – still novice horse riders, but better than before – all commanded their mounts to close in. The spy then proceeded to break a cardinal law of an il’Jain Abdos rider as he opened the leather package he was given back in Irrakam. It was just as he had hoped, the purchase form for a Fallien steed.

He handed it to Cael with a smile on his face. “I need you to make a form just like this one, except it requests the shipment of two herds of twenty five horses each. Be sure to multiply the transfer of credit at least sixty times that of the original form.”

“Pardon me for being blunt, but they have a system in place for large purchases like that.” Cael said with a timid and apologetic tone. “They’re going to catch us.”

“I understand that system.” Vespasian said with a chuckle. “We’re counting on you to make a letter of purchase authentic enough for them to send their fastest team of riders to Irrakam. We want and need them to be concerned.”

Cael nodded and Vespasian turned to the ruby eyed monster they called Godhand.

“I need you and Sparky over here to go on a trip. After we reach the Waypoint, I need you to head North, straight North, and in no other direction.” Vespasian realized how authoritarian he sounded. He calmed his voice. “I only say that because it’s the shortest way to the R’uuya Spicefields, and for a while it’ll look like you’re lost. The desert will start again for a while and then the fields will appear. There should be an In'wehtos settlement somewhere close to the edge of those lands. Infiltrate it, raid it, do whatever you need to do to get one brick of the Mallaku'akta poison and one brick of Valaiyalman sugar glass. The different herbs of that poison are fused together with a lavender paste, and it’s likely to be kept underground. The sugar glass is a white powdery substance likely to be kept along with it. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“And watch out for Suravani.” Ludivine chimed in. Everyone laughed… accept for the two Villeneuves. They eventually quieted down. “Listen I don’t care what you believe. The following is what we know from experience. This island is self aware, and it is a passive aggressive bitch. Be careful.”

[Godhand]

Godhand smiled when the blade of the knife connected with the distant warrior's head. The desert heat was affecting his coordination and he'd been unsure if the weapon would catch it's mark when it flew out of his hands. His expression shifted to one of surprise as he heard the snap of a bowstring behind him and turned just in time to catch the arrow mid-flight before it pierced his chest. He looked down at the ugly arrowhead, barbed and forked, reflecting the attitudes of Fallien's people. It was designed to cause a slow and agonizing rather than quick death, and the swordsman knew for a fact that they were outlawed from use against anyone but foreigners.

Godhand smirked before advancing on his assailant; the raider dropped his bow and produced a dagger before lunging at Godhand and attempting a downward stab, but the mercenary caught his attacking hand by the forearm before thrusting with the arrow. His free arm was brought up to block the re-appropriated projectile but Godhand's strength won out instantly, breaking right through the guard and plunging the twisted head into his neck. He'd managed to scream just before it went in and it turned from a clear, crisp sound into a wet, gargled one. His knees buckled but Godhand ignored it, ripping out the arrow and causing even more damage thanks to its design before shoving it back into the raider's throat. He fell to one knee as the swordsman pulled it out yet again before stabbing him a final time. By then the only thing holding him upright was the mercenary's hand and so Godhand let go of his attacker's forearm and watched as he collapsed and seized on the sand.

Godhand wiped the blood off his hands with what cloth was left unsullied on his enemy's shirt before turning around and walking back toward the horses. He waved back unsurely at the Villeneuve girl before using that same hand to suddenly block the light from an enormous pillar of fire that had suddenly erupted and consumed nearly the entirety of their foes from reaching his eyes.

"Jesus..."

The Villeneuves didn't have that kind of power, otherwise they wouldn't have needed muscle, and he seriously doubted it was the man-whore's doing. That left only raise and Godhand gave him a thumbs up and a phony grin before turning away and scowling at the sickening stench of burnt flesh that now hung everywhere within what he assumed was a three mile radius. He finally reached his horse and saddled up once more.

"Let's ride."

---------------------------------------------

The rest of the trip, though long and tedious, had been uneventful. There had been no more raiding parties and, curiously enough, no attack from hostile fauna either. Perhaps it was because this was one of the more well-traveled roads and beasts knew enough to stay away or risk attack from a heavily armed caravan. Regardless, by the time they reached Suravani's Oasis Godhand was exhausted and worried that the week-long horse ride had left him not only bowlegged but also sterile. They all dismounted and entered what looked like a large circus tent but was more than likely what passed for proper accommodations in Fallien. And though he was tired he couldn't even lay back against the wall, the tent being divided by cloth partitions that muffled sound and provided privacy but did little else. The mercenary fished around for a cigarette but gave up shortly when he couldn't find them, knowing that they'd be stinking of stale sweat by now anyway.

Godhand snorted to clear his sinuses of the micro-particles of sand that they'd accumulated during the trip, before opening his coat and pulling a silver flask out of his chest pocket. Near and dear to his heart; it was all that'd kept him sane in the desert heat. He uncorked it and took a deep drink, letting the scotch swirl around his mouth before sealing the flask and putting it back. He gave a cursory nod to let the spies know he understood what they needed him to do before leaving them to their devices, his mind being elsewhere. His mind drifted, lulled by the pleasing coolness of the night, and he reflected upon mundane things; a good cigarette, an overcast morning, how he could use a shave. He didn't like coffee but he'd been craving it recently. And so on.

His eyes drifted aimlessly over his preoccupied companions, discussing the intricacies of their plans with each other, before finally settling on one of the Villeneuve girl's legs. He tilted his head to get a better look and pursed his lips without even thinking about it. She was wearing a poncho that covered up most of her features, but her pants had a slit on the side of the legs to ameliorate the effects of the heat. He slowly, absently, began to stare at the beautifully pale skin, the pleasing shape of the calve... He'd always been a leg man.

Without turning to look at the tired eyed Godhand, Ludivine addressed his new-found interest in stride.

"Word to the wise, Goodhand Stroker: women can feel a normal man's eyes on them, so you better believe I can feel those red albino numbers on my legs."

Though he was startled, he didn't miss a beat. He scratched under his chin and spoke lazily.

"Sorry, but going on forever like they do...It's rare a man gets a chance to stare into infinity."

"All good things come to an end." Ludivine said as she looked over her shoulder at Godhand with jade eyes that were most definitely not playful.

Vespasian leaned in towards Godhand.

"She isn't going to lay with you so long as we're on a mission. I just wanted you to know just incase that was your intention. Maybe afterwards, but in the meantime drooling and flattery will get you nowhere. Forcefulness won't either."

Jesus, they sure knew a lot about each others sexual habits. Godhand had considered it half-hearted flirting, but thinking about it more critically, would he?

Well, he was a leg man.

Ludivine's dialogue written by The International

[Rayse Valentino]

Rayse couldn't help but think about these crazy Villeneuves after that desert scuffle. They were unfazed by Godhand's one-man army act, and undaunted in the face of The Contractor's fiery antics. Hell, they acted like they expected Godhand to mop the floor with the bandits. Even Rayse was sure that didn't pass for normal in most mercenary circles. There was more to these people, and he aimed to find out what they were all about.

The heat of the trip didn't affect him too much, since he could only feel the lingering effects of the dry air on his skin, but he was starting to think his underwear was riding high sitting on that damn horse for so long. He thought about his pills and how this job had caused him to neglect them for a while, but he couldn't just take them now. With Godhand around, it would be suicide. Hopefully this job would end soon and he could get back on the path to recovery. Since the lingering effects of his medication had worn off, there was also the risk of his symptoms coming back. The ground here wasn't exactly solid... if his body decided to go ethereal at the wrong time, he could be buried alive.

Finally getting off that horse and into the big tent was a relief, both for his numb buttocks and his fear of falling through the sand. The uncertainty of his future rested with him, making him look up at the top of the tent and wonder about what he was going to do once this was all over. Would he go back to The Company and try to make it successful? He felt like he was someone that could do whatever he wanted, and yet right now he couldn't be more helpless. If anything, this sickness gave him a chance to truly consider his path in life. He lied down on his back in his little division.

'What I want...' he thought, reaching up to the top of the tent. He remembered being in Knife's Edge, sitting in the throne of a dead crime lord and thinking about the view from there. Is that what he wanted? To take the world into his own hands, to create his own set of rules and live by them? He wasn't like the other gung-ho free spirits he's come across. His life needed order, but the order crafted by society around him wasn't to his liking.

He took out a cigarette and lit it with his thumb, blowing smoke and watching it disperse at the top of the tent. Ignoring the little side conversations around the tent, he was absorbed in his own ambitions. The more he thought, the more tired he got. Eventually, his eyes closed and opened to see light shining through the bottom of the tent. The cigarette was lying at his side, and everyone seemed to be up already. He hadn't felt so relaxed in a long time, but the serenity was broken by Godhand's gruff morning face. The big mercenary certainly wasn't having a good time running around in this heat, especially with limited hygiene facilities.

Vespasian had started to explain the next leg of the job, and Rayse almost didn't let the 'Sparky' comment slide. These Villeneuves were lucky that he was still in a good mood.

"So," Rayse said, scratching his head. He just heard a lot of words he didn't understand. "You want us to go to some spice fields and pick up some Mallawhatsit poison and Val... al... something sugar? And what the hell is Suravani?"

"The moon goddess who supposedly created the desert," Godhand replied. He was met with a blank stare. "Are you serious? How did you get this far without knowing that?"

Rayse lowered a brow and looked off to the side, "Oh, that Suravani. Right. Let's go get those bricks."

Vespasian looked at Rayse, his suspicions only deepening since that episode with the leader of the Windborne, "You sure you guys got all that?" In the back of his mind, he felt like he met Rayse before.

Godhand crossed his arms, "I got it under control."

Later, it was just Godhand and Rayse on their horses in the middle of the desert. This would have be a good chance for The Contractor to come clean with Godhand about his condition, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He decided to mention something else, "So how long are you planning on running the mercenary circuit? It seems beneath you."

Godhand sighed resignedly, "Work is work."

Rayse remembered that the mercenary was big in The Pagoda, and decided that him and Bloodrose had a mindset that he couldn't relate to, but in a way he understood. Eventually, the desert became very hilly, then mountainous, then the sand turned dark.

They both stood when they noticed the pungent stench of spices. Before them in the distance, the darkened desert had a large number of small plants growing on it. The terrain was more solid and rocky, with a higher frequency of cacti and some desert trees. They must've been at the edges of the spice field.

Rayse took a drink from a canteen and announced, "Let's get to it."

[Godhand]

They'd stuck to the shadows, leaving the horses a good distance away to avoid making any unnecessary noise. If Godhand had been given the time to scope out the place properly and figure out the patrols down right he would have managed to get in, take the stuff, get out clean and move on without anybody having to get killed or even know he was there. But what could he do? That was the game. They weren't paying him to get things done right, they were paying him to get things done fast, and if that meant a whole bunch of people had to die, well...

That was the game.

The patrol rotated and the guards left to be replaced by fresh ones. All but one, anyway; of course, there always had to be one guarding the place at all times just in case. Godhand crept up silently behind him and right as the man began to get a sinking feeling and was about to turn around, the mercenary's arms rushed forward and locked around him. One hand was on his mouth and the other arm was around his chest. He hadn't gotten the mouth clean but it didn't matter; his scream died in his throat, turning into a wet gurgle as his chest and lungs were instantly crushed. Godhand's arms uncoiled from the guard like lethargic pythons and hung on only loosely, the native collapsing in them like a rag doll. Like those half-dead lepers hanging on barely to their messiah in any dime-a-dozen religious painting. The mercenary stepped backwards and lay his body in the shadows from where he'd emerged.

Quiet. No blood; it was clean. With any luck it'd take them until sunrise to find the body.

With that, he signaled to Rayse to follow him as he crept into the storage house the man had been guarding. They'd have to be fast; so far the only thing anybody could say was amiss was that a single guard was not at his post. But if they came back, found the body and opened the storehouse door to find two murderous foreigners trying to steal their sacred spices-

Jesus. Who knew what they'd to to them? The Fallienites tortured people to death for mispronouncing their matriarch's name. They'd fall all over themselves in some sort of towering blood-rage trying to figure out the appropriate punishment for grand theft murder.

But there'd been no reason to worry. The little boxed relics had been right where the spy-children had said they'd be; in plain view, on a slab in the middle of the edifice. He stuffed them in the satchel he'd been given and turned to leave, only to step on one of the many mushrooms that littered the entire storehouse. He could not for the life of him imagine why in the Hell they hadn't been uprooted and removed, this apparently being a place of great significance in the spice fields and thus important enough to be properly maintained, but it was only when the rest of the mushrooms shivered at their fallen brother that he understood.

-------------------------------------

It was a goddamn honeypot! The mushrooms had released some fluorescent spore out of the open ceiling, but not before catching them full-on with a blast of the noxious stuff. They had served as an alarm, and it was only as Godhand was attempting to fight off the rabid goddamn Fallenites that he realized they'd served another purpose, too. The world was a shifting mess of non-euclidean shapes and colors he'd never seen before, his indigenous attackers becoming monstrous desert lizards before his very eyes. That had been upsetting enough, but when the shamans had then proceeded to summon real monstrosities, well, suffice it to say he'd spent a good thirty seconds firing his Magnums at twisted abominations before remembering they'd been seized by the police, and shortly afterwards suffering a horrible bite on his right shoulder by some sort of blind, skinless attack dog.

They'd gotten them all, or so he believed. The guards had been so enraged by the foreigners' affront that none of them had even thought to break away from the rest and inform the camp there were intruders, what with the spores only illuminating the area and alerting the others a short distance away before their glow faded. Well, either that or they'd killed the entire camp. He couldn't be sure what enemies had been a hallucination, which ones were real people and which ones were real people transformed by the hallucination. He supposed it didn't matter; he and Rayse had killed them all just to make sure.

But his nerves were shot. The sight of all those slavering, lunging abominations trying to eat his soul had left the mark of bad craziness in the mercenary's mind.

They'd hopped on the horses and rode away, the desert shifting and the cacti all seeming to shiver like the mushrooms had. He half expected the goddamn things to start shooting their needles at him. The Fear was deep in his bones by that point.

“JESUS CHRIST, WHAT ARE THESE GODDAMN ANIMALS!?”

He’d thought the worst was over, but pretty soon more trouble came. He felt more than saw the ground shift and move. Up through the sand hundreds, thousands of little creatures sprang up until they were riding in a sea of beating, flexing, shivering fur. He didn’t know what they were until the moonlight glinted off their teeth and made their beady little eyes glow.

Godhand saw Rayse slump in his saddle and quickly yelled at him.

"Sit up straight! Can’t you see!? They can't chew through the hooves; that's all that's saving us! But if you fall off your horse, those goddamn things will strip the flesh off your bones inside of two seconds!"”

The pyromancer seemed dizzy and on the verge of throwing up.

"What are you talking about, man? Let's just...Just stop for a second. That shit messed me up."

"You fool! We can't stop here! This is rat country!"

"LISTEN YOU NEED TO STOP TALKING ABOUT RATS AND THE FLESH OFF MY BONES YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT MAN YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT!"

“SHUT UP! IF ANYBODY HEARS YOU THEY’LL THINK YOU’RE A CRAZY ASSHOLE! JUST BE COOL GODDAMN YOU!”

His teeth were chattering at that point and he could taste cheap, oily wine in the back of his throat despite having only drunk water and scotch (or watered down scotch) for the last week. His tongue was thick in his mouth, a lump of resentful flesh as he tried to calm down his panicking partner. What was he doing out here in the desert?

"Listen, I'm sick! I know now's not the time to say it but the doctor gave me these pills and they're making me go crazy! I take them and go to sleep, and when I wake up I'm surrounded by bodies and blood! GREY MATTER! MY PARENTS REALLY SCREWED ME UP MAN THERE'S JUST NO GETTING AROUND THAT THERE'S NO GETTING AROUND THAT!"

"Oh lord, give me the strength to deal with this fucking honky! Please make it so that he shuts his fucking mouth before I shut it FOR his dumb ass! Forever and ever, amen!"

Rayse wasn't saying anything intelligible at that point. He was mostly blubbering but to Godhand it sounded like he was invoking some satanic ritual in the language of the squid people. It'd take every last ounce of willpower in every last cell in his body not to savagely chop up the bastard and leave him out here in there in the desert for the scorpions and the rats. There is nothing in the world more dangerous than a paranoid-schizophrenic in the depths of an ugly hallucinatory trip in the middle of hostile territory with a man he couldn't trust. Even one of those was a deal-breaker and guaranteed psychotic episode. Godhand knew it was only a matter of time until the pyromancer wigged the fuck out started fixing to take a big fat bite out of his head so he could steal his knowledge.

[Inkfinger]

They were not supposed to read the messages. That had been one of the very first things one-eyed Azuban back in Irrakam had said, once he had overcome his suspicion. As a very specific matter of fact, they were supposed to kill things – up to and including themselves – to keep anyone from reading the messages, barring the person they were being sent to.

…granted, they also weren’t supposed to be plotting to steal this many horses. Or any horses. So the mail was probably a moot point anyways, one tiny black mark on a record that would already leave them doomed, dead and decaying in the forbidding sands.

Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

Cael took the paper from Verspasian despite his misgivings. He scanned the elegant symbols that marched down the fine parchment as the spy turned to talk to Godhand. He could feel his stomach sinking another half-inch with every line he read, the other voices slowly fading out as the roaring in his ears grew louder. The words on the page seemed to slide together until the whole thing was a mess of cream-colored parchment and jittering, nonsensical symbols.

The form was entirely in the looping scrawls and curls of Fallien. Not bits and pieces, no, the whole damned thing. It made sense, really - Fallien people generally wanted to keep their things in Fallien - but…this made life just that much more…

That much more…

Interesting.

Cael took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it out through his nose slowly, trying to ease the tension from his shoulders and force the swimming letters to stay still on the parchment. It didn’t help matters that his brain was keeping a running list of all the ways this situation could go wrong:

Scenario one: Fallien warriors figure out what we’re doing. Result: death by horse-stomping. Nasty. Scenario two: this merry band of miscreants figure out I can’t read Fallien. Result-

- here he glanced at Godhand. And then at Ludivine. And then hurriedly back to the parchment, hoping he didn’t look as overwhelmed as he felt.

-likely death in some way more horrible than horse-stomping. Scenario three: I run screaming like a maniac from this entire situation. Result: death. Certainly less creative, perhaps, but death nonetheless. Scenario four: this actually works. Result: …profit?

Those three death-tainted scenarios far outweighed the one lone success, but he hauled his dust-covered pack into one of the partitioned areas anyways, dragging the curtain halfway closed. It moved in a whisper of fabric and a jangle of curtain-rings, separating him from distractions. He dropped his pack on the floor, unsnapping a sand-encrusted fastener to jerk the flap open. It took him a good three minutes to dig his pen from the bottom, beneath layers of books, wrinkled clothes and a pile of crumpled origami.

This had been a bad idea, and when – not if, when - he wound up with Ludvik again he was going to disown the older man for getting him into this. He kicked off his sandals, and flopped down on the rug to pull the envelope of parchments out of the pack, knocking one of the origami cranes free. He stared at it for a second before he licked his pen-tip, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched the sigil to bring the thing to life. The ink sank into the paper, and the crane shifted in his hand.

“I swear Caelric, if the first thing you say to me today is some complaint, I will fly into the nearest candle, fire or pond I can find.”

“I wasn’t gonna complain!” He protested before the black letters even had a chance to fade away. It, somehow, managed to look as disapproving as ever for a creature with no eyes. It spread its paper wings, hopped off his hand, and glided to land on the pack. “I wanted your…” He trailed off, glancing out into the tent before lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I need your advice.”

“Oh?” The word floated midair for a second, somehow tinged with silent amusement. He didn’t know how It managed to put so much emotion into something that made no sound. If he were capable of that trick, he wouldn’t be here, that much was certain. “That’s a change. Usually I’m just a…what did you call it? ‘Sounding board’?”

Cael snorted, setting his notebook down to use as a makeshift desk, smoothing the form out on the braided rug above it. “Are not, I talk t’ you more than that!”

“Barely.” There was derision around the edges of that one, but It shuffled forward on the pack to peer down at the spread form. “So what have you…" The ellipses hung in the air for a long second as Cael cracked his knuckles. “Oh, Caelric, you’re not really being that stupid, are you?”

“Apparently yes.” He picked up his pen, dipped it neatly in the inkwell again, and jabbed the writing tool at the paper crane. “And before you say ‘just back out,’ there are at least three reasons why I can’t do that an’ still get out with all my limbs attached, so…” The paper beak snapped shut with a rustle, and he chuckled, halfheartedly. “Didn’t think so.”

He bit down on the pen and peeled one sheet of parchment off the stack, setting it down on the notebook before he carefully set the rest aside. The last thing he needed was to spill ink all over the parchments. The closest place they could get replacements was a week’s journey back the way they came. No thank you. He pulled the pen free, streaking obsidian liquid down the side of his mouth on accident.

“So, with that in mind,” he spoke again, starting the first line with a delicacy that belied his gawky frame, “What’s the symbol for about sixty times this amount?” He pointed at the number – or what he thought was the number – with his free hand. “Give or take…”

“…that,” he looked up just in time to see It sputter, letters guttering like a candle flame in its’ dismay, “Is the sign for please.”

“…oh.”

“Three lines down, two words over? That’s the sign you’re looking for. The symbol you’ll want to replace it with is this.” It flicked its’ mouth open again, and a sign Cael had never seen before fluttered through the air. He hurriedly scribbled it down on the back of his hand before he went back to copying the rows above it.

“Thanks,” he returned, pen moving smoothly across the page in a constant scritch-scratch of metal on low-toothed parchment. “Now, ‘opefully this won’t take too long…”


*

The light from outside was dimming, the shadows of the tent poles long and dark in the golden glow of sunset, by the time Cael finally scrawled the last sigil onto the parchment - the fifteenth parchment. The others lay in a halo – crumpled, ink-soaked and twisted - around him where he sat. The ink from this lip had spread, dried dripping down his chin and smeared across the back of his hand.

His eyes felt like they were on fire and his back felt like he had been in one position for half a year, but the moment the last symbol was sketched he all but jerked away from the parchment, hands up and the pen tucked behind his ear, barely wanting to breathe for fear of somehow destroying the perfect job he’d just done.

It shook itself awake, somehow giving the impression of blinking up at him. “All do-woah, hey.” It shook its head. “You look…um….”

Cael wiped his inky fingers off on the rug. “Like somethin’ the cat drug in, right?” He grinned. “But I’m all done. I think. I ‘ope. If I find some wrong letter in ten minutes, I’m going t’break down an’ cry.”

“And we don’t want that.” It hopped from the pack, flapped to his shoulder and perched there, staring down at the drying form. “Looks right to me, anyways.”

“Yeah?” Cael’s back cracked when he stood, wincing at the creaking sound his knee made. “Doesn’t have to fool you, though…” He bent down, carefully picking the parchment up and blowing on the still-damp ink. “Let’s go see if it fools the people it’s supposed t’fool.”

“That…might be a good idea, yes.”

“But you will stay ‘ere, alright?” Cael nudged the curtain away with his foot, staying still until It hopped off, grumbling blurry, misshapen words. Then he shouldered the curtain the rest of the way out of the way, and stepped out into the tent proper.

“’ey, uhm. Vespasian?” He let the curtain fall closed behind him, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he didn’t immediately catch sight of Godhand or his flammable sidekick. “I think I finally finished y’ paper....”

[Philomel]

Judgement Title: Stealing Thunder (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?19763-Stealing-Thunder/page3)
Judgement Type: No Judgement
Thread Participants: Godhand, The International, Rayse Valentino, Inkfinger

Rewards:
Godhand (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?90-Godhand) receives:
970 EXP
66 GP

The International (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?13861-The-International)receives:
530 EXP
66 GP

Rayse Valentin (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?4242-Rayse-Valentino)o receives:
925 EXP
55 GP

Inkfinger (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?13267-Inkfinger) receives:
515 EXP
55 GP

[Hysteria]

GP & XP added.