The Meeting

[Mistress-Of-The-Maze]

Closed to Wynken.
As the early morning light washed down upon the countless trees of the Concordia Forest, soft footfalls could be heard racing through the undergrowth. A soft smile on her features, Aislynn could barely resist the urge to close her eyes as she ran to her destination, pacing herself slower than usual in order to enjoy the surroundings. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the clean air from all the plant life around her and reveling in the soothing sounds of a slight breeze tugging at the leaves and small branches around her.

The sound of wings beating somewhere to her left cut through the quiet scenery. She turned towards it, smiling as the form of a small silver hawk swooped in and out of the branches beside her, his vibrant plumage glowing every time a small dash of sunlight managed to penetrate the dark canopy of the forest. Aislynn sighed, returning her attention to navigating the seemingly never-ending labyrinth of trees.

‘Where was it that he wanted to meet again?’ she thought, hopping lightly over a particularly large root that was blocking her path, ‘it was a place not far from Underwood, I’m sure.’ Yukito gave a shrill cry from beside her and dove down, perching gently atop her shoulder.

“I still think you’re being foolish with this…” the small familiar muttered, ruffling his feathers, “Not that you ever listen to me anyway.” Aislynn silently cast her eyes to the heavens, heaving a sigh of exasperation. Ever since the evening a week ago when she had drank with that strange man, Yukito had spared no thought in voicing his disapproval. “Brainless,” and “Foolish,” being a few of the words he used to describe her behavior.


“Please tell me you don’t believe that he isn’t going to rob you blind?” He had hissed the moment they were a safe distance from that small tavern, “He’s a bad person to get mixed up with Aislynn, even I can see that and I’m just a familiar.” Aislynn had just closed her eyes for a moment and ducked into the safety of a nearby tree. She looked around to check if there was anyone in the vicinity before opening her bag and allowing Yukito out. The silver snake had glared at her for a moment, shifting his form into that of a dog before sitting back on his haunches expectantly.

“Of course I could tell he was a crook,” she retorted, her voice low in case anyone happened to pass by, “I think everyone in that tavern could tell he was.” Yukito had just given her a disbelieving look at that. “You could tell huh?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "Well... that explains why you were seconds away from striking a deal with him.” His young mistress shot him a warning look, “Stop acting like you’re the one in charge. I’m the master here, not you.” Yukito shrugged, not at all fazed by the rebuke.

“Please don’t start that old argument again…” she groaned, quickening her pace now that she was certain she would not leave Yukito behind, “I’m fed up of listening to your complaints. I’m going through with it and that’s final.” The silver hawk nipped her ear spitefully as a retort but fell silent.

The young woman slowed down upon reaching the area Wynken had suggested they meet and peered tentatively through the trees. “Is he even there?” scoffed Yukito from his perch as Aislynn's bright yellow eyes scoured the area for the dark individual.

[Wynken]

Long shadows darkened the wood as the mighty trees of the Concordia stood in opposition to the rising sun. Wynken had awoken hours before, desiring to leave the city of Underwood in the stillness of night. 'One can never be too cautious', he often said, though his concept of forethought bordered more on paranoia. His routines had become so instinctual, so much a way of life, that Wynken operated as a known fugitive even in new lands.

He watched from concealment as Aislynn entered the small clearing. Even as she hesitantly scanned the dense forest beyond, she seemed at home in the natural setting. She wore a smile that rivaled the radiant sunlight which fell in beams through the canopy of leaves and danced like fire upon her auburn tresses. Wynken noted that she smiled despite a heated conversation that was held seemingly with the hawk perched upon her shoulder. He squinted his eyes attempting to discern the color of those belonging to the silver animal, but the distance proved too great. He could guess well enough that they were one blue and the other green.

Unassuming, Wynken stalked slowly from his place of hiding and into the clearing as though he had only just arrived. "I trust that you haven't waited long", he said dryly, gracefully picking his way through the thicket to stand a short distance from Aislynn. He was not overly fond of the terrain, being more adapted to the atmosphere within the city limits. He considered again how different Aislynn was, though he was once again intrigued by her sense of adventure and willingness to assume risk.

"I must say that I'm impressed. You surprise me." Though he spoke to Aislynn, Wynken's eyes locked with the bird perched at her side confirming his suspicion that the hawk before him was indeed the same entity as the snake in the woman's care a week previous. "If memory serves, I'm still awaiting a list".

As he spoke, Wynken felt an awkward sensation in the base of his neck. It was a nagging tightness that he hadn't felt before, though it was accompanied by the familiar gesture often imparted by the magical blade on his left hip. A warmth spread quickly through his body, but there was an urgency there rather than its typical comforting and methodical intimation.

As Wynken processed the communication to be one of alarm, he heard the resonance of a bowstring sound at his back. He shifted slightly, turning sideways as the arrow cut a bright red line through the fabric and flesh on his left arm and breezed through Aislynn's hair which framed her delicate face. Without a word, he moved in the direction implied by the angle of its flight, drawing his sword and a throwing blade as he went.

[Mistress-Of-The-Maze]

I've decided to be a little thief again and copy you in dropping all the colors. They're tedious and not a little annoying to look at once the post is up.

Yukito eyed Wynken distrustfully as the man stepped forward from his hiding place, his clothing still as dark and slightly worn as it was a week ago. Aislynn inclined her head in greeting when she spotted him, feeling a brief wave of relief at the fact that she had not lingered in the woodland too long on the way there.

“I’ve only just arrived myself,” she replied, her lips twitching with amusement at the glimmer of distaste on the mercenary’s features as he walked towards her. He clearly did not hold the woodlands in as high a regard as she did. ‘A city lover,’ she thought as he stopped before her, ‘perhaps it’s easier for his kind to operate in such a place.’ She chuckled inwardly at the notion. A city had its merits for those who had less than honest plans in mind but the forest offered more protection. She knew very well that many bandits and other less than savoury individuals also inhabited the woodlands she called home.

"I must say that I'm impressed.” He spoke, his eyes fixing briefly on Aislynn before focusing on a point at her left, his eyes full of recognition and curiosity, “you surprise me.” She glanced down at her shoulder, following Wynken’s gaze to small creature that was still perched there and still very much a bird.

‘He knows!’ She took a deep brief, quelling the instant panic that welled up at having forgotten to remind her familiar to stay hidden. ‘It’s too late to shove Yukito into a bag now,’ she told her self as the tall man inquired about the list she had drawn out, leaning over her bag to remove it while watching Wynken through the corner of her eye. ‘Lets just hope he’s not so interested as to forget about our deal.’

Wynken tensed suddenly, causing her to raise an eyebrow in question. She straightened up, the list clutched in his fingers and her mouth open to question him. Aislynn froze as Yukito leapt up from her shoulder, crying out loudly as a sudden feeling of wind brushed past her face, just catching the feathered end of an arrow narrowly skim her cheek. Wide, shocked eyes snapped towards Wynken as he whirled around sharply, unsheathing that odd blade as he did so.

Shaking the surprise away and swallowing any questions that arose at the sudden attack, Aislynn drew her own blades and turned towards the threat, her stance becoming defensive. Her eyes snapped back to the mercenary as he walked forward, the grass beneath his feet muffling any sound his steps could make as he advanced towards the edge of the thicket, his eyes watchful and alert.

She followed, twitching as small leaves rustled quietly beneath her boots and feeling at little envious of Wynken’s ease at making no sound as he walked. A sudden bout of movement turned her attention towards a large growth of foliage as a man burst forth. She looked at him with vague recognition as he bolted; one of the men who had shown interest in the pair at The Peaceful Promenade.

Aislynn paused indecisively, her eyes on the man’s back as he ran before replacing one of her blades into its leather holder. She darted forward, careful to watch her footing as she effortlessly caught up to the man, her free hand closing on the back of his tunic, halting his escape.

[Wynken]

Wynken was unsurprised to see the man abandon his hiding place behind the thick copse of underbrush. He had determined the arrow's path by evaluating his left shoulder and Aislynn's left cheek as if two points on a graph. Now, their assailant's hand had been played, and he had obvious little desire to face the pair in fair and open combat.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, suppressing the pain of the tear in his tensed muscle as Wynken held his throwing blade, poised and ready, between his thumb and index fingers. However, as the man fled, he was obscured by the dense trees swiftly cutting a path between them and forcing Wynken to stay his hand. Wynken hastily followed, attempting to guess the man's movements and provide himself an opening to his target.

It was Aislynn who proved the faster, quickly overtaking Wynken from behind and gaining ground on their fleeing attacker. She moved as a hind, easily navigating the broken terrain as if to be nimbly away from a hunter. Wynken watched in amusement the role reversal as the graceful Aislynn became the pursuer rather than the victim.

She quickly outpaced her prey, and Wynken's amusement shifted to disbelief as Aislynn sheathed one of her short swords and gripped the back of the man's jerkin. He spun hard, drawing a short sword of his own as he turned and knocked away Aislynn's hand with his left elbow. Her speed proved once again invaluable as she fell away from the viscous swipe and brought her own weapon defensively before her.

Wynken was there then, though the alignment of trees offered him no easy access to the man's flank. He instead slipped between them, pushing Aislynn safely from harm as he assumed her place in the foray. It was more an act of bloodlust than chivalry, though it may have been mistaken as such, for he exhibited no recklessness or rage holding his actions and emotions in complete control.

Wynken quickly found his footing and allowed his momentum and the man's surprise to carry him into a series of predictable offensive strikes. The man backed slowly, struggling to keep his balance in the bracken, and Wynken sent his long sword into a high feint. He grinned in recognition as the man chose to parry the blow rather than shift his weight to duck upon the broken undergrowth. With the flick of his wrist, Wynken released his throwing blade which buried itself deep into the man's well exposed thigh. At the same moment, Wynken allowed the man to easily push his blade high and away, readjusting the angle and dropping it down upon the man's weapon arm.

The battle took only moments, and, as Aislynn approached, the man's sword fell away. Blood flowed freely from his arm as he defensively nursed the gash, his pleading eyes seeking mercy in those of the victors.

[Mistress-Of-The-Maze]

Sorry about how brief this one is ^.^; Been a little busy this last couple of days. I would have posted it last night but by the time it was done it was rather late heh.

Stumbling a little when Wynken pushed her none too gently aside, Aislynn frowned indignantly at the mercenary’s back. Chivalry or not, she didn’t appreciate being pushed aside like a helpless maiden. Watching the man in question, she saw that Wynken wasted no time in engaging the assailant in battle.

Within the first few moments of observing the fight, it became painfully obvious to the young woman that the odds were stack against his opponent. Wynken handled his blade with practiced ease, easily avoiding any of the attacks the other man sent his way, his face an unsettling mixture of amusement and bloodlust as he thwarted the other’s efforts.

Aislynn’s eyes followed the small dagger as it flew through the air, cringing at the howl of agony its target let rip as it plunged deep into his leg. A few seconds later and the man was completely unarmed, his eyes watering in pain as he cradled a weeping gash on his sword arm. He back-peddled as Aislynn and Wynken approached, his eyes wide with fear directed more towards Wynken than the young half breed.

’And is there any surprise in that?’ she thought, glancing towards Wynken’s cold and slightly cruel expression before looking back at the man whimpering on the floor, 'I don't think I'd like to be on his bad side.' A delicate breeze ruffled her hair, toying gently with a few of the strands that framed her faze, some shortened considerably after being in the path of that arrow. If it had flown even a millimeter or so to the right… She hardened her gaze resolutely, ‘If we didn’t get him, he would have got us.’ she reasoned. As if realizing that Aislynn was the lesser of the two evils, the man turned his gaze towards her.

“P…Please…” he whimpers, blood dripping over his fingers as he gripped his arm, a small crimson river trickling down it, “Please… have mercy…” Aislynn glances uncertainly towards Wynken, completely unused to someone pleading with her for his life. “Please,” he repeated, sensing the young woman’s weakness, “Don’t let him kill me!”

[Wynken]

Wynken watched the exchange with a mixture of pride and disgust. He was pleased to command such reverence and to invoke fear in the heart of another, but found the man's dishonorable and contradictory appeal to be disappointing. 'So fickle. Minutes ago he would have put an arrow into my back and now he suddenly recalls the value of existence?' Wynken narrowed his stoic gray eyes as he considered the hypocrisy. He loathed his own existence as well as that of others, and considered hatred as the only emotion worthy of a true warrior.

He looked to Aislynn, the girl's moral judgment apparently conflicted by the man's appeal to pathos. Wynken could have pointed out the logical inconsistencies, could have screamed in the man's face rhetorical questions that would bring to light the fallacy and dishonesty in his pleas. It was another luxury owed to the wealth of his father. In addition to combat training, Wynken studied all manner of academia under some of the realm's finest (albeit slightly biased) scholars. "Don't be a fool", was all he offered as he stepped closer to the man who had retreated slightly.

Sheathing his sword, Wynken grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him roughly to his feet. "I remember you from the tavern", he said slowly in a tone rich with venom. "All of this over wounded pride, or did you truly find our affairs so interesting? I suppose that I should have been rid of you and your friends upon our first encounter. A mistake that I intend to soon rectify." Wynken pulled the man closer to himself, holding the man's gaze within his own. "Where are the others?"

The man looked to Aislynn once more and saw that she made no effort to intervene. Realizing the futility of his situation, he steeled his features in defiance. "I don't owe you a thing, and you'll kill me regardless."

"I assure you that my imagination is quite active, and lacks no creative ways to make you suffer", Wynken stated plainly. He grabbed the throwing dagger which still protruded from the man's leg, and he twisted it deeper into the wound before removing it. The man howled in anguish and would have buckled had Wynken not been supporting him with his left hand. "I'll ask again. Where are the others?"

There was a slight hesitation, a movement in his eyes, and a tightness in his lips as he began, "we...we had only met that evening, and we shared but a few drinks. I don't know who or where they are". In a swift and seamless movement, Wynken released the man's collar and hit him with a backswing smashing his mouth with the steel bracer on his left arm. His head lurched and slumped forward, blood draining from it as water in a trickling stream. He swallowed hard, pursed his lacerated lips, and spit out three teeth which disappeared into the undergrowth below.

There was a long moment of silence as the man regained his composure. The blood relented slightly and he finally raised his face, staring past Wynken to once again seek mercy in Aislynn's eyes.

[Mistress-Of-The-Maze]

Aislynn’s eyes by now were wide with shock and a small amount of disgust. She had never before witnessed torture and found that her stomach turned at the very thought of how easily Wynken was able to use it. Of all the times she had fought others, she had never had the need to cause pain for information, preferring to simply knock out her opponent and run. She gripped the side of her tunic, her hand shaking with the effort of staying put and not helping the man who was appealing to her with his eyes.

Wynken’s whispered words as he stepped forward woke her common sense enough for her to school her features into a look of indifference, the difficulty evident in the way her fingers clenched further. The mercenary was efficient as he demanded an answer to his questions, applying force at times whenever the man was proving uncooperative.

At the final blow, man’s eyes became dazed slightly as he turned towards her yet again in a desperate plea. Aislynn met his glance with narrowed eyes, finding it easier this time to bury her pity for his treatment before she did something foolish. She gestured with her own yellow irises towards Wynken. “Answer his questions and then we’ll see if you deserve pity.” Her voice trembled a little she noticed but was firm enough to get her point across.

The man’s eyes clouded over with despair mixed liberally with anger as he realized that she would not step forward. He spat out more of the blood that was welling up in mouth, somehow making the gesture seem insulting. “I’ve already told you all I know.” He hissed, his voiced slurred somewhat through the damage to his face, his expression once more set into defiance. “If you’re going to kill me get it over with.”

[Wynken]

So, he has conjured some honor, Wynken mused, a smile broadening on his face in light of the man’s acceptance of death. Not too much I hope. Wynken had had seen the telltale signs and recognized that the man had been lying, an obvious cover for the men in his company the week before.

He had occupied a table with three others at the Peaceful Promenade, and they had, in their drunken impertinence, become derisive toward Wynken and Aislynn. Unamused by their flagrant condescension Wynken had called their bluff and issued them a silent challenge before the entire tavern. As he sat at their table, daring any of them to make a move against him, Wynken stared them each down until he had felt Aislynn had been afforded enough time to be safely away. At that point he simply left. As casually as he had come, he pushed his chair from the table and retreated to his room for the evening.

It was obvious that at least one of the men harbored resentment for the pair. Wynken had been hunted in the past, and he was none too pleased about being pursued again. “Why don’t you wait for me in the clearing”, Wynken asked Aislynn though he focused his attention upon the bloodied man. He understood well enough that his actions had unsettled her, and he desired to be the sole recipient of any pertinent information offered from the dying man’s lips. Aislynn nodded solemnly, attempting to stifle the display of relief as she walked back to their initial meeting place in the woods.

Once alone Wynken sneered at the man. “We both know you’re lying. I’m sure your friends appreciate it too, but unless you can accept payment in the underworld your favors are ill placed.” The man squirmed uncomfortably as Wynken shifted his throwing blade into his left hand. He had maintained a standing position, but Wynken could see that it now required great effort. The muscle in his leg had been torn and the gash in his arm had continued to bleed draining him of his strength. Wynken quoted the man with snide sarcasm, mocking him for his defiance saying, “I’ve already promised you that I will ‘get it over with’ once you tell me what I desire to know.” He took the man’s collar once again, forcing him to shift his weight to his wounded leg and eliciting a whimper from his previously pulverized mouth.

“Alright”, the man said pitifully, “I’ll tell you what I know.

[Wynken]

It’s been a handful of weeks since MoM has posted, and, since I’m using this thread to develop some other plots, I figured I’d go ahead and hijack this. My last post has been edited in order to facilitate my continuing solo.

Not much time had passd before Wynken walked carelessly from the dense trees to the clearing, only to find it empty. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. He had disbelieved that Aislynn would be there the first time, as her character seemed so much opposed to his own. Wynken looked through the trees that marked the location from which she had first emerged. There was no reason to follow her and he was uncertain he could if there were. Although the trail would be fresh and likely hastily made, he was much more attuned to city streets and rooftops than brush and bramble.

Returning to the area where they had stood before the ambush, Wynken found Aislynn’s rucksack. The price list lay on the ground a short distance away, and the mark from Aislynn’s heavy boots scarred its fragile surface. Picking through the pack, Wynken scoffed silently at the small collection of finely carved wooden trinkets, it’s unlikely that I’ll be needing these now. As luck would have it, he had stumbled upon a much more appealing offer.

In his final moments, the man, Benson, had explained that his friends were due through Underwood any day. Of the four of them from the bar, he had been a local resident and one man was merely a random traveler. However, the other two were of great interest to Benson and had now become Wynken’s focus as well. They were from the mainland and Benson had seen them pass through on a fairly consistent schedule. Every three weeks, they came from the ferry in the south and lingered a day or two in Underwood before continuing north to Radasanth. A day would pass before they stopped again in Underwood, running their course in reverse.

Benson appeared to be telling the truth, and, having no reason to begrudge the man, Wynken had kept his word and killed him quickly and without pain. He looked again at Aislynn’s backpack. These could still be of some use, he considered, slinging the weighty baggage over his shoulders.

For most the hike back to Underwood would have been peaceful and serene. The sun had fully risen and, though it remained low on the horizon, scattered the remnants of dusk as morning broke. Birds sang sweetly as Wynken moved with hushed and deliberate footfalls. However, his mind was far from the tranquility of the splendid forest, and instead laid plans for the coming days.

[Wynken]

It was still morning when Wynken had returned to Underwood. Wispy clouds streaked the otherwise pristine sky, and songbirds perched upon rooftops and awnings. They whistled and cooed to one another as they waited intently for the market to open. The townsfolk made ready as well, merchants and storeowners primped their tables and some residents had already gathered to consider their morning needs. They village was awakening.

Wynken, however, paid them no heed. He was aware of his surroundings but hardly conscious of them as he passed through the square on his way to the Fettered Fawn. The establishment was quaint and rustic, nestled amongst a small hunter’s district. Trappers, tanners, and various leatherworkers operated in the nearby shops, and the tavern often served as an outpost for traveling merchants or hunters drawn by the abundant wildlife (and therefore leather) of the Concordia. Having left the Peaceful Promenade, Wynken had occupied a room there for several days. He didn’t often spend two nights in the same room, and would change taverns with almost the same frequency.

Within the secrecy of his private quarters, Wynken’s attention shifted from the day’s events. His arm throbbed, disrupting his thoughts and pulling him from his planning. Reluctantly, he removed his black leather vest in order to better tend his wound, and he regarded it briefly as it lay atop his bedding.

The sleeveless piece of armor was truly two, front and back, laced and bound together by a lithe yet sturdy silver chain. The neck also contained a moderate ‘V’ which was similarly adorned with a silver cord. The front of the vest had been masterfully embossed with the depiction of a falcon. It appeared in mid flight such that the tips of its wings spread from one shoulder cap to the other, and its sharp talons were outstretched as if lusting after its prey. The leather was worked and fitted perfectly. Wynken often considered that it was fashioned for him alone, though he struggled to recall how he came to receive it.

His wound was deep but shallow enough to not require sutures. Wynken considered that his shirt was not so lucky as he fingered the tear in its sleeve. It would have to wait, he knew and he cleaned and bandaged his arm before replacing his armor. The door closed silently behind him as he left his room and the Fettered Fawn to seek Benson’s acquaintances at the Peaceful Promenade.

[Wynken]

clear...

Wynken occupied the darkest corner of the well-lit Promenade, his goblet of red wine resting daintily in the palm of his upturned hand. Before every sip he would stir the glass until centripetal force threatened to spill the liquid over its edge. The table and the drink had both become customary during his stay, and it was the only corner which conveniently afforded a full view of the establishment. It was evening, and, not wanting to miss his intended party, Wynken had spent the entire day in or around the tavern. The barkeep eyed him with incredulity. He was more curious than concerned, as Wynken showed no sign of ill intent.

Patrons came and went. A handful of local folks and other regular guests had begun to linger, but it was shaping up to be a slow night for the sleepy logging town. Under normal circumstances, Wynken would have avoided the place, enjoying the concealment of a noisy and crowded room. As it was, even private conversations rang out with clarity and all but the most discreet actions could be discerned through even passive observation. However, Wynken ignored the dealings of others and rather glowered at the doorway, seeking only his intended prey.

“Can I refill your glass”, a barmaid called from a few tables away. Unaware that she was speaking to him, Wynken ignored the request. The woman stepped closer eliciting a sneer as Wynken realized she had addressed him. She was a young and attractive woman, supple and curvy to the extent that she appeared out of place in the woodsman’s village. Wynken felt as if she belonged somewhere or to someone more refined. He lit a cigarette and traced the shape of her legs, exposed under a moderately short kirtle. “I can find my own way to the bar”, came his reply; loud enough that the nearest table turned to regard the scene. Confident they had reached an understanding, Wynken turned his attention once more to the now silent room.

At that moment, the door swung open and two more guests bounded in to the Promenade: Benson’s acquaintances. They entered one after another, and the first through the door noticed Wynken peering at them almost immediately. He pulled up to an abrupt stop, his comrade bumping him from behind. “What are you doing”, the man bellowed before maneuvering around to survey the bar for himself. “Oh”.

[Wynken]

Having recovered from their initial surprise, the two smirked; shared a knowing glance; and made their way to the far corner of the room. As they approached, Wynken took the opportunity to more fully observe the pair who had been sitting throughout their first encounter. The man to his left was lithe and notably shorter than the other. A dagger was sheathed at his left hip and another hung at arm’s length upon his right thigh. Both wore light clothing suitable for traveling and showing signs of heavy use. The other man was larger, yet their initial exchange had convinced Wynken that he was a subordinate.

Awash in anger, disbelief, and insecurity; the young barmaid remained, still taken aback by the stranger's tactlessness. Wynken paid her no heed, heightening the emotions which welled within her to form unwanted tears behind her eyes. No man, or woman for that matter, had ever spoken to her with such brash forthcoming. Her cheeks burned red with embarrassment. She opened her mouth as if to assault the man with a volley of rebuttals, but it issued forth only silence. Crushed, she retreated behind the bar and disappeared through the door to a back room.

The two men had worked their way across the tavern, weaving between the many place settings that separated them from the corner table. Once there, they wasted no time in taking seats opposite to each other, flanking Wynken as he sat with his back to the wall. As they took their places, Wynken adjusted his weight within his chair, coming forward and wedging his feet upon the baseboard. The three stared hard at one another in silent, prideful determination until the stillness was broken by the larger of the two men. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten you from the other night”, he hissed as anger and resentment enshrouded his features. “We would have handled you then if we hadn’t business the next morning. Don’t you be thinking that stunt you pulled had us running scared.” He came forward in his chair, perhaps to draw attention away from his cohort who had drawn the dagger from its place on his thigh.

Sensing the movement, and severely disadvantaged within the corner, Wynken used the wall as a springboard and leapt out of his seat and over the table. Arms outstretched, he twisted his torso mid-flight so as to face the ceiling. Having timed it perfectly, he felt the chair opposite his own upon his fingertips and grabbed on. Using the chair to slow the momentum in his upper body, he completed his rotation by aligning his hips with his shoulders. The chair tipped back onto its rear legs, and Wynken bent at the waist to land gracefully on his feet with the two men before him. Continuing the movement, and employing his remaining inertia, Wynken hoisted the chair from its resting place and handily spun it three hundred degrees where it smashed against his assailant. The man barely had time to raise his arm in a pitiful defense, which quickly fell away as the oaken chair exploded under the force of the blow. Showered in a hail of spindles, he collapsed into the corner of the tavern.

Having completed his final circuit, Wynken drew his weapons and faced the remaining foe. The man produced a dangerous looking mace, but, caught between immobilizing fear and volatile rage, he hesitated to form an offensive. Wynken took the opportunity to observe the tavern in his peripheral and noted that a group had made a move for the door. It wouldn’t be long before the guards were informed.

Resentment getting the better of him, the man finally burst forward with a vicious swipe of his bludgeon. Wynken ducked beneath the weapon and spun away, pivoting on his rear heel, barely avoiding a swift backswing. In his flight, he awkwardly backed against another table and the man pressed in again. Realizing that his dagger was no match for the force behind the weighty mace, Wynken brought his long sword across to intercept the blow. He spun away again, this time putting more distance between himself and that deadly cudgel.

Unrelenting, and now fully taken by rage, the man rushed forward with a side-long swipe. It came at chest level and, based on the man’s position, Wynken anticipated it to be slightly over compensated. He would be hard pressed to duck or to fall away with any but marginal success. Instead, Wynken stepped quickly in to the blow, accepting a vicious strike from the man’s fist. Taking swift advantage of the close quarters, and ignoring the pain in his left shoulder, Wynken jabbed forward with his dagger. Had the man been wearing more than a tunic, the feeble strike would have done little to deter him. Instead, aided by the man’s own rambling forward progress, the awkward parrying dagger slipped between the man’s ribs and bit hard upon the flesh behind.

Surveying the room once more, Wynken laid his attacker brusquely upon the floor where he sat and sputtered still clinging desperately to life. He quickly searched one man and then the other for evidence of their timely travels, and he settled for two small pouches and two scrolled parchments. Looking to the door, Wynken expected Underwood’s officials to burst through at any moment, and he didn’t like the prospects that they would see this as a permissible act of self defense. He sprinted from the corner along the tavern wall and up the stairs to the second floor. There he was greeted by a long corridor with private rooms to either side. A window could be seen across the way, and Wynken could hear that the guards had entered below and begun collecting information. Continuing his sprint, Wynken drew his cowl about his face and lept, shoulder first, through the small pane. Tucking his head in a summersault, he underestimated the distance and landed a little harder across the back of his shoulders than he had hoped. In an off-balanced roll, he came up to his feet and paused to fully assess the extent of his injuries.

Wynken turned to look back at the Promenade and to relish the evening’s accomplishments, and, as he spun, he was met with a fist which flattened his nose against his face. “Dammit”, he cried involuntarily as he staggered back a step. Finding his focus, Wynken could make out the face of the beautiful young barmaid in the gloom of the evening.

[Wynken]

Wynken licked a drop of blood from his lip, and, with his sleeve, wiped the remainder from his nose. Even such slight rotation in his bruised shoulder was accompanied by waves of discomfort. His adrenaline was waning and his body becoming increasingly aware of pain. Still he chuckled as the girl cocked her fist in preparation for round two. He had scarcely seen such a splendid and ironic display of ugly hatred and immense physical beauty.

Further angered by his condescension, the woman shrieked and let her fist fly. With his good arm, Wynken intercepted it mid flight and held her by the wrist in a firm yet painless grasp. She struggled unavailingly to loose herself, thumping Wynken’s leather-clad chest with her free hand as a child in a tantrum. Finally exhausted, she looked up into his eyes and scanned his face as if lost or confused. “How innocent to be so wounded over something so trifle”, Wynken thought as he sensed her desperation. As if her world would be shattered if she were to receive no restitution.

Her hand, which moments previous had pounded Wynken’s leather vest, now playfully traced the etching there; leading him to make a mental correction. “How vain”, came his new assessment. “She seeks approval rather than an apology, and simply cannot accept that not all in this realm would treat her as a goddess.” No sooner had he made the realization then the girl tugged the back of his neck, pushing their lips together in a forceful kiss. Hers were sweet as a ripened fruit and warm as the sun that would nourish it on the vine, but the embrace ended as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had begun. Now with both hands free, she held Wynken’s face at arm’s length and searched it again for some sign of affirmation. A smirk was all she found there and she watched as his eyes slowly and deliberately moved from her own to a location in the distance. Hesitantly she turned toward the tavern to see the silhouette of a town watchman in the shattered frame of the second story window. He pointed and yelled, “There they are”.

One word hung in her thoughts and forced them down a thousand roads, each ending in blackness. “They”, she mouthed quizzically before frantically turning back to Wynken. “Come on then”, he said offhandedly as he reached for her. His steady voice calmed her slightly, but even had it not she was left with little option as he took her hand and led her into the darkening streets of Underwood.

[Wynken]

Darkness rode on a cool breeze as they poured in through the open window. The curtains fluttered, their thin layers failing to contain the remorse that now welled in her throat. She felt exposed and peered through the portal as if expecting to see an audience gathered beyond. She blamed the cold as she pulled the coverlet tight around her naked body. Wynken offered her a cigarette before lighting his own and leaning back upon his bed at the Fettered Fawn. “What’s your name, child?”, he remarked dispassionately. She sat up on her elbows, fixed him with a glare, and complained, “I’m no younger than yourself”.

“Youth isn’t overcome through the passage of time but rather through experience”, Wynken said, his voice trailing slightly. “And I assure you that I’ve seen plenty”. Unimpressed and simply too tired to take up the fight, the woman laid back down with a huff and stared at the ceiling. “Emmalyn”, she replied at length, “my name is Emmalyn”. She rolled her eyes and blushed at the open acknowledgment that she didn’t even know the man beside her. Both went unnoticed. “So”, she said turning to face him once more. Wynken returned the stare but offered no response. Sensing none forthcoming, she spoke in an exaggerated tone saying, “What’s your name?”

“Vanaril” he lied, choosing to give his surname. “The shadow stalker”. He had fabricated the title but he figured it was true enough, and enjoyed the way it rolled off his tongue. Wynken licked his fingers and used them to smother the embers of his smoke before settling in to his pillows. He had propped the Mirror Root next to the bed and now silently pulled it to his side under the covers. “Get some sleep”, she heard him say, though Emmalyn could no longer see him in the darkness.

She woke to a beam of sunlight, as if a single ray had purposefully pricked her eye. Hoping it were all a dream, she turned to find that she was indeed alone; though still in the unfamiliar room of the trapper’s tavern. “Should have known” she stated, throwing on her gown from the previous day. A note rest on the room’s solitary table, two leather pouches weighing it down against the draft which still issued from the open window.


I have urgent business elsewhere. If it be your desire you may await my return, upon which I will check back at this room. The gold I’ve left will more than cover your expenses.

If you would rather not, fare well. I’m certain the watchman would not have identified you at such a distance, but please accept the gold just the same.

I will suspect betrayal, and I warn you that it will not be dealt with lightly.

- The shadow stalker

The light of dawn glistened upon the leaves of the Concordia as Wynken observed the scrolls he had pilfered the night before. Unrolling them, he found them to be shipping records, and he recalled what Benson had said. He looked north in the direction of Radasanth before picking his way silently through the underbrush.

[Wynken]

Requested Spoils:

Two sets of shipping records, obviously.

The skill, Kinematics – Wynken has developed a keen understanding of humanoid kinesiology in addition to knowledge regarding the classical mechanics of motion. He can, with slightly greater than average ease and accuracy, make predictions of range and projection angle and make judgments according to an entity’s center of gravity and weight distribution. Defensively, this affords him a greater opportunity to parry or evade immediate or successive melee attacks as well as ranged attacks from greater than 25 (or as deemed appropriate) yards. It also grants him the ability to out maneuver opponents of average agility in armed combat, and provides a moderate increase to range and accuracy when wielding missile weapons.

[Revenant]

Full rubric, full commentary requested.

STORY

Continuity (3) – Though you mention that this story has a background, you don’t mention exactly what it was. For someone who didn’t read the previous story, assuming there was one, this left only a sense that I was missing something. In the end I’m left unsure why this thread took place, and what the real outcome of it was.

Setting (5) – Forest and tavern. There was little involvement with the forest, but some nice things that came from your stint in the Peaceful Promenade.

Pacing (3) – Slow, jerky pacing between both of you at the beginning, though it settled into a much more fluid pace once Wynken moved onto a solo.

CHARACTER

Dialogue (3) – Wynken comes off as uninspired throughout the thread, and I felt like I could almost quote what he would say before he said it. That isn’t to say the dialogue was bad, but rather that it was very bland. It felt like the character didn’t really have a voice of his own.

Action (3) – Similar to the dialogue, the actions in this thread, both character and NPC, came off as emotionless. It was all very mechanical, action A happens and then action B happens and then action C happens. I don’t get any sense of frantic life-or-death combat in the fight scenes and it feels like everyone is just standing around watching how deadly precise and in control Wynken is while waiting for their turn. We write our characters as awesome, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but you need to make it interesting at the same time.

Persona (3) – Mistress shows some passion in her posts, but even though Wynken writes that his character loathes himself and is a hateful guy, I never get that feeling from him. Rather, the only thing I get off of Wynken throughout the entire thread is boredom.

WRITING STYLE

Technique (2) – Nothing really reached out and grabbed me about this thread, and no real feeling of emotion to it that stirred me. I am really grateful that Mistress decided to drop the color scheme after the first post as it made no sense whatsoever and really, really broke up the writing. As a note, you can go back to previous threads and edit things like the color changes out if you decide not to continue using them, and I suggest that you do.

Mechanics (7) – Mechanically, a pretty well-written thread with little errors.

Clarity (4) – Pretty clear for the most part, but there were several times that I had to stop reading to process the writing to ensure I had it correct. The two major ones were the fight at the inn and Wynken’s internal dialogue at the end while he was assessing the waitress’ motivations. Some smaller bits here and there with word choice and phrasing, but those two were the biggest points.

WILD CARD

Wild Card (6)

TOTAL: 39

Mistress of the Maze receives 208 exp and 45 gp.
Wynken receives 364 exp and 130 gp.

Spoils:
Two sets of shipping records granted.

Kinematics not granted at this time, though they may be added at level up pending RoG approval.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.