View Full Version : The Sound Of Silence (Solo)
The Sound Of Silence (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCNXp6LRP7E)
1916
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
Thomas Hood
The long pier drew Blank's gaze from the beyond to examine its blackened form amidst the mercury sea. It was a landmark amidst the dream world that split the horizon from the sky. This place was well known to its only inhabitant, who absconded from his reality to dwell in its solace, in its perfect and simple silence. No sun hung overhead but it was clearly daylight - a brightness woven into the fabric of being despite the absence of any source. There was noise, but not recognisable sound, it was more as if the sub-conscious circles of the soul were supposing there should be echoes, so Blank thought he was hearing the gentle waves of a sea of solitude.
Blank walked forwards, imagining the sound of leather boots gently padding along the rotting pine planks built as an edifice long ago. He took a deep breath as he arrived at the end, which turned inexplicably right into a cul-de-sac of nothingness and looked out across the silver ocean with pride. This, he thought to himself, ruffling his long auburn hair and adjusting the chain belt around his waist as if waiting someone’s arrival, this is heaven found in the simplest of moments. If he were standing in a real place, one not forged of dreams, he might have caught the distant breeze and its salty edge; perhaps a scent of the lands and fantasies that glimmered above in an illusionary tapestry.
He clenched both his fists as he felt a familiar well of nausea rise from his ankles to his nasal bridge. It was the sign of returning that neither his magic nor reasoning could explain. With a simple widening of his stance, he returned to the same position he had left Althanas and felt a burning wave pull him back across the dimensions. The silent swordsman found himself once more in the streets of the Numarr slums, sodden from the rain and blood of a kill. Despite only being gone from his world for two fleeting seconds, the journey and what seemed like days in the Aria had tired him greatly.
He span in silence and struck.
The steel edge of the Rheilhand came up through the air with a rush of death and cut through the ribcage of the cloaked man behind him. The blink through reality had rushed Blank through his assailant and as he re-appeared with the same momentum he disseminated he brought the blade up and around in an arc of surprise. Gobbets of blood ran down the man’s cheek as he realised his fate and he fell forwards in a slump, his cloak sucking up the contents of a vanishing puddle.
A silence broken only by the rain prevailed once more, a midnight soliloquy to the fourth victim of the Scourge’s black market ‘acquisition’ that night. Blank sheathed his blade and stared at the body for a while, deep in thought. His face was devoid of any expression and no sign of remorse, guilt or satisfaction emerged. The deal has gone horribly, horribly wrong he concluded, turning with a whirl of his tattered half-cloak before stepping out into the wide expanse of Market Square.
The propensity to dream was Arden’s foray, his periodical jump into something he could admire and lose his troubles in. Each night, he would imagine a world where he could speak, and where doves caught the sun on a peaceful era. When he awoke at dawn’s call each morning, he never once felt disappointed that this was far removed from reality – instead, he looked upon it as brief glimpses into the realm that could be, a possible existence.
Even when reality itself falls apart, he thought, walking stoutly towards the fountain and stooping to drink from the bitter-winter waters. It quenched his parched lips and his sudden hunger longer enough for clarity to take hold and settle his sights on a solution to the dying man he had left bleeding in the alleyway. If the Scourge were not already watching his every move, then the body would be discovered soon enough by an unfortunate passerby and the mission would become more complicated still. He had been careful to remove any trace of identification, but you could always be sure to slip up somewhere.
Somebody, Blank concluded, standing upright and stretching, has set me up.
Voices drifted into the open air as the start of the busy trading day arrived; this was the busiest bazaar on the island and it was a financial wonder that it did not run deep into the night in an eternal homage to the greedy and the rich. Three shadowy figures appeared, entering from the alley beyond the favourite maritime haunt of the Tantalum and the dock lands beyond. They appeared to Blank’s dulled senses as if they were lumbering and hunched in pain. As they grew closer and stepped out into the twilight he saw that they were carrying crates and a table, and was satisfied that they were not going to cause him trouble.
He stepped off the circular steps that surrounded the fountain and skipped off to the nearest alleyway with nimble strides. He hit the South end of Wilbury Lane and held his breathe for as long as he could as he rocketed down its length. Whilst Whilburries smelt of vanilla and apple in the summer sun, this avenue was famous for its ale breweries and the smell of rotting fruit perpetually hung in the air all year round. As he advanced, he unhooked the scarf about his waist and wrapped it like a Bedouin warrior about his face to offer some miniscule disguise and protection against the odour; enough to elude most,he mused.
Whilst the day was still young, he had little time to waste in clearing his name from the treachery of his own deeds.
In a back alley between the Numarr border and the docklands Blank awaited the arrival of his contact, the nefarious Saenz. He was the ‘voice’ of the Scourge as far as the swordsman was concerned, and whilst the low-life crook was a shield between the edge of the Rheilhand and the true mastermind of criminal operations in Scara Brae, the distance was welcoming. If the legends were true not even a Blink into The Aria could save you from the lightning speed of the Master’s Dagger.
It was a spring, and that meant the sun was out despite a chill cold in the air. Blank smiled as the man appeared, bundled up in many coats and scarves whilst he on the other hand was wearing very little. He had always assumed wherever it was he was from was a cold place, perhaps a desert where heat and frozen wastes were part of the same landscape. Duffy had joked many a time that half of feeling the weather was complaining about it, and it was not as if Blank could do that.
“It is a fine pleasure to see you Mr Blank; I am grateful that you have answered my call and hold no reservations about doing…business with the Scourge once more.” The dialogue did not flow as one might expect, and Saenz presumed his business partner to require further clarification, “I understand your modus operand so I will get to the point. This way, if you please,” he gestured with a single finger to a doorway and stepped inside. Blank followed cautiously, despite his level of infamy and his prior input into the success of the Scourge, you could never be too careful.
Inside a small room destiny waited, one that was without windows and one that was noticeably warmer and muskier. It was decorated with nothing more than a small table, two rickety chairs and a candle practically burnt to the wick. Saenz sat, and following the man’s request Blank sat opposite, appearing pleased from behind his scarf but silently contemptible of the cutthroat. “We have reason to believe, and I quote the Master’s Maw itself that the thieves’ guild “seeks to expand its grip” on the slums. They have information on you, or so it seems, and certain hand-offs are occurring between noblemen you’ve had prior dealings with and Guilds-man messengers.”
Blank nodded very subtly. He watched the dying flame of the candle flicker back and forth like a possessed sprite, trying not to seem too interested in the development. “The details of these meetings are contained within,” Saenz deposited a letter onto the table and used a small bag of coin as a paperweight. “All you have to do is appear at these locations, ‘intercept’ the information and then ensure that the Thieves’ Guild interest in our most prized member is… Quashed. Do not gain the Thieves' Guild Master's attention either.”
The scent of damp and rot stretched out the momentary silence into an uncomfortable shuffling of feet and polite little coughs before Saenz relented. “I will leave this with you, Blank; should you chose to undertake this assignment we will have further use for you in the coming conflict with the Guild – the Scourge’s hold is less than amicable, that is true, but I would rather we control the vice of this city than a bunch of, if you’ll pardon the assumption, low-life troubadours and part-time petty criminals. I hope you make the right decision,” he nodded and stood to leave, not expecting an answer.
As the man left Blank mentally sighed. Something at the back of his mind stirred and he knew that he would have to struggle to maintain the duality between the Tantalum and the Scourge, between loyalty and dogma. He rose and pulled the scarf tight once more, and snuffed the flame out between his fingers to embrace the under dark.
The rain poured down like a blanket of regret, a constant reminder that the glorious weather of the day could not last for an eternity. Blank stared down into the dark river of a street below and watched for the low-life that would betray his existence to the enemy. He had watched and remained vigilant for so many hours he had forgotten what day or time it was, they had melded together into one long, silent continuum.
Eventually, a nobleman wearing a wide brimmed hat appeared from the West, and a lanky man from the East. They approached, slowly, as if to check wherever or not they had gotten the right time and place and if they were about to be ambushed. The greatest prey at the top of the food chain, Blank reminded himself, words of a master he had long forgot, never expects to be jumped – thus, they never look up, he leapt, spinning into a forward roll and landing with a slight rush of air behind a pile of discarded crates, left open for their contents to rot after a harsh day’s trade.
“Good evening,” the noble introduced himself, his voice sullen but audible to their silent watcher. “I see the owls have come in for the winter months,” the tantalising password was one Blank knew all too well, and he said it to himself at the same time as the thief.
“But the timber wolves come running in response,” the two men nodded in agreement and both pulled out small packages from under their clothing, both wearing red, as if it to symbolically catch one another’s attention. “The Guilds-man thanks you for your co-operation Lord Manfred, if the information is correct and leads to the finding of this ‘silent swordsman,’ then you shall receive an additional stipend or favour from the Guild.” They both held out their items, stepping towards one another with cautious advances and snapping the opposing article with cautious and paranoid hands.
“It is a pleasure, sir, I can only hope that this brigadier Grande will stop hunting the noblemen and extorting their card games – I hear he is quite the gambler,” the lightning flashed overhead as something sparked in Blank’s slow mind. Manfred, Manfred…Manfred… He realised too late that the noblemen that had betrayed him was none other than the Lord who presided over the poker nights of the noble houses, sordid betting rings held in wine parlours and cellars across the city. Why would this man betray him, when he had been the presiding factor in the man’s personal windfall and sudden fortune?
He skulked deeper into the shadows as Manfred walked past, juggling his coin with a satisfaction typical of the greedy few. Keening his gaze onto the small of his back, Blank stepped out into the middle of the street without disturbing so much as a raindrop and channelled the Aria into the noble’s mind. Long ago, when they had first met, Blank and Manfred had agreed to share their minds to elicit communication with greater ease and to allow the swordsmen some hold and sway over the other nobles. He could then pretend to be from a small noble family, and take the young upstarts for everything their ‘acquired’ dowries had.
The link established itself with a rush of guilt, and Blank, only ten feet or so behind his former friend began speaking the man’s thoughts. He dictated back to Manfred the reasons and questions he was spinning about in his head, intermittently sedated by the increasing weight of his felt hat, and the storm that was brewing in the darkness overhead. “I am sorry my friend,” Blank gritted his teeth as Manfred turned around in surprise, his hand dropping to a dagger on his belt.
“There comes a time – what the…Blank? Is that you?”
“It is you!” The swordsman spoke the exact same words a split-second before. “You heard me?”
“He knows ” Blank finished the sentence, and cut the link short, satisfied with hearing the lies and disassociation with his own mind.
“Who sent you? Have the thieves guild set me up?” Sweat might have shown on the man’s forehead if it were not sodden with precipitation. “I – I, please, let’s cut a deal!”
Without remorse Blank rushed forwards with feet splayed wide. In his advance, he unsheathed the Rheilhand from its customary location on his buttock and brought it up to the left in a thrusting arc. As it sliced through Manfred’s gut with little resistance, the purse dropped to the ground and he suddenly went limp. Blank returned his blade to its sheath and grabbed the nobleman by the lapels, bringing his nose and forehead to rest against the blood stained face.
He pushed the link into his mind once more, and whispered back Manfred’s dying moments. “I am sorry…they gave me…no c-” he dropped and sighed, his last gasp stopping his apology. Blank mimicked a silent roar of frustration and tossed the body to one side, his naked torso washed with crimson and the diminishing hopes for any explanation. With a rough hand he picked up the purse, counted out four gold coins to have his clothes cleaned and left the remained scattered around Manfred’s body to frame a cut-purse attempt gone awry, and then turned to walk back along the East flow of the alleyway to find the thief.
At the east end of the avenue the thieves’ guild courier let out a sigh of relief and satisfaction at a job well done. In his pocket was the envelope, and in his hands were the light fingered rewards from the midnight food vendor’s lethargic state of unawareness. The steaming Redden* pie tantalised his nostrils with sugar and dough, and he salivated at the prospects of enjoying the same post-job reward he had grown accustomed to, in a seedier part of town. He munched through the pastry and cooed, watching the rain fall from the sanctuary of the shop parasol overhead.
Blank emerged from the curve of the alleyway, a visage of terror and blood stained nightmares. He had succumbed to the curiosity and adrenaline of combat, and was determined to find an answer. The thief did not notice him until he had little chance of fleeing, dropping his treat in a hurry to pull out two katars from under his cloak.
“They said you’d come, and ‘ere you are, but – but, I ain’t gonna die for you!”
Blank unsheathed his sword, levied it at the thief’s exotic weapons and advanced at a quicker pace. The exchange of blows was short, but ferocious, the parrying ability of the punching daggers matching the simple and direct cuts of the single-edged blade. The clashing of steel rang out across the surrounding streets like midnight bells, the rain only serving to dampen the impact on the dreams of Scara Brae’s slumbering citizens. The dark after all, was the world of death and criminality, but Blank had to be quick, because curiosity could not be contained for long.
Snick!
The body slumped to the floor and Blank silently sheathed his weapon. There was nothing to be said or thought, no speech to impart or lies to hear. This man was a simple courier, who had been urged to die on the silent swordsman’s sword to avoid leaving a trail to the Thieves’ Guild Hall. They knew all too well that Blank’s interrogation techniques were not tactfully useful. He picked out the envelope from under the cloak and scooped up the broken pie; it still steamed in the cover of the awning and for the first time in a long time, he smiled – tucking into the dying warmth and cinnamon twist as he opened the envelope.
To the master and provost of the Thieves’ Guild,
Here-in is contained all that is known of the mysterious ‘silent swordsman,’ from my personal experience. He came to the noble houses some six months ago, with a letter of recommendation from a mutual acquaintance of the Tantalum. He did not speak, and only through some curious magic was I able to transfer knowledge to him during the card games in which he was…a lucrative asset. I have not seen such a wondrous card shark in all my life, one of his many talents no doubt.
I began to feel intimidated by his propensity to intimidate the other noblemen and it soon became apparent that his presence would no longer be required. I asked him to leave, terminated our verbal agreement and he disappeared, or so I thought. I had him followed and although we lost him, we feel the mysterious Prima Vista is located somewhere either on Goren Street in Numarr, or on one of the surrounding alleyways.
May this be a gift to the Guilds-man, and may it find its way back to us in good tidings and tithes,
Manfred of House Jerall.
Fear coursed through Blank's veins, but at the same time so did satisfaction. If this sort of information, no matter how vague, where to ever fall into the wrong hands the consequences for the troupe and for the stability between the troubadours and the Scourge would be dire. They would simply not be able to resist conflict with their superior numbers and less obvious moral codes.
He scrunched up the lavender scented paper and stuffed it into his pocket, finished off the pie and walked out into the rain and to the obscurity of the shadows beyond.
Three left...
The sun shone and the ruck-us of the city streets rose up to the rooftops in a blanket of sound. It dead-panned the senses, stripping all possibility of cohesive thought and speech from anyone but the most focussed of traders. The gentle breeze kept the red hair of the silent swordsman floating over his taught shoulders, and he peered down into the crowd from atop the clock-tower overlooking Market Square. The ringing of the bell for the sounding of the midday mass still echoed around his skull, but it gave him a sense of purpose and being.
His acquisition from Lord Manfred had inspired him to action, and according to the letter of instruction from Saenz, the second hand off would take place in broad daylight in the Market Square vicinity; although where and between whom was beyond their intelligence. It was so busy Blank's eyes hopped between passers by like a leapfrog, picking out the slightest detail that might give his betrayer away.
The gritty feel of the tiles under his hands and the scent of sweat, salt-water and urine reminded him that he was still in the underbelly of the city - a fact he admired and enjoyed, as it meant there would be little chance of interference from the city guard. In the Slums of Numarr which surrounded the central square and it's glistening fountain, the people were a law unto themselves, held in check by fear, from the Scourge and the sudden rising of the Red Hand Syndicate in the Docklands. He knew all too well that he could easily remove a person from the crowd and kill them in cold blood without interference from any citizen...
A fact Blank was aware also applied to the proponents of the Guilds-man - for every dagger swung, Duffy used to say, one is swung right back.
A few hours passed before Blank swooped down into the hubbub with a nimble drop. Someone fitting the description of a noble, disguising the fact very poorly with a woollen cloak had appeared from Arden Avenue and was making his way through the crowds to the central circle of stands, where the districts more prominent and established merchants sold their liveries and wares. He followed instinctively; not taking his eyes of the man’s back, swerving left and right through the sea of cotton and wool and dull tones of the common people.
The second hand off will occur in the Merchant Square district, most likely between sympathisers with the Thieves' Guild and someone who stands to profit from your...absence.
It had troubled him greatly, Blank had little dealing with the Guilds-man and beyond a few casual purchases of fruit and vegetables, he had no reason to be a wanted or hated man by anyone in the city that profited from retail. At least, he thought, not in my current lifetime. Perhaps he had done something before he had lost his memory, some long standing grudge returning to haunt him. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had been too paranoid to interpret the true meaning of the letter.
The cloaked man stopped suddenly, lifting a finger as if to test the direction of the wind that had long dissipated on the tall wedges of the districts tiled roofs, and the higgledy-piggledy array of mismatching architecture. Blank quickly turned to a match stick girl, and stooped to inspect the neatly arranged flints and smoking paraphernalia to blend in with the crowd. He suspects he is followed. An air of professionalism surrounded his quarry, one distinctly more prominent than Lord Manfred’s careless trail and the lack-lustre defence of the thief who had attempted to secure the information. Whilst the katars had fetched a fair price on the black market, Blank had begun to wonder how much the information he held about his own life would be worth – could he sell his own secrets with tantalising effect?
The pursuit ended as they drew to the centre of the square. The nobleman pulled back his hood and revealed a long head of golden hair; it struck Blank immediately that his error was judging the trade-off as something indignant, something driven by revenge of financial loss or gain. The woman before him was driven to reveal Blank's identity through a loss of another kind, and the emotion churning around in Blank's heart echoed her pain.
Celia.
The world span and span some more. The realisation that Blank was now under threat from every facet of his dual lives was not important, what was, was that he faced betrayal from his friends as well as enemies. Celia was a love interest unlike any other, one who understood Blank’s life and understood the fabric of his being. Or at least, in his naivety he had presumed she had come to understand how he could not love her truly, could he ever stay with her too long; he had expected it of her.
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a delicately sealed envelope from her blouse, it too was sealed with a red wax stamp and patterned with lavender flowers. The grubby merchant who was widely known across the city to be called ‘Dirty Dan’ snatched it away, replaced it with a bag of coin and gave a disgruntled nod.
Someone brushed into the swordsman and he turned to catch a young boy’s cheeky grin. He ruffled his hair and packed him on his way, only to turn to find Celia dissipated into the sea of faces. Damn, he muttered to his conscious, making a mental note to clip Pete round the ear hole whenever he found the time to return to the Prima Vista. Stepping forwards in the manner of a customer, he leered down at the unwashed and swine scented merchant, showing his teeth and pointing discretely at his left pocket – where he had seen him stash away the letter.
Dan snorted, lifted his folds of skin from his eyes and peered up at the man through the rays of the sun. “Oh,” he said in a baritone drone that could send a careless man to sleep. “They said you’d come. They said you would kill me,” he took out the envelope and held it out, “are you – near all these people?” The merchant spoke with a smug sense of self-satisfaction and victory.
Blank snatched the envelope and simply turned to fade into the crowd as his lost love had done – two tragic stars falling to separate worlds, divided by parallels and consequences of their own actions. As he walked back to the alleyway and the security of the lofty heights of the rooftops, he opened the letter and read it with fond recollections of perfume, roses, and seduction swirling in his chest and memories.
To whom it may concern, provost, king or lowly thief,
The man you seek is named ‘Blank,’ although I have never heard him speak his true name. I tell you what I am to tell you out of love and perhaps, such love is tainted by revenge, I cannot tell.
He holds court in many kingdoms, I am sure you have heard of the Scourge – he works as a hired sword and assassin for whatever dark deeds they wish committed, and I need not speak of that more for I am certain you know this already.
He hurt me, in ways a lady will not, or cannot describe, so I tell you this in the hopes you will return the favour, disappear into the gin soaked night without a word to the wise leaving a dagger in his heart, like he did mine.
The Prima Vista, the stronghold and hideaway for the Tantalum Troupe and the one you know as the ‘Tantalum’, is on the street once named for it’s courtly dances and virginal rituals of debauchery, long before the Noble Houses audited their affairs and the building has a great glass dome atop it’s heights.
I ask for nothing in return,
Except perhaps for the return a tattered scarf that was once a cloak…
Celia
A single tear rolled down Blank's cheek, already her words had hurt him - he internalised the hatred for his own distance, not allowing it's curse to drag him from his goal. These two letters would have destroyed all he had worked so hard to protect in the recent years, and the people he loved and cared for dearly would have suffered for his deeds.
He scrupled up the lavender scented paper, and tucked it into his pocket along with Manfred's obituary.He dried his eyes before waving his hands over his pockets, the letters glowed for a few moments as the writing was eradicated from the paper, removing the evidence from everything bar his memory.
With a deft display of climbing skill he scrambled up a pile of crates and a rusty drain pipe and wandered out onto the scorching red tiles that formed a maze for the swordsman to lose his thoughts in; leaving the wailing chorus of the city behind in a wave of Salvarian-esque heat. His feet rattled the poor workmanship with every step and he clattered his way to the Docklands in the distance.
Two to go...
The Docklands loomed into Blank’s view, the heavy cranes and sails forming a backdrop to the finale assault on the dealings that sought to end his tenancy in the Scourge. He leapt from the roof onto a stack of boxes and hopped, skipped and jumped down into the cover they provided from the busy workmen and traders.
Many years ago, he might have simply sprung his trap too early, too eager to settle a score. Here he waited for almost four hours, a silent assassin coiled like a snake to pounce when the moment was right. Slowly but surely the workers faded, the ships hazed from view in the evening twilight and the smells of the underworld of Scara Brae clogged the nostrils; peaty mud and sexual delights mingling in the air as the red light district crossed with the slums. Since the light was all but gone and it was difficult if reckless to sail from the island under the cover of darkness, the docks were all but deserted, and as flawless a meeting place as any if one wished to avoid being overheard.
Blank popped his head over the edge of the boxes slowly and peered into the swirling shadows that the mist perpetuated. As it drifted in from the ocean, it brought with it a chill and a salty twang, re-enforcing the bitterness of the silent watchmen, and pushing the scent of his target and his own inland where he would not be caught unaware. Eventually, a cloaked figure emerged from an alleyway to his right, and a lady with a parasol and a bodyguard hooked under an arm appeared from the left.
Even obscured by nightfall, Blank knew exactly who she was.
“Good evening, Lady Mirabella. It a pleasure to see you well in such times,” the cloaked man remained concealed and his hand remained on the hilt of his sword. “I trust you came in the strictest confidence, as per our agreement?”
“I have” she coyly replied, the danger Blank had seen with his own eyes many months ago remaining concealed in her feigned innocence. “Though I rather fancy the docks in daylight, it took me a great reserve of strength and will to come here under your terms. Have you the information I requested?”
“Yes, m’lady,” the thief produced an envelope; much like the ones found at the other meetings and held it out at arm’s length. As the bodyguard snatched it Mirabella pulled down her parasol and did it away with a simple thrust and fold of its tie.
“If the information you have produced is not adequate, then my good friend here Mr Swallow will indeed, remove you from the world like a well chewed piece of veal,” there she is, Blank chuckled silently, biding his time longer than usual to see what would unfold. Lady Mirabella was a thief of greater renown than even Duffy, and her temperament was well known in the underworld and the world of the well-travelled adventurer. She kicked with more than her pointed boot someone had once said through bloody teeth and a sudden hatred of women.
“It is, m’lady, I sure’s ya; from the Master’s ‘and ‘himself!” The nervous nature of the meeting brought out a stuttering drawl from the thief, who took a few steps back. “Read it!”
Mr Swallow opened the envelope with a knife he produced at amazing speed and discretion, and unfolded the lavender scented paper. He read from it beyond earshot of Blank, and the Lady nodded in satisfaction. In the silence of the midnight hour the two contacts parted ways and left Blank in confusion and slight concern. Everything he had worked for seemed to be suddenly and inexplicably working against him, as if someone had become aware they were being followed.
He shrugged, revealed himself to the shadows and walked out into the middle of the cobblestoned square. There was only one meeting left and he had to recover the information from that at all costs. Whatever the Master had given to Mirabella would surely be reimbursed, whilst this gave Blank time to find out the nature of this double dealing, it meant that there were three parties working against him…
One failure in this mission was forgiveable, two would be disastrous.
One left…
In the alleyway there were two figures. The taller of the two shadows, wrapped in a dense woollen cloak to keep out the light drizzle which clung to every orifice was unmistakably Darlan, the Master Thief himself. The other was wearing a suit of chainmail and bronze regalia that carried the symbols of the royal guard, and this broke the chains of vows Blank had made to never harm the city’s protectors.
He padded closer, his bare feet splashing in the puddles. His body carried a mystical amble with it, spine and muscle working in tandem to reduce the noise he made as he passed from the cavernous market square into the final meeting place for the city’s gambit on his life. The two man clocked his arrival only after he had gotten to within fifteen feet of their backs, the Rheilhand drawn and held in a reverse grip resting on the silent swordsman’s hip.
“So he comes, the silent watchdog, the hunter in the night,” the Master’s voice was coarse and feeble. Blank smiled at his former master, a sign of acceptance and abandonment carried in the motion. “I feared you would not follow the trail we set out for you, Blank, but I am glad all the same that you worked perfectly as you should.”
“Bred as you are to follow orders,” the Captain muttered, stepping away from the Thief King to draw his sword with his shoulder mirroring the half sideways stance of the Master. “Did you not see through the letters, or did your heart cloud your judgement?”
It had. If Blank had any way of expressing it in words, he would have done but instead he hung his head and brought his sword to his front and flipped it into a normal grip. Whatever they had in store for him could hurt him no more than the thousand little needles of his former lover’s revenge.
“Yes…” The Master smiled, and threw back his hood and cloak to reveal a simple tunic and shorts strapped tight with belts and bandages. “Weakness, I can smell it in your veins, Arden!”
Blank snapped his attention to the Master and roared without sound his anger.
The two men ran at one another, deadly blades flashing in the moonlight in search of a resolution to deeds unpunished.
The Rheilhand snapped into the Master’s daggers with a wide arc and the blades clashed in the darkness. He pulled it back, snapped it forwards with a flick of the rest and released a string of minor cuts against the cross-guard of his target. Both men moved their feet with every movement of their blades, adjusting their centre of balance to account for every inch of ground and every grain of the cobbles beneath their behemoth struggle.
“Every bit the slave to the ideals he craves to understand!” The Master jumped backwards and bum-rushed as he landed, spinning his blades in a flourish that would sever lesser men’s tendons and bones. Blank blocked both with a coupled sideways deflection, and lunged in retaliation.
“Every bit the ardent soldier of the night, unwilling to but eternally bound!” The Master caught the sword and pushed it back, and both men staved off their blows to circle one another.
Blank eyed the Captain nervously, uncertain of his skill or his ability to fend off both men at once. He gritted his teeth and ran towards the thief, stopping at the last moment to roll around and rush up into the Captain’s unsuspecting and bulky form. The short sword of the Royal House clashed with the swordsman’s blade, and they exchanged a mutual toning of muscles. With lanky precision Blank rolled and leapt around his superior foe, spinning mid-air and reigning down slashes and concussion blows against shield and pauldron alike.
“Hark, the Silent Swordsman preying on the weak, preying on the feeble, adorning his grace with bloodshed!” The Master’s taunts grew in tenacity and ferocity over Blank's shoulder. The Alleyway’s emptiness drew in the shadows even as lights flickered into view in the adjacent streets, curious citizens finally awakened by the commotion.
The Captain’s sword arced back from Blank’s and his heavy boots shuffled to account for the shifting of the blade’s bulk. He grinned and pushed and swung at the same time, bringing the blade up and over in an arc that swung naturally with his shoulder’s moment. He was aiming to pierce and plunge Blank to his knees with a blow to the shoulder.
Arden saw it a mile off and twisted on one foot with an elegant trick Duffy had taught him during their dance scene for I Want To Be Your Canary. It was funny, the way things came back to you. He deflected the sword with a spiralling flourish from his own blade, dropped to one knee and in the same motion, swung the sword haphazardly up and across from right to left.
The Captain faltered, spat blood in a great gobbet of bile and defeat, and fell to his own knee with mimicry and irony combined. The Master roared his disgust and from behind, Blank could hear the advancing man clash his blades as a taunt. He smiled, twisted on a heel and brought his foot into the Captain’s face as his gaze met the Master’s. With a thud and a sickening crunch, the cartilage of his nose shot up into his skull, and before he hit the ground with a slump, he was dead.
Blood trickled out into the puddles all around, and the smell of blood drew the ferocity and primal instinct of the silent swordsman into the sodden air and the midnight hour. He roared silently at the Master of the Thieves Guild as he approached, hopped madly from one foot to another in a flurry of ragged material, muscle and beads, and gripped his sword in both hands as if he were about to charge.
Dear Magnarion,
I fear he is too strong, too swift, too powerful for the Thieves Guild.
We should ensure the provost is aware of these recent developments, for if he should be approached by the Scourge, as we expect he will, there shall be no end to the genocide of our Guild's members...
We must stop the creature we have created, slay the ideals we have instilled in his heart...
Darlan
It was funny, thought Darlan, glancing out of his window with quell still poised in his hand. We strive so hard in life to ensure that our legacy lives on after we are gone, yet it is often the most unsuspecting person that will take up our mantle in our stead. He treated the young mute named Arden with every bit of respect that he had given his Master, and his Master's Master before him, yet somehow, he felt incomplete, he felt unsatisfied.
Whatever it was that kept the boy's lips seals was far too dangerous to be allowed prominence within the Guilds-man Circle, of that, Darlan was certain. He could not simply kill him, for the boy was like a son to the wizened bandit, and he could not cast him out into the world at such a tentative age, as he was far from ready to deal with things beyond the gutting of slaves and murdering of prostitutes.
To ensure that the abomination of war and skill he had helped the Thieves Guild create could never be used against them in the future, they would have to piece together a skein of betrayal the likes of which bards would recount for millennia.
They would have to tear him apart, piece by piece by piece. Darlan sighed, and placed the letter into the lavender scented envelop and sealed it with the signet ring of the House of Rheilhand, whose history had been erased centuries ago by an unknown man with the initials L. Lahore.
Darlan and Arden stared each other down, their anger unleashed into a sudden exchange of blows that rattled out chimes through the city streets. The events of the last few days culminated into a stream of unconscious revenges for the silent swordsman, keen to entice his former master into a mistake he would not be able to pass on to another disciple.
The daggers pierced Blank’s defences and he leapt back with a hairsbreadth between painful injury and luck. With a back flip furthering the distance, Blank glared at the Master. They stared at one another, one a shadowed figure encroached in darkness and brandishing hope and fear, the other, half-naked and panting with delight at the exchange of words unheard.
“Do you hope to kill me, Arden? What joy will that bring, when I have done so much for you?”
Without thinking, Blank reached out through the Aria and connected to his former companion’s mind, drawing on the link long forgotten, with the permission to communicate through Darlan’s guile. With a hoarse and whispery voice, the silent swordsman uttered the man’s thoughts, unveiling the secrets he longed to hear.
“You are too strong, monstrous…
You are nothing like the son I longed for and every bit as deadly as the Provost himself. I want you gone…
I want you dead…
I want you silenced…”
The realisation on the man’s face was petrified fear. He had forgotten in his supposed wisdom that he had entrusted Arden’s mind to his own and given him permission to work the Rheilhand Dichotomy. How could he have been so stupid? He shook his head and tried to reason with his pupil, “Arden…this is not my doing.”
Blank smiled, “I turned the Guilds-man against you,” he mumbled, countering every lie with a perfect balance of calm serenity and hate. He tensed his calves and tucked his blade behind him with its tip scraping the ground.
“We can work this out, get the Provost to trust you despite your deeds!”
Blank smiled brighter, “there is no hope.”
With that, he ran forwards with tremendous speed and agility. As the gap closed he performed a triple back flip to pick up speed, his feet and hands slapping into the crimson sea beneath them as he went. As he rolled out of the tumble he crackled with light, roared with silence once more and vanished.
The Master opened his eyes, expecting death to have come quicker. He traced the lights in the air that had once been Blank and realised that there was no escape. He had done all he could to silence the double agent, but in the underworld, you only had to Blink once to miss your chance.
The view of the pier calmed Blank as he crackled into existence in the realm of the Aria. The greyness all around him and the serenity found in the silent other world allowed him a few moments to gather his thoughts before he returned to the grim darkness of reality. His head swirled with the various pieces of the complicated puzzle had had witnessed being pieced together, and it almost made him wretch.
He padded forwards towards the edge of the pier, the sound of his footsteps mingling with the slowly apparent ocean waves below. He was displeased that even his former Master Darlan had succumbed to a greater plot, one he could not yet understand or comprehend. Somebody, in their malefic styling had betrayed the Guilds-man Circle, the Scourge, and The Tantalum. He stared at the distance for a while, contemplating the impending moment where finally, disciple would overthrow master in a moment of treachery or vengeance, as so many had done before him.
The long pier drew Blank's gaze from the beyond to examine its blackened form amidst the mercury sea. It was a landmark amidst the dream world that split the horizon from the sky. This place was well known to its only inhabitant, who absconded from his reality to dwell in its solace, in its perfect and simple silence. No sun hung in the sky but it was clearly daylight - a brightness woven into the fabric of being despite the absence of any source. There was noise, but not recognisable sound, it was more as if the sub-conscious circles of the soul were supposing there should be echoes, so Blank thought he was hearing the gentle waves of a sea of solitude.
Blank walked forwards, imagining the sound of leather boots gently padding along the rotting pine planks built as an edifice long ago. He took a deep breath as he arrived at the end, which turned inexplicably right into a cul-de-sac of nothingness, and looked out across the silver ocean with pride. This, he thought to himself, ruffling his long auburn hair and adjusting the chain belt around his waist as if waiting someone’s arrival, this is heaven found in the simplest of moments. If he were standing in a real place, one not forged of dreams, he might have caught the distant breeze and its salty edge; perhaps a scent of the lands and fantasies that glimmered above in an illusionary tapestry.
He clenched both his fists as he felt a familiar well of nausea rise from his ankles to his nasal bridge. It was the sign of returning that neither his magic nor reasoning could explain. With a simple widening of his stance, he returned to the same position he had left Althanas and felt a burning wave pull him back across the dimensions. The silent swordsman found himself once more in the streets of the Numarr slums, sodden from the rain and blood of a kill. Despite only being gone from his world for two fleeting seconds, the journey and what seemed like days in the Aria had tired him greatly.
He span in silence and struck.
The steel edge of the Rheilhand came up through the air with a rush of death and cut through the ribcage of the cloaked man behind him. The blink through reality had rushed Blank through the cloaked figure and as he re-appeared with the same momentum he disseminated with he brought the blade up and around in an arc of surprise. Gobbets of blood ran down the man’s cheek as he realised his fate and he fell forwards in a slump, his cloak sucking up the contents of a vanishing puddle.
A silence broken only by the rain prevailed once more, a midnight soliloquy to the fourth victim of the Scourge’s black market ‘acquisition’ that night. Blank sheathed his blade and stared at the body for a while, deep in thought. His face was devoid of any expression and no sign of remorse, guilt or satisfaction emerged. The deal has gone horribly, horribly wrong he concluded, turning with a whirl of his tattered half-cloak before stepping out into the wide expanse of Market Square.
The sun shone over Scara Brae, casting an idyllic glow onto face and promenade alike. Between the crowds out and keen to enjoy the weather two souls wandered alone. One, a tall man with auburn hair and a menacing sense of trouble about him crossed Market Square from the East, his tanned body and muscles clean and scrubbed of their previous week's misdeeds and his typical red scarf missing from his waist.
The other was a tall woman with an authoritarian glow about her ample bosoms. She crossed from the West, unaware that her former lover approached with her set in his sights. She could not have known he had found her letter, and that she had wished him dead to retrieve the trinket of their elopement...
On the North side of the Square the stage for the Tantalum's newest play was being finalised, and the sound of hammering matched the two hearts of the star cross'd lovers in their daydreams and kindled nightmares. Duffy, Ruby and Lillith watched their favourite mute cross the cobblestones between the redden pie sellers and flower girls with grubby noses with anticipation. With so much at stake, with so much forgiveness flowing so freely, Duffy could have sworn Ruby had a tear in the corner of her eye. He rolled his eyes and tutted.
They passed without realisation until Blank tapped her shoulder and Celia's head turned to catch the stranger's eyes. Before she could gasp with surprise a scarf was draped over her face, and she scrabbled to remove it for fear of pickpockets.
She found herself alone once more at the centre of the crowd, the sound of the fountain tinkling behind her and the sweltering heat knocking sense into the meeting like a hammer striking an anvil over, and over, and over.
"Blank..." she muttered, the smell of lavender perfume and regret tainting the air. Instantly she wrapped the scarf around her neck and coddled it for a moment, swaying in the memories and the sudden fear of retaliation from Magnarion's hounds...
The curtain on the stage rose with a flurry of fireworks, glitter and cheer, and the day to day life of the city and it's agents returned to normal.
In Blank's mind he was now free of one sin and he rejoiced in the rejection of a world he hated. He danced in the Sound of Silence and ran on stage to embrace his true calling.
Spoils:
The Red Thread of Rheilhand: Blank has returned the red sash seen in his profile picture to it's rightful owner, the Lady Celia.
Lavender Regrets: Blank now possesses a single letter, scented with lavender and sealed with a familiar, but unmemorable vigil. On it, there is a single clue to the true master mind of this dastardly plot, the enigmatic 'Magnarion.'
Orichalos & Gerhard (http://media.photobucket.com/image/twin%20daggers/staggerblake/DualBladeSword.jpg): Two master-work iron daggers with twin blades. They are polished with steel dust, to give a shimmer, and are light weight and able to penetrate armour to deliver a small bleeding wound, as opposed to anything fatal. They are fashioned in the style of the House of Rheilhand, and possess minor enchantments which can be later activated by returning them to the Rheilhand Manor and an heir of the house offering his blood to the guardians of the lineage; any further updates will be requested as spoils or confirmed by the Realm of Greeting staff before being used against another player.
I Will Stand For You No More!: I would like to request Faction points for The Scourge, based on the damage done to the Thieves's Guild during the quest. Although one Master is dead, it will not be long before another rise, so this might give the opportunity for another player to take his stead, should they wish to do so.
In the grand tradition of the Theatre,
The End!
MetalDrago
05-13-10, 02:45 AM
STORY
Continuity (7/10) ~ I got a pretty good feel for the character as a whole, and as usual, the jumping timeline gave me a lot of insight as to what exactly happened to cause everything that ended up happening. You kept me very interested in exactly why this was happening, and at the reveal, I could only read with bated breath. The only way I can offer for you to improve on that at the moment is to tell you that you should try and space out the events a little more, and make the transition of time a little smoother between your posts. Other than that, you did a really good job.
Setting (6/10) ~ You described the setting pretty well, as far as the ‘imaginary place’ Blank went to at the beginning of the thread. You also did well describing the smell in the part of town full of the fruit vendors. For using smell in addition to sight, you made for a very interesting and realistic read. However, in some of the places where Blank hid from his enemies, there was a slight lack in descriptiveness about the surrounding area, which made the areas seem like a blank canvas painted pure white or black. Try and describe the setting a little more in areas like that in the future, and this score will rise.
Pacing (8/10) ~ Your ability to tell a story from finish to start makes for a most interesting read. You also kept the pace of the thread very stable, shifting at a good, sure pace between high-action and low-action sequences, making the thread almost fluid. You kept the thread interesting without trying to draw out battle sequences or rush through anything that was going a little slow, which made the thread a little more natural. The only advice I can offer to you is to just keep working on this, and your pacing will become even better over time.
CHARACTER ~.
Dialogue (6/10) ~ Your dialogue, what little of it there was, was decently thought out and well written. However, a little more internal dialogue or body language from Blank during some of your scenes would have been welcome, to allow us to better understand how he communicates when he cannot talk.
Action (6/10) ~ You did pretty good here. The actions were believable for a swordsman of somewhat decent skill, and you even explained how he learned some of his more roguish moves from Duffy, which explained his combination of a raw sword style and a more subtle, manipulative style. Overall, a good job, though work on fleshing out the moves a little more and try explaining them a little more simply and this score will rise, as well.
Persona (4/10) ~ I got a very basic feel for what Blank was like, how he’d react in some strenuous circumstances, but there was something missing. I saw how he reacted, but not why. He may have lost his memories, but sometimes I don’t know why he reacts the way he does. A little explanation, not necessarily a whole lot, will go a long way.
WRITING STYLE ~
Mechanics (6/10) ~ Pretty solid, and very well-formed. You had a few common mistakes, but nothing that really detracted from your posts. Proofreading and checking for grammar errors and spelling mistakes that Microsoft Word will not catch are really important here.
Technique (6/10) ~ Going back into the past to explain the present is a very difficult technique to pull off, less you sound long-winded and uninteresting, but you pulled it off to almost maximum effect. The only reason you aren’t scoring higher on this is because you haven’t quite gotten to where you can exploit this technique to its full potential yet. Work on this, as well as other literary techniques like foreshadowing, and you’ll do absolutely wonderfully in this area. You have the potential.
Clarity (6/10) ~ You kept your writing pretty consistently clear throughout the whole thread, though on some notes I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on until I reread the paragraph a couple of times. Just try and edit your paragraphs to make them easier to read and it’ll be fine.
Wild Card (7/10) ~ Again, I absolutely love stories like this where the timeline is backwards, starting at the end and working its way back to where the origin of the current situation becomes evident. This technique is so often ignored it’s become a scarcity. This is probably overall the best work I’ve seen you do on this kind of thread, so bravo.
Blank scores a 62
Blank receives 950 EXP and 225 GP (this excludes the 10% taken from the GP as per upkeep for the Prima Vista, as we discussed)
Spoils approved, pending anything that needs to be looked over by the RoG staff.
2 Faction Points for the Scourge
Taskmienster
05-13-10, 01:32 PM
Exp and GP added.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.5 Copyright © 2024 vBulletin Solutions Inc. All rights reserved.