Duffy
06-15-11, 03:27 PM
A Murder of Ravens (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e01wCjPBnU&feature=related)
2488
Closed to Cassandra Remi.
Pirates, destiny, dragons, krakens, Duffy had seen them all. What the bard of Scara Brae was missing in his repertoire of wonders from the far flung corners of the world was a run in with a real, down to earth, dedicated murderer. It wasn’t something most people wished for, but he was sick of calamitous conflicts in the Citadel, tired of nobody challenging him, tired of fighting without a sense of danger, threat and malice.
Then he heard a name he would remember for a long, long time.
Miss Cassandra Remi.
When he had pressed the barmaid for further information, even with another drink and a firm grip on oral skill, she had been too fearful to mutter another word on the matter. Terror sprang up like a vine wall between them, and she had hurried off, her backside swaying saucily to tend to other less difficult customers. Duffy had frowned at her, and pondered just how terrifying this woman could really be?
Curiosity as they say always kills the cat.
It did not take long for a rumour, a message gifted to the underworld via Arden Janelle’s spurious connections to the criminal elements of Radasanth and further afield to find itself in the ears of the right person. It was the spark the bard needed to set up an engagement; after all, he was called Dagger, his skill with his blades legendary from the southern villages on the coast of Scara Brae to the very northern tips of the Windlacers. Could he truly pass up on the opportunity to ask her in person why she was better known as the ‘The Mistress of Torment?’
He had taken the liberty of asking Jensen, and Sei Orlougne, both of whom had issued stark warnings against dealings with her. The Ixian Knights had cast her out for some dark and terrible deed against their number, but Duffy had suffered no wrong by her hands, had not been cut with her so called utensils. They had argued, almost, raised voices hashing together half cut reasons for the bard to leave what was done well alone, but he did not listen. Someone out there in the wider world was awaiting the cut and thrust of the Tantalum’s trusty daggers, someone that had the nerves, and from the sounds of it, the guts to return every piercing strike back at him without question.
Patience had never been Duffy’s strong point, so waiting two weeks before his rumour turned into a fact and finally into results burnt a hole in his wallet and turned a screw in his mind with frustration. Wearily, he opened the letter that had been hand delivered, to the Prima Vista, reportedly hidden from all but the Tantalum Troupe themselves, and read the elegant script.
Dear Captain Bracken,
You are cordially invited to dine with me at the Citadel of Radasanth; in two weeks’ time from the very second you strike a match to this scroll,
Lovingly yours,
Miss Cassandra Remi.
He had dropped the match with a start, and hurriedly tended to the fire to cast light into the dark room. After a scare like that, he had not slept easily, alone as he was in the playhouse with no-one but the rickety stairs and the rattling shutters to keep him company. Had she been here herself, had she been watching him all this time? Unanswered questions he doubt he could ever solve, psychotic games in a pre-emptive call to arms.
These were all doubts that haunted him each night for two weeks, until at last he stood in the arena, awaiting his engagement and parley with a woman he had secretly come to admire with sycophantic glee in a short space of time some might consider perilous. The monks had cast him a furtive glance as they enlisted him to a pre-arranged conflict, and whispered amongst themselves, against oaths of ages past as they had lead him deep into the towering structure and to the vast oak door clad in iron that divided them and the frantic pace of war which lay just beyond.
Without a word, they had turned, bowed, and left him in silence and the half-twilight of the solitary torch which hung in a bracket to the right of the entrance.
He waited patiently for a moment, and listened.
Crows... he thought to himself certain that was what he could hear from beyond the veil. He pushed against the door, clad in black from head to toe and with baited breath, entered.
The arena was a vast hall, infinitely high until the darkest consumed all possibility of depth and swarming with moving shadows. Duffy measured it at least two hundred yards wide, and roughly five hundred yards long, lined with suits of armour, columns of spiralling wonder and at its heart, a long, overly impressive and heavily laden banquet table.
"No...not crows," he said with a whisper, watching the dark clouds of movement flutter back and forth from one side of the hall to the other, criss crossing murderously between the tall backs of the chairs and the archaic décor of the heavily waxed candlesticks that stood every ten feet or so all along the length of the centre piece. "They're ravens."
A chill ran down his spine, timed perfectly with the slamming of the arena doors, which faded from existence with a rush of energy. The bard glanced nervously over his shoulder and looked up with a crane of the neck at the immensely large portrait, a hundred feet tall and in full resplendent glory. It was a true likeness, he assumed, of the host.
Something dawned on him.
Though heavily laden with food, wines and organic looking gourds which served as platters and stands for molluscs, lobsters and fish from every ocean of the world, there were only two places set. The first was on the nearest end to the door, only twenty feet away or so from Duffy. The hefty candles that burnt by the sharp cutlery and porcelain plates and side dishes were only lit in one other place on the table.
Slowly and surely, he ran his gaze along the menagerie of dishes to the dimly lit gloom of the far end, and realised that he was not alone. He reached instinctively for the hilt of Tooth before stepping to the left of the seat, not forgetting his etiquette despite the potential for carnal slaughter and sadistic torture that sparked in the air, and then he did what he knew best to do before an audience.
He bowed to death itself, as radiant as it was, he felt unable to resist the malice that bounced along the banquet hall.
The ravens fluttered back into the column maze, and settled as he sat.
"Greetings, Miss Remi, the pleasure of your company and the invite to this fine table are an honour I assure you I shall not forget lightly." He spoke plainly and loudly, his lips tight and his words unstrung in a vain attempt to hide his nerves. He eyed the tall wine flute to his left eagerly, hoping he would at least taste the dusty, cobwebbed bottle that stood breathing next to it before they went at one another like jealous relatives at winter’s Solstice.
2488
Closed to Cassandra Remi.
Pirates, destiny, dragons, krakens, Duffy had seen them all. What the bard of Scara Brae was missing in his repertoire of wonders from the far flung corners of the world was a run in with a real, down to earth, dedicated murderer. It wasn’t something most people wished for, but he was sick of calamitous conflicts in the Citadel, tired of nobody challenging him, tired of fighting without a sense of danger, threat and malice.
Then he heard a name he would remember for a long, long time.
Miss Cassandra Remi.
When he had pressed the barmaid for further information, even with another drink and a firm grip on oral skill, she had been too fearful to mutter another word on the matter. Terror sprang up like a vine wall between them, and she had hurried off, her backside swaying saucily to tend to other less difficult customers. Duffy had frowned at her, and pondered just how terrifying this woman could really be?
Curiosity as they say always kills the cat.
It did not take long for a rumour, a message gifted to the underworld via Arden Janelle’s spurious connections to the criminal elements of Radasanth and further afield to find itself in the ears of the right person. It was the spark the bard needed to set up an engagement; after all, he was called Dagger, his skill with his blades legendary from the southern villages on the coast of Scara Brae to the very northern tips of the Windlacers. Could he truly pass up on the opportunity to ask her in person why she was better known as the ‘The Mistress of Torment?’
He had taken the liberty of asking Jensen, and Sei Orlougne, both of whom had issued stark warnings against dealings with her. The Ixian Knights had cast her out for some dark and terrible deed against their number, but Duffy had suffered no wrong by her hands, had not been cut with her so called utensils. They had argued, almost, raised voices hashing together half cut reasons for the bard to leave what was done well alone, but he did not listen. Someone out there in the wider world was awaiting the cut and thrust of the Tantalum’s trusty daggers, someone that had the nerves, and from the sounds of it, the guts to return every piercing strike back at him without question.
Patience had never been Duffy’s strong point, so waiting two weeks before his rumour turned into a fact and finally into results burnt a hole in his wallet and turned a screw in his mind with frustration. Wearily, he opened the letter that had been hand delivered, to the Prima Vista, reportedly hidden from all but the Tantalum Troupe themselves, and read the elegant script.
Dear Captain Bracken,
You are cordially invited to dine with me at the Citadel of Radasanth; in two weeks’ time from the very second you strike a match to this scroll,
Lovingly yours,
Miss Cassandra Remi.
He had dropped the match with a start, and hurriedly tended to the fire to cast light into the dark room. After a scare like that, he had not slept easily, alone as he was in the playhouse with no-one but the rickety stairs and the rattling shutters to keep him company. Had she been here herself, had she been watching him all this time? Unanswered questions he doubt he could ever solve, psychotic games in a pre-emptive call to arms.
These were all doubts that haunted him each night for two weeks, until at last he stood in the arena, awaiting his engagement and parley with a woman he had secretly come to admire with sycophantic glee in a short space of time some might consider perilous. The monks had cast him a furtive glance as they enlisted him to a pre-arranged conflict, and whispered amongst themselves, against oaths of ages past as they had lead him deep into the towering structure and to the vast oak door clad in iron that divided them and the frantic pace of war which lay just beyond.
Without a word, they had turned, bowed, and left him in silence and the half-twilight of the solitary torch which hung in a bracket to the right of the entrance.
He waited patiently for a moment, and listened.
Crows... he thought to himself certain that was what he could hear from beyond the veil. He pushed against the door, clad in black from head to toe and with baited breath, entered.
The arena was a vast hall, infinitely high until the darkest consumed all possibility of depth and swarming with moving shadows. Duffy measured it at least two hundred yards wide, and roughly five hundred yards long, lined with suits of armour, columns of spiralling wonder and at its heart, a long, overly impressive and heavily laden banquet table.
"No...not crows," he said with a whisper, watching the dark clouds of movement flutter back and forth from one side of the hall to the other, criss crossing murderously between the tall backs of the chairs and the archaic décor of the heavily waxed candlesticks that stood every ten feet or so all along the length of the centre piece. "They're ravens."
A chill ran down his spine, timed perfectly with the slamming of the arena doors, which faded from existence with a rush of energy. The bard glanced nervously over his shoulder and looked up with a crane of the neck at the immensely large portrait, a hundred feet tall and in full resplendent glory. It was a true likeness, he assumed, of the host.
Something dawned on him.
Though heavily laden with food, wines and organic looking gourds which served as platters and stands for molluscs, lobsters and fish from every ocean of the world, there were only two places set. The first was on the nearest end to the door, only twenty feet away or so from Duffy. The hefty candles that burnt by the sharp cutlery and porcelain plates and side dishes were only lit in one other place on the table.
Slowly and surely, he ran his gaze along the menagerie of dishes to the dimly lit gloom of the far end, and realised that he was not alone. He reached instinctively for the hilt of Tooth before stepping to the left of the seat, not forgetting his etiquette despite the potential for carnal slaughter and sadistic torture that sparked in the air, and then he did what he knew best to do before an audience.
He bowed to death itself, as radiant as it was, he felt unable to resist the malice that bounced along the banquet hall.
The ravens fluttered back into the column maze, and settled as he sat.
"Greetings, Miss Remi, the pleasure of your company and the invite to this fine table are an honour I assure you I shall not forget lightly." He spoke plainly and loudly, his lips tight and his words unstrung in a vain attempt to hide his nerves. He eyed the tall wine flute to his left eagerly, hoping he would at least taste the dusty, cobwebbed bottle that stood breathing next to it before they went at one another like jealous relatives at winter’s Solstice.