Hide & Seek

[Smokestorm]

Closed. /Summons Arya & Duffy
Hide & Seek

[ Dramatis personae ]
[ Zachary Snow (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23023-Zachary-Snow) ]
[ Mordelain (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22404-She-Who-Wanders-She-Who-Winds-(Mordelain-Level-0)) ]
[ Arya (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23062-Arya) ]

Chapter One:
Distance Enough


"Hangman is coming down from the gallows,
And I don't have very long."
-Styx.



He had been ordered to send a message, and so he did.

The warm air of Irrakam's Outlander quarter disappeared as he entered the Rift. Violent and contrary as always, that netherworld felt like riding on a storm. Biting cold and burning heat lashed at him with each passing second, his hair blowing in opposite directions as it twisted and writhed. His skin felt as if it would surely flake away, frozen and dehydrated. But then the feeling passed as he stepped back into reality.

His Hidden Blade deployed from his right sleeve as he flexed his arm. Blood sprayed out as it bit into the target's lower back. The boy was reaching around now, his dagger spreading the skin of the mark's neck in a wide smile beneath the jaw. By the end of those two seconds, there was no hope for the man. His wound gushed blood as he fell to the ground twitching.

Screams were erupting all around him now. The common room of the Il'Jhain office burst into activity. Blades were leaving scabbards and sheathes, booted feet were running toward him. But they would never reach him. He called to the Rift again, and then he was gone in a swirling cloud of black and purple.

Zachary emerged from the Shadow Step outside of the building. Even from this back alley, he could hear the cries of rage and fear. He worked quickly, stowing the blue and white harlequin mask away in his pack, reversing his cloak so it showed black instead of white. The dagger disappeared into his high, turned down leather boot, his Hidden Blade long returned to the compartment in his gauntlet.

He walked from the alley, looking as inconspicuous as any other commoner on the street. The makeup across his lips was unblemished, his identifying stitches well disguised underneath. As he passed the Il'Jhain office, he made the appropriate gestures with the crowd, curiosity at the screaming, looks of disgust as the door swung open to expose the corpse and blood, fear at the armed men that spilled out. But he felt nothing as he walked away. Nothing, except the heat of the desert sun.







Sweat beaded his face as he walked, the glare trying to blind his eyes. His hood hung low to shadow his eyes, though it did little good. He floated with the tides of the city, falling into the crowd and disappearing in it's flow and ebb. The sounds and smells washed over him like waves. Merchants cried wares, horses bickered noisily at pedestrians and their riders alike. The smell of body odor was heavy, a stench that rose on the heat around him. It had been a long time since he'd wandered openly in public, people pressed so close to him. In some dark place in his mind, he knew he should feel vulnerable. In the darkness, he was protected. Here, he was on display for all the world to see.

And yet, he felt no fear or anxiety. He'd felt little since the L'enfer Rocheux. Emotion was a weakness to be pried at, a fault to send stress fractures through the mind. That was what he told himself to justify the emptiness, though the reality was probably closer to a form of shock. His whole life had been upended not so long ago. And now he was immersing himself in the common, day to day activities that he had always known. Mortalis was his life, death his art. Master Renaud may be dead now, but his teachings had lived on in the boy. Zachary began to veer toward an alley opening into shadow. The crowd parted around him, merging behind. And as he passed into the shade, he felt the cooler air welcome him.

He walked down the alley, turning a corner and Shadowstepping. The cloud of purple and black smoke wrapped around him, pulled him through the Rift. The room he emerged into was simple, two beds, a table, and three chairs. Two of them were occupied by females, and Zachary could feel the annoyance tug at his sewn lips. There was more there, though. Fear, protectiveness, a growing fondness. He ignored the emotions. Why his emotional shock should wear off for this girl was a question he had wondered about, but ultimately gave up on trying to answer.

"Zach. Did you..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Nevermind, I don't want to know."

Arya was dressed in her standard clothing, leathers that both protected her body and exposed it in the way that only female armor could. Her dark hair was mid length, her green eyes large and deep. She was the picture of beauty. And her stance the image of feminine displeasure. Her arms were crossed as she stretched back in the chair and looked at him. With the way she acted, Zachary could hardly believe the girl had once been apprenticed to the Mortalis, and had been an Assassin in training. She possessed the physical skills of course, but god was she squeamish. She almost seemed to be reading his mind. Her eyes darkened.

"You know what your problem is, Zachary?" She asked.

The boy rolled his eyes. No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me, Arya. He thought to himself.

Zachary spent the next ten minutes or so with his mind drifting through random thoughts as Arya ranted and raved at him. About what, he wasn't sure. The last few weeks had taught him how to completely drown out the sound of her voice. When you ignored the words, her voice was actually pretty lovely.

It was Iseret that interrupted her. "Perhaps we should leave, if he has committed a crime?"

The woman was a Raja'Aini Priestess. Ibn's niece, in fact. She had been his guide through the Caves, only weeks ago. Her help had been invaluable, and he'd gained access to the Chaya'Kali. He could feel the ink in the skin of his back, the formless blob that shifted and wandered aimlessly until he called for it. It was how he communicated now. It responded to his thoughts, and would form words in his skin at his will. Or, as he had learned, he could channel it outside of his body and on to a surface for a short time before reabsorbing it.

Bored of her tame life, the Priestess had taken it upon herself to follow Zachary and Arya, after hearing her uncle's story. The Raja'Aini ways were strange, and she somehow considered herself indebted to him because of her uncle's betrayal. If Zachary cared more, he'd have asked how that worked.

She was pure Fallien in appearance, dark hair and yellow eyes, golden skin. She wore the white of the Raja'Aini, though her version of it was more revealing than covering. A circlet of gold rested on her head. All in all, she was an exotic woman with weird ways. Not the most comforting thing to have following you like a lost puppy.

Zachary laid his hand on the wall, and concentrated for a second. Ink spilled out of his pores and began tracing lines on the sandstone. "No need, I was careful." It stayed there for a few seconds, before pooling back together and seeping into his hand again.

Arya grunted, but otherwise went back to reading the book on the table. Zachary stretched out in the bed he had claimed, letting his mind wander. This time tomorrow, they would be planning their return to Corone. And he would soon be leaving this god forsaken wasteland.

[Mordelain]

Enter: Mordelain Saythrou



Fate would have it that Zachary was not nearly careful enough. Screams rose true from the Abdos, cracking the peaceful serenity of the hot midsummer. Though caused by an unknown terror, they fell on eager and ready ears. Mordelain was standing by the Freerunner desk, depositing a parcel into the cloth satchel slung over her dainty shoulder when the attack took place. She barely managed to turn on a heel before the assailant vanished into nothingness, the familiar flicker of energy smacking her square on the forehead. She instantly drew the conclusion, the hope that a Tama had found her. When she set her calm and calculating eyes on the body, crumpled in a red puddle on the black and white al fresco tiles her hope died.

The receptionist, a Fallien woman despite the Freerunners associations with Outsiders nodded at the corpse. Without looking up from her work she muttered something about the dangerous lives of the il’Jhain; her words came between elegant and hasty flicks of a quill. As the unfortunate messengers of the il’Jhain Abdos, a large white building nestled between Ikkaram proper and the Outlander Quarter calmed themselves a crowd started to gather. Tentatively Mordelain tried to turn back to the counter to pick up her map, newly enchanted with the day’s destination. Her nature told her to leave, calmly and quietly, and go about her delivery. She managed to turn halfway before curiosity got the better of her and she walked over to join the masses with sluggish resentment.

“It was the Bedouin!” A young and dirtied and frightened face muttered with trembling repetition. His teeth jittered with nerves. His back was curved, which Mordelain knew was a sign of excessive riding on a lacklustre horse over the shifting dunes of the Nirakkal.

“It was the Freerunners, they are Outlander scum!” An elderly gentleman clad in a red robe with a satin tie at the waist roared. His fist pounded the air. The crowd roared in agreement with him, and Mordelain pulled a blank expression as even an elf runner joined in the witch hunt. The familiar scent of sweat, tobacco, coffee and camels swamped the air.

“Did anybody see the assailant in detail?” Mordelain offered some logical discussion to the proceedings. She shook her head to limber up for the inevitable breaking of the crowd and the sound of her long diminished golden bells tinkled through the tension.

“A jinn!” A young woman proclaimed, as if superstition carried a weight of its own. She wore the jade cloth of the Hatazista, a nomad tribe native to the island of Ikkaram. They were well known for spreading folklore and myth amongst the city dwelling populous; gypsies, Mordelain would have called them, pilferers of intellect and pilferers of minds.

“You blame everything on the damned jinn, the rock drakes and the Karuka-tal Magdalena. You will be telling us the Vadhya walk amongst us soon!” Mordelain did not need to peer through the sea of turbans, head scarves and bald tanned heads to know who spoke. She had met Abu only on two occasions; both had been enlightening and riotous. He was a squat man with a wide girth like her mentor Suresh. He had a long mane of well-kept hair, accustomed as it was to daily bathing in the lavish bath houses of Irrakam. There was a constant and almost sickly aura of coconut milk and jasmine imported from Akashima whenever he appeared.

“Did you see him, Abu?” Magdalena’s eyes widened as if she were fearful, or perhaps to ply charm to her words. She was a lavish woman, sumptuous and sensuous and heavily adorned with bangles of every metal known to the people of Fallien; bronze, iron, copper, Nirakkal shards polished under moonlight. Abu was married with six wives and having none of it.

“I saw him, so hold your tongue. He was human as much as you or I or Mordelain,” he looked over his shoulder and pushed a tall and scrawny leather clad runner to one side. “Did you see the attacker?”

Mordelain smiled but shook her head. “I felt a pull, a swell of energy into the Void when he appeared. That only tells me that magic of some dimensional kind was at work. Why he would want to use it to work wonders in such an open, cluttered space I do not know.” She did not wish to attempt to second guess the workings of assassins and thieves. They worked by strange rules and stranger laws. Assassin’s lived beneath the Nirakkal, and dervishes practised the deathly arts in the mountains and ruins to the north but they drew on skill, not trickery.

“Then he was not of Fallien blood,” Magdalena proclaimed once more, waving her arms like palm leaves in a sandstorm. The sound of her bangles rubbing together only served to augment her madness.

“Nula,” Abu shouted at the receptionist on the Duskrider counter. The black eyes of a desert shaman looked back with frustration. “Would you inform the guard and the Glassweavers that their attention will be required in the Abdos today?” He did not wait for an answer before turning back to the corpse. He leant down with awkward movements, hocking up his robes so that his girth settled without any embarrassing revelations. Mordelain watched the charcoal skin of the shaman shimmer in the sunlight as he rose, and pondered for a while as the bark like skin kindled a memory of Bulganin’s Eternal Forest. The receptionist’s glowing lilac eyes stared at her before he turned to leave. She shivered.

“The attacker was well versed in the delivery of brutal but simple death,” Abu prodded at a gaping entry wound, already congealing and attracting fat, juicy meat flies in the intense heat. Even in the shade, some buildings still sweltered beneath the sun and the grace of Suravani. “I would wager it appropriate for you to put your kukri and partisans down now,” he said softly.

Several runners sheathed their silver daggers and set their pole-arms to rest on tense shoulders. Though Abu was aligned to one of the three il’Jhain factions, he commanded much respect in all three. The exchange brought fans and palm leaves strapped with wooden handles out from folds and pockets. The mechanical cooling fan that hung in the centre of the Abdos had broken three days ago, and the street merchants had saw a prime opportunity for profit.

“I remember black and purple, like the heart of a Sand Crawler,” a young Freerunner with a look of Scara Brae about him beat his brow trying to remember something more useful. Before he could speak however, Abu clapped with joy and rose with a start.

“I have heard rumours of people disappearing in such colours, people dead wherever the phenomenon is seen,” Abu was a well-connected man, but Mordelain doubted he was involved with the Assassin’s Guild or the rebellious and cutthroat tribes in mountains. There, Coradan had corrupted the honour of death for hire and turned it into a way of life, a lunacy beyond knowing. “Mordelain, speak with Suresh, he will perhaps be able to help us." It was a short, sharp bark that left her irate. She reluctantly returned to the desk to pick up her map and grumbled as she rolled it neatly into a scroll and slipped it into her satchel. The more she came to hate his command the more she realised he was a genius for suggesting it.

She strolled to the three archways that formed the entrance to the Abdos and looked over her shoulder at the dispersing crowd. A swathe of colour vanished, leaving nothing in its wake except a corpse and a fat merchant redder than the tarnished tiles beneath his hairy feet. This was but one death in a long string of deaths to have affected the messenger service of Ikkaram of late, and Mordelain was growing tired of always being stuck in the middle of it. With a graceful stoop she bowed as she left the building, as was customary, and stepped out into the sun. Her headdress, erratic and vibrant and wrapped in purple ribbons exploded with life. The tendrils of white muslin which she liked to wrap around her arms and neck so that they flowed behind her as she walked flapped in the humid air, and within seconds, she vanished into the heaving bazaar.

Nobody took a life in the Abdos without reprieve. Mordelain was one of the Freerunners now, and she did not care how long she had to play hide & seek with the killer, she would find him, or it, or her. With a gait in her step that suggested tiredness after a long morning’s ride to the spice fields of the old sage Karachi, she made for Suresh’s shop, to find out what the Mouth of Fallien knew about this deadly assassin.

[Arya]

"No need, I was careful."

Arya tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was far more disgruntled. She loathed Zachary's new trick with the ink. Well, it wasn't so much the trick itself, but how little he chose to use it. The boy seemed dead set on not communicating with anyone. He was like a hermit within his sealed lips, and it drove her insane.

Arya glanced down at the book of spells she was holding, just realizing she'd been shooting nasty looks at the boy instead of reading. She was supposed to be searching for a spell for Iseret to teach her. Ever since defecting from Mortalis, and even more so since picking up Iseret, Arya had been trying to find a new vocation. Going from killing in the night to healing the sick seemed like a leap, but Arya was up to the task. Anything to distance her from Mortalis. Iseret and this new hobby were the only reasons she'd stuck around this long.

Arya could feel Iseret was smiling at her expectantly. She flipped through a few pages, smacked her finger on a spell, and said "What about this one?" She lowered the book to the table, and flipped it around for the priestess to read. Iseret's golden eyes widened slightly.

"Ohhh, you are a very ambitious girl, Arya," the girl said softly. Her tanned finger was trailing down the page, as her eyes skimmed the words. Arya glanced down to see what random spell she'd stumbled on, and her eyes mirrored the priestess'. The name was in a language she couldn't understand, let alone pronounce, but the description was clear and concise.

"Reverses magical effects and enchantments."

The two girls exchanged a look, and then Arya glanced at Zachary. How would he feel about her healing his voice? She thought of how little he liked to communicate, even if it was just in words. Arya shook her head and reached down, closing the book.

"Maybe another time," she said. Iseret's smile looked somewhat alarmed, but she nodded.

[Smokestorm]

Zachary tried to ignore Arya and Iseret, tried to sink into sleep. But it just wouldn't come. As always, he felt restless after taking a life. The blood was gone, the scene distant. And still, it lingered. In his mind, he could still feel the resistance as his blade bit skin, could smell the copper as the gore spilled from the wounds. He could hear the shouting, feel the heat of the Il'Jhain station. Did the man have a family? Was he in Fallien alone? The only thing that disturbed him more than the memories was the lack of feeling. Or rather, he wasn't sure what he felt. Surely he wouldn't be dwelling on it if there was no regret? For what must have been the millionth time in just a few short weeks, he wished Renaud was still alive.

But his Master was dead now, and Zachary was left to navigate the real world on his own. He had no family, no friends. Arya traveled with him, but she did so out of convenience. She felt no desire to stay by his side, and Iseret was only there because of a debt. Was this why Renaud had loved him so fiercely? Because there was no one else to share his time with, no one else to occupy the otherwise empty expanse of his heart? He would have given anything to speak to Renaud one last time. One more joke, one more test, just once more. But those days were gone, and the closest thing he had to a support cared for him no more than she did a poisonous adder.

He made no sound, left no note, simply disappeared from the bed in a mist of purple and black. The Rift welcomed him as much as a place of violent energy could. The boy delayed his exit from that place as long as he could, his eyes closed as he floated through the nothingness. It felt so peaceful, a womb where no threat could come against him. When he emerged into the dark alley behind the building, the tears had evaporated. Purged by the conflicting currents of the void. He only wished his pain could be taken away so easily. It seemed that was all that remained now. Regret, remorse, and happiness had fled with the Renaud's death. But the hurt remained.

He walked through the Irrakam night, the cold of the wasteland wrapped around him like a shroud. His breath left plumes of steam as he exhaled, the pounding of his heart was the only sound in his ears. It was ridiculous; a trained assassin feeling the bite of anxiety and an impending panic attack. And yet, here it was. And as he had done countless times since the L'enfer Rocheux, the boy faced it alone. In silence and darkness, ironically. Just like the Hellrock.

The streets were so empty that he felt alone, despite being nestled among tens of thousands. The stars glittered in the sky like precious gems, so bright in the darkness. It was the only beauty he could find in the land that had killed his only father.






Iseret looked around as Zachary disappeared from the room, her face an impassive mask of tanned hues. She heard Arya's grunt of annoyance, and turned to glance at the girl. She knew the girl lacked the intuitive understanding of the Raja'Aini, but it still felt as if she should have known. The boy's growing unease and stress had been seeping out across the room like a growing pall. It was clear enough to weigh down on the priestess, and it surprised her that Arya hadn't been able to feel it.

"The boy is saddened. His departure was not to annoy you." Iseret said. The logical side of her mind held her feelings in check. The other side of her mind was annoyed that Arya was annoyed at Zachary for being... well, whatever he was. Uncle Ibn had warned her of this. Outsiders were always so very erratic. Emotion drove their logic, instead of serving it. It was a wonder they hadn't all killed each other off by now. Oh wait, they're in the process of that.

The Priestess pulled the book toward her, and flipped through the pages. She stopped eventually, and pushed it back toward Arya. There was no name at the top of this spell, only a simple Raja'Aini rune. The symbol was well known among their kind, but one of the most important concepts in their ideology. She tapped it lightly.

"This is... Understanding. That is what you would call it, anyways. You'd mangle the Raja'Aini word for it, since Uncle Ibn can't even pronounce it properly. I've never bothered trying." Iseret smiled to take away whatever sting her words might have delivered. "This spell is the base of our Intuition. Eventually, the need to cast it disappears. But before you can get to that point, you must learn the basic form."

[Mordelain]

Later That Afternoon

Suresh was no help, which irked Mordelain and got under her skin like a hungry, cannibalistic scarab. The doubt and uncertainty gnawed at her flesh and bones like a disease, slowly working its way up her legs towards her heart. Though it would find little there to consume, the erosion was not a comfortable feeling for the Troubadour. She has spent centuries spreading joy and happiness across countless worlds, a messenger born of crystal to gift the multiverse with bliss. Now, she had descended from those lofty heights to become nothing more than an envoy of revenge, of murderous anger.

Without direction or aim, she stood at the centre of a busy thoroughfare that divided the silk district of the bazaar with the northern spice markets, where countless bowls and miniature mountains in every colour imaginable and many more beyond the senses enticed and allured passers-by to cook new and forgotten culinary sensations. Though the heat was out in force, bearing down on the citizens of Irrakam mercilessly, they were undeterred and were swarming the narrow, dusty streets to fill their larders and cool houses and stomachs too.

Glaring through the brightness, she settled her peering eyes on a familiar face, and ducked out of sight into the safety of a coffee house’s entrance canopy. Her lips tightened into a pursed hole, her hair fell casually over her eyes beneath the white muslin she draped over her tri-pointed dance hat, her heart pounded and her porcelain skin proliferated with beads of sweat. For a slight moment, she could have sworn she had lain eyes on the killer; some dark memory recurring from the depths of her mind to haunt her. When she peered out from behind the sandstone architecture, she saw a strange face, clad in purple and black but possessing far too many years on her wrinkled face and long, straw like hair to be an assassin.

“Foolish girl,” she chided herself. Stepping out into the street once more with renewed confidence, Mordelain made her way to the East, to the residential district where the villas and more well to do inhabitants of the Outsider’s Quarter made their mark on the sandstone island and the desert landscape of Fallien. She wove in-between street merchants with dance like steps, ducking beneath large head mounted baskets of livestock, rotting meat and more curious smelling goods from the dervish camps to the south, where the great river ran into the endless oceans.

She searched garden and wall and courtyard for rumour and old wives’ tale, until the searing sun drained all the liquid from her aching bones and replaced the heat with a bitter chill. On her last legs, the Il’Jhain gave up, and found the nearest tavern to quench her hunger. She stumbled through the door without thinking, and found herself beset by comfortable and familiar surroundings. Dwarves, elves, goblins, and even something resembling a dryad sat at small concentric tables of oak and dried drift wood together in union.

The juxtaposition between the xenophobic exterior of Fallien and the internal, secret world gave her hope. She ordered a drink from the barkeep, an owl like man with long, tawny whiskers of hair stretching out from his head in white trails and nodded her thanks as she dropped a coin in his eager, sticky fingers. In silence, she seated herself in a corner, without realising how much attention her clichéd actions were garnering and sipped the white wine that had appeared in the tall dusty glass with satisfaction. A plate of meat and potatoes, the staple stew and gift of life in all of Corone’s establishments appeared before her, and swamped her nostrils with heavy gut busting gravy and starch.

She tore at it eagerly, forgetting how to use a fork and knife together in favour of hacking at it and shovelling it into her otherwise dainty lips. As she ate, and restocked her energy levels to continue her hunt once she was rested, she tried to piece together the many pieces of this unusual puzzle. Somewhere out there, through the open door and far away from the chorus of drunken laughter, stunted growth and idiotic harlots there was a deadly opponent playing a deadlier game of hide & seek.

Whoever it was, had picked the wrong woman to throw dice with.