That Which Can Never Be Taken Back

[The Cinderella Man]

How the hell did it come to this?

She’s a strong one, not of the kind that would wail and weep and break down out here, where the entire world can see. She sits in her black garment like an offset of a bride waiting for her man, patient instead of jittery, woeful instead of merry. A handful of people crowd around her, behind her, a dark assembly of haggard faces and shuffling feet. A handful where there should’ve been hundreds. But a man is a fickle, two-faced beast that ultimately cares about one thing - its own survival. And in the jungle of the Corone capitol, only two types prevail: the clever and the wicked.

Victor Callahan is the latter, or at least that’s the general impression he has gotten recently. How could he not after all that had transpired? He sure as hell isn’t smart; never was, never will be. Smart people didn’t box for a living and take shady jobs that earned them trouble instead of coin, hate instead of respect. He stands now at a distance from the congregation, a blurry outline of the man in black, wondering why he’s even there as the rain pounds on the world around him.

The rain. It’s been pouring for seven days straight, as if heavens decided to open the floodgates and wash the scum from the face of the earth. But the scum are stubborn. All it does is add an even more somber tone to an already dreadful tale.

Victor Callahan was hitting the sauce even though he knew he shouldn’t have. He was on the job after all, and was probably supposed to behave in a fashion befitting an employee of the Corone Armed Forces. But then again, he wasn’t technically a part of the CAF, now was he? Leeahn Festian, Major of the Radasanth City Watch, hired him as an outside contractor of sorts, to do some wet work that was too hot to be touched by the official hand of the Empire. Sure, the official papers said that he was bestowed with the power to act on their behalf, but there was a lot of fine print that Victor didn’t bother to read. He was pretty sure what it meant anyways. You get the job done, you get paid. You fuck up, we’re cutting all ties. Standard stuff really. When you have the bull by the horns, you either hold on or get thrown in the dirt.

The assignment was Walter Jimes... or rather Jotham DeVir, the name he was going under nowadays. Jotham DeVir was apparently the main culprit behind the last week’s assault the Rangers executed in the very heart of Radasanth, the leak inside the Empire that gave off information that led to the attack. As the main secretary of one of the viceroys, he had both the access and the opportunity to divulge the information, and as a member of the clandestine group known as the Coalition, he had the motive. What the Coalition was, why they had no love for the Empire and why would Walter be working for them, Victor didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. He had been looking for this man for years and now was the time of the reckoning.

There was a bottle of scotch on the bar, less than a quarter or its contents already coursing through Vic’s veins, making him tipsy. He never could hold his drinks. He remembered this one time, years back, when a sassy girl from Akashima drank him and half the room under the table. He wound up in the bed with her that night, though as far as he could tell nothing really happened and she kicked him out of the room first thing in the morning. Good times. They drew a smile on his face as he poured himself another.

The tavern around him had very little worth noting, just another shithole in a long line of them specked all over the Radasanth map. The barkeep was fat and bald; the wenches were middle-aged and able to carry more mugs in one hand than Victor could in two; the smell was a familiar one, carrying traces of smoke and puke and stale water used to wash the hardwood floor; the roof was leaking, the rainwater tap-tap-tapping into several bowls strategically placed in the main room. But the reason Victor picked the Hole in the Floor wasn’t the dingy atmosphere and sure as hell weren’t the chicks. No, the Hole was one of the places that mercenaries liked to frequent, actual mercs and not the back-stabbing knaves and rookies that were yet to whet their blade. It was a hard place for hard people serving hard drinks, and if there was ever a place where Victor could hire some backup, this was one of them. He had spread the word to some other reliable shitholes, but this was where he’s been meeting those interested.

Not that Victor actually wanted help. His first impulse after being told that Jotham was actually Walter had been to just storm his place, guns blazing, tearing it down one bullet at a time until he found that piece of shit and ended him. But the Empire was paying for what he now saw as his personal vendetta, so if they didn’t mind parting with some coin, he didn’t mind hiring some cannon fodder. He interviewed several already, but most weren’t interested once they heard the details. Some bowed out, saying they were professionals and did not take sides, which meant they didn’t have the balls to stand up to either faction. Others complained it was not enough money for such a job; they were after all going after a public figure and should anything go awry, they would be hung out to dry. Or just hung. There was even one guy who seemed ready to brandish his sword, mouthing off how Victor should be ashamed for working for the tyrannical Empire. Vic displayed Aicha to the man and introduced him with the lovely sound she made when you cocked her hammer, and the righteous bum scurried out of the tavern. It was an eventful evening, but rather pointless and tiresome as he failed to hire anybody.

But the night was young still and Radasanth was chock-full of people who liked to stick other people with their swords and other pointy objects, so Victor waited and drank, and fantasized about the moment he faced Walter Jimes again. This is it, baby, he thought, looking at the pistol that rested on the table, a namesake of the one he loved all those years ago. His fingers passed over her name engraved on the barrel and it was cold and black and hard, everything that Aicha had never been. Time to do you justice.

[Silence Sei]

There were three certainties in the world. The first certanty was that one was going to die eventually, be it elf, human, or other. Nothing was truly immortal. The second certainty was that there would always be people trying to capitalize on the misery of others. Propaganda spread by the Corone Rangers to try and besmirch the good name of the Corone Empire was all the proof anybody needed of that. The final certainty was that bars were always a hot spot for crimes.

Sei Orlouge was a master at resolving the third certainty.

Whether it was breaking up a mugging or stopping a massive riot from breaking out all across Radasanth, most of the Mystics time at night was spent around bars. He had become so used to the combined stench of vomit and musk that he was afraid the odor had seeped into his clothes. The unremarkable bar seemed to be a cliché among the dozens of cliché bars that littered Althanas, let alone Radasanth itself. The Hole in the Floor had seen better days, the mute assumed, sitting at the bar on one of its (allegedly) immovable stools. He shuddered as he watched a cockroach run its disgusting little limbs over the mirror in front of him. By all rights, the Corone Department of Health and Safety should have shut this place down weeks ago. The Mystic simply had to assume that the Corone Empire had better things to do than to close every rickety bar in its capital.

He wore a hood tonight, as he often did when he felt the need to get out. With the attention that he had called to himself by assembling the Ixian Knights, the telepath found it harder and harder to leave his castle and simply do what inspired him to form the group in the first place; saving lives and stopping crimes. He wrapped his hands around the crystalline glass, bringing the cold milk to his pale lips. After taking a few sips of the dairy product, he set the glass back down and wiped his impromptu white mustache off with his fingers. It had been a relatively uneventful night, save for a man or two arguing over a girl. Bouncers could take care of those kinds of things; Sei was more focused on the real dangers that would present themselves.

Sei's ear seemed to twitch with the sound of a gun being cocked. Turning towards his east, Sei watched Victor as he placed the firearm to the face of his potential employee. The man with the gun had been there all night, discussing something involving the Empire and the Rangers, or some nonsense, but the sudden expression of hostility is what really grabbed the Mystic's attention. His eyes shifted to the would-be target, locking on to the sword hilt he was holding. It would seem as though Victor was merely defending himself from a possible attack, something, like the bouncer, would have resolved itself.

Sei took another drink of his milk as he pondered on this, watching as Victor was once again left alone to his seat. If this man were to get hostile with someone else, it could end very badly. The youngest Orlouge brother set his empty glass down as Victor did the same with his gun, though the chilling feeling in his hands still remained. The mute adjusted the gray hood over his head, letting his hair down to try and further his facade. He shifted his head towards the gun, and then to its owner, before raising a hand to the bartender. As the barkeep started to make another glass of milk, Sei began to speak to this most interesting fellow.

"I see you've been drinking quite a bit," Sei moved his lips in correlation with his mind, giving the illusion that he simply had a way of talking that 'got into your head' as others had phrased it before, "That's a pretty decent looking gun you have there. Not many people in Althanas would be so willing to flash such an expensive piece of equipment, even under attack. It's the mark of a man who's desperate to get something that he wants. My name is Silas, and I think I would be very interested in getting to know what has you so on edge, friend."

[SirArtemis]

'I should have just asked Daros to teleport me again,' Artemis thought while meandering through the streets of Radasanth as the light of the world began to dim. The ship had taken longer than he had expected due to a troublesome storm that had caught the travelers and slapped the vessel around, sending them off course and into a wide arc toward their target. The storm punished the travelers for daring to traverse through its fury, but Artemis felt thankful that he had paid the little extra to board the sturdier looking ship – both crew and vessel. Despite the storm knocking them quite off course, at least they did not sink.

Upon finally arriving on land, all Artemis wanted to do was find a place to rest. The darkness of the night masked the ominous clouds, the stormy remnants threatening to begin anew, blocking out the starry sky that could fill anyone with a sense of awe. As he walked through the city streets, the strange architecture intrigued him. He could not quite label the style, as it seemed to be a hodgepodge of everything, but it certainly seemed different from his familiarity with Knife's Edge – which now stood mostly in ruin, to be fair. Soon hunger and exhaustion overtook admiration and curiosity. Meals on the ship were of poor quality and left one feeling less than satisfied. He noticed a dingy little tavern named Hole in the Floor and stepped inside, satisfied by the lack of a ruckus.

The vagabond approached the bar and took up a seat that, though it looked sturdy, seemed to wobble slightly. The room spread out enough for two dozen tables – a decently sized place, though not decently kept. The lights shone dimly, the glass so dirty that the light of flickering flames could barely find its way through. The smell of the place, rather putrid, lingered like an aftertaste you would prefer to wash down.

Behind the bar stood an unimpressive man with a goatee that seemed in sore need of washing, shimmering as much as his bald head. He leaned back against the counter behind him, his hands placed between some of the countless bottles of liquor. He stood with ankles crossed as he waited for something to do, one toe pointed toward the earth.

"Excuse me?" Artemis asked, the man licking the few teeth he had and approaching the customer.

"What?"

"Could I please have something to eat? Whatever's on the menu is fine." Artemis felt a bit put off by the lack of manners, already missing the dwarf barkeep Harki from the inn he had stayed at back in Knife's Edge, The Bearded Gnome. The dwarf always seemed to know exactly what to say and he certainly had a knack for knowing just what the customer needed.

The man clicked his tongue and turned to walk into the back room. Artemis' regret of traveling traditionally grew with every passing second, and he silently promised himself that future attempts to visit his father in Underwood would always be by magical means.

The young man glanced around and noticed that a couple seats over sat a pair of men. One of the two wore his hood up and seemed to be mumbling something too quietly to be overheard. The other seemed to be staring at a strange metal object laid on the table before him, shaped similarly to a boomerang. Patiently, the young man waited until the hooded figure's lips stopped moving. After all, Artemis always admired metalwork and he had never seen anything that resembled this metal boomerang, and his curiosity got the better of him.

"Excuse me," he said while leaning a bit toward the man, "what's that thing?"

[The Cinderella Man]

The priest is mumbling his holy litany, words of false comfort that nobody really hears or cares about. Priests. They always remind Victor of his father, Hector Callahan, who was a reverend himself and hell of a man. Hell of a man. Nothing like his son, it would seem. This apple seemed to drop and roll far away from the tree. An acolyte holds an umbrella with shaking hands and does a piss poor job at it, the rivulets tricking over the edges and down priest’s back. The rain muffles the words, makes them just a murmur, a whisper in a storm. Then a crash of thunder, everybody flinches. Everybody but the grieving widow and the man in the distance.

The ritual continues for minutes soaked with rain, each one lasting an hour. At one point four sturdy men dressed all in black grab a hold of the ropes and start to lower the casket in the muddy hole in the ground. A couple of sniffles, nobody cries. The woman with the front row seat is stone-faced and stone-cold. Is it sheer emotional strength or just a dam holding up the tide, postponing the flood of emotions for some other time? He doesn’t know, but would put money on the former. He had seen the power of this woman and it was substantial.

The monk in a fancy white garment finally closes the oversized tome and hands it to the kid at his side, then proceeds to dirty his hands for the first time in months to throw a ball of mud on the coffin bellow. The sound is wet and dull, the sound of finality. There is nothing quite so ultimate as the sound of earth falling on a coffin. The sound of death.

Well, ain’t I the lucky one. A tourist and a weirdo.

The day hasn’t been kind to Victor Callahan so far. He had woken up with a new ache in his back (this one flaring up whenever he pivoted his upper torso to the right), got a half-cooked oatmeal for breakfast in the inn he was staying, got charged a small fortune for some bullets in the Bazaar and the pouring rain got him soaked thrice. Even the scotch was lousy, watered down and tasting a bit like the stuff doctors gave you in a clinic before they started digging through your teeth. And the hits seemed to keep on coming with these two walking in.

The hooded man was certainly the more disquieting one. There was something in the way he talked that put Vic on edge, as if his voice was coming from anywhere and nowhere, crisp clean despite the silent bustle of the tavern and the constant patter of the rain. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The man was drinking milk. Victor knew a few bars where one could get a sound beating for even ordering something that couldn’t knock a small horse off its legs after a couple of shots. The Hole wasn’t one of them, but that didn’t make it any less puzzling. Then there was the starry-eyed greenhorn who seemed to have a penchant of asking dumb questions at the worst time. In all truth, on any other day Victor would’ve replied in a kinder manner, maybe even offered the kid a drink. But the whole Walter ordeal put him in a foul mood and he had had a couple too many already.

“It’s a porcupine,” he responded to the young man. “What the hell does it look like?! It’s a gun.”

The word didn’t seem to mean much to Artemis and the strange-voiced guy ahead of him was still waiting for a response to his question. It made Victor massage his temples shortly before he continued. “Look, are you here for the job or what?”

“The job?” Artemis asked, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Depends on the job,” the eery voice said.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told the others. I need a couple of guys to assist me in taking out a... certain individual, shall we say,” Victor started, wetting his throat a little with scotch, then regretting immediately afterwards as the liquid burned its way down the back of his throat and into his stomach. The warmness was both comfy and slightly sickening.

“And it’s no shady deal, mind you. Sanctioned by the City Watch. See here?” He pulled out a folded envelope, took out a letter of authorization signed and sealed by none other than Leeahn Festian, the Commander of the Watch. “Means we would be acting on behalf of the Empire. Get paid by the Empire too.”

“Why would the City Watch hire outside their ranks to deal with this... individual?” Silas asked.

“Well, see, this individual we need to take out is a traitor... But he’s kind of a well-known figure, ranked pretty high on their ladder,” the ex-prizefighter answered, pocketing the letter once the two managed to give it a onceover. “They could make an official arrest, sure, and then it would be all over the city how they had a rat in their midst. Apparently they don’t want the bad publicity or something, I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter. The point is, they don’t want this tied to them officially. So we’re supposed to go in at night, all hush-hush like, and apprehend the man by any means necessary.”

Well, that wasn’t the complete truth. The actual orders were to kill Jotham DeVir by any means necessary, but Victor needed this man alive. Needed him alive so he could kill him slow and proper, introduce him to the world of pain for that one moment in time when the slimy bastard decided it was his right to end the life of something precious. Something beautiful.

“Oh, one last thing. If we mess up in any way, get arrested or caught by his security, we’re on our own. The government will deny all involvement and the paper you just saw would turn into a forgery.” It was the punch line that sent everyone running. Everybody liked the mention of the Empire’s gold, but when it came to risking their ass over it, suddenly everyone threaded softly.

“So, either of you interested?”

[Silence Sei]

"I must say that I am rather intrigued by your offer," 'Silas' spoke before taking another drink of milk. His potential employer seemed to be eyeing the white glass from which the hooded man was drinking, as if partaking of the stuff offended Victor in some way. The man who had joined them was somebody the mute had met once before, in the town of Valdta. Luckily, Artemis seemed far more interested in Victor's gun than he did with uncovering the true identity of 'Silas'. Sei looked back to Victor and nodded his head.

"I am all for giving some credit to my name," came Sei's answer. He found it ironic that he was a hero trying to be someone who in turn was trying to make it sound like he was a hero. Perhaps giving Silas more of a reputation in Radasanth would distract men like the Ixian Knights enough so that their leader could continue making these moonlit excursions. Furthermore, if the trio (provided Artemis also agreed to the employ) were to be caught by the Empire, perhaps revealing himself as the Avatar of Alerar and using some well placed clout would outright prevent the hang man's noose from making an appointment with the necks of Victor and Artemis. The telepath really hoped that there would be a peaceful solution to all of this, though that prospect seemed bleak.

His hand tightened around his glass, taking the drink within and chugging it down as if it were some sort of hard liquor. He once more wiped away the milk mustache that tickled the top of his lip. He looked over to the bartender, mortified at the unholy smell that came from the plate he was carrying. The thing on the plate resembled a ball of hamburger meat, only it had been overcooked to the point that serving such a thing should have been considered a crime against nature. Small flakes of black peeled off of the food with each step the bartender took, and Sei was genuinely afraid that the server was giving it to the Mystic as some sadistic punishment. The tense feeling in the telepath's gut eased a little once the man set the plate (which, for the record, had spots of old salad dressing on it) in front of Artemis.

"What is this?" Artemis asked the man, who had already been in mid-turn before the question had been spoken. He turned around and grumbled, apparently he got that inquiry more times than he would have liked.

"You'll enjoy it" the barkeep replied in a monotone, showing his apathy towards the situation, "It's like meat."

"Excuse me? -Like- meat?" Artemis picked up a fork that had been laid upon the plate, and poked the mystery substance. The object let out a kind of hiss and released more of its fumes into the air, a vile concoction of burnt hair and unwashed mushrooms. "Either it is meat, or it's not, and it looks like the 'it's not' option."

This got a small laugh out of Victor, and nothing out of Silas, who made a slam with his empty milk glass onto the bar. Though traditionally, such a maneuver was called a beer jerk, the fact that Silas was not drinking beer made it a more complicated than the route tradition typically followed. The bartender grumbled once again and grabbed the glass, going for another refill. Silas turned back to Artemis, awaiting his response to Victor's question.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis sat poking the amorphous blob of meat-like substance, completely forgetting the pair of men that sat beside him awaiting a response. It is often said that presentation is just as important, if not more so, than the taste of a meal itself. That being the case, this thing looked like shit and smelled like shit. Even more bizarre, poking the blackened chunk and hearing it hiss made it sound like shit.

'Three out of five,' Artemis thought. 'Should I really take the chance?'

Artemis always tried to give new things a try, broadening his experiences, but even Silas seemed to be whispering to Artemis not to do it; and if he weren't completely distracted by the 'food' in front of him, he might have recognized some familiarity in that voice. Still, he took a small bit of the blob while holding his breath, trying to mitigate the likely horrendous taste. As soon as the small chunk hit his tongue, an uncomfortable rush of acidity and sourness struck his taste buds so hard that he might as well have swallowed a shot of fermented garbage juice.

Immediately, his body reacted, heaving up the single bite and anything else that might have been even slightly contaminated. Chunks of partially digested food flopped onto the plate, covering the blob like disgusting gravy equally inedible. Artemis turned and ran out of bar, leaning against the side of the building and letting his spasms calm down.

"Let's get started," Vic mumbled to no one in particular, chuckling at the small show and taking another shot of scotch before slamming the empty glass down and making his way out of the bar.

Silas left coin on the table to cover Artemis' supposed meal as well as his many cups of milk before following Vic out. The pair walked out and past Artemis as he continued to heave, Silas the only one to give even the slightest glance as Vic walked toward his destination.

"Wait!" Artemis shouted when he had sufficient time between heaves. "Wait. Why you? Why did the Watch pick you?"

Vic stopped mid stride and turned to face Artemis, a look of contempt painted across his face.

"Let's just say I owe this guy a favor that I've been waiting to repay, and I've finally been given the chance."

"I'll help," Artemis said while contemplating the words. He felt unsure of what the gunslinger meant but felt too curious not to find out.

At that, Vic showed signs of the slightest smirk before turning to continue his walk, assuming the pair would follow.

'As long as you have good reasons, I'll help,’ Artemis finished, though only in thought. Meanwhile, Silas seemed to be carefully taking note of Artemis before turning away, and the two followed Vic's determined lead.

[The Cinderella Man]

The small crowd disperses in a matter of minutes, walking away in silence, not too fast, not too slow, a mute procession of dark shapes. A few stay, some distant family bound by blood to stick around, others to offer their condolences to the widow. Empty words spoken in hushed voices, friendly touches on the shoulder, that is all they have before they make themselves scarce. She bears with it stoically, nods when she’s supposed to, looking at each and every one of them and through them. The last amongst them is a government official, a sleazeball in an ironed three-piece suit. He speaks softly and tries to take her hands into his own. She pulls away as if he came at her with fire, then proceeds to slap him with the back of her pale hand. The man looks stunned for a moment, then bows his head and walks away.

The four men that minutes ago lowered her husband to his final resting place wait patiently, hand on shovels instead of ropes now. They wait while she hobbles closer to the hole in the ground, leaning heavily on a crutch and dragging her right leg like it’s deadwood. But the rain had made the ground treacherous and she is still weak from her wounds, and halfway between her chair and the grave she falls into the mud. One of the graveyard employees helps her back up and she forces a smile on her face and a word of gratitude. She absently scrapes some of the mud from her dress, then decides to take another go. By then her family is around her, supporting her as she makes her painful journey to the grave. She takes something out of her purse once she’s close enough to the edge, a metallic object which she bring to her lips before she tosses it into the hole.

And then, as she picks her head up, for the briefest of moments she seems to look in his direction, her eyes cutting through the downpour and distance. He wants to duck away, wants to be anywhere else but right there under her gaze, wants to jump out of his skin. Because he knows those eyes.

The rain was a refreshing change from the stuffiness of the Hole in the Floor. It was summertime in Corone, a season when usually the downpours were short and warm. But this particular one has been going on for two days straight now, highly uncommon for this time of the year, and it was annoying just about everybody in Radasanth by now. But Victor Callahan found it quite beneficial on this night. It was a great way to clear his head, chase away the fuzziness brought by alcohol and retrieve the focus. He walked through the benighted streets with his head tilted slightly upwards, allowing the rain to have its way with his face. He took a couple of deep breaths, then regretted it once the reek of wet garbage wafted his way.

That’s the Slums for you, he thought as he wiped his stubble and shook some of the rain from his short hair. Always something to remind you that you’re knee deep in shit.

“I guess I should introduce myself, what with us working together now,” the gunslinger said once some of his clarity returned. He reckoned that by the time they got to DeVir’s mansion in the Government District, he’d get most of it back. But hopefully not all of it. It was easier to do these things with some firewater in your veins. “The name’s Victor. Victor Callahan. And to further ease your concerns, this is not my first employment with the City Watch. Been working for them for a couple of months now. Mostly domestic stuff, patrol duty and the like. That hustle in the Watch’s Headquarters about a week ago with the Rangers? Yep, got tangled into that one as well.”

The voice-guy, who had introduced himself back in the Hole, only nodded. The young one, however, quickened his pace and approached Victor with an extended hand. “Artemis Eburi,” he said as they stopped for a quick handshake. There was some acid in his breath from his encounter with the ghastly meatball, but the gunman made no notice of it. After you spent enough time in the gutters of Radasanth, you met far worse things than bad breaths. They continued down the length of a cobblestone avenue, passing under the sporadically lit street lamps and their shimmering oily glow.

“And if you don’t mind me asking, what hustle with the Rangers?” Artemis added.

“You haven’t heard? The entire town is full of talk about it,” Silas spoke, once again his words coming to the two as if the rain wasn’t pounding the world mercilessly all around them.

“Afraid not. I just arrived today by boat. A storm nearly sunk us not too far from the shore,” the young man replied.

“Well, some Rangers made a move against the City Watch last week, tried to tear the whole place down,” Victor said. The world around them grew brighter as they walked, the gaudy light of the brothel seeping into the streets. A couple of worn-looking hookers offered their services half-heartedly, sticking to the dryness of the porch and displaying their wrinkled wares, but none of the three really paid heed to them. “See, what the bastards did, they passed some false info to the Watch about some spies in the city. The Watch sent patrols to apprehend them, but got ambushed instead. Lost a lot of men that day. And then they moved against the Headquarters. Even had a Marshal with them.”

“Was it one of the Big Three?” Silas asked.

“What? No. I don’t think so at least. It wasn’t Ravenheart, that much I am certain. Some elven tree-hugger with a big goddamn spear. Man, you should’ve seen him move,” Vic said with a grin. His shoulder still ached where the elf’s spear went through to pin him to the wall, but he still thought it was worth it. “Anyways, long story short, the Marshal wound up headless and the Watch wound up with half a dozen prisoners. All in all, a solid day.”

They were slowly making their way out of the Slums, the lamps shining more regularly now, the debris and litter slowly being replaced first by wooden fences, then gradually by iron ones with lawns behind them. Victor always found the transition fascinating, the way the city changed as you walked, a metamorphosis of a sleeping behemoth. Staggering drunkards and shady characters started to disappear, give way first to more respectable looking folks – merchants rushing to close their shops, women with bales of linen – and then to no folks at all. By the time they were in the Government District, it was well past bedtime for the rich and the famous.

As they started to close in on the mansion, Victor felt it was time to lay out the plan, such as it was. He led the way into one of the smaller alleys, found a relatively dry spot where the roof above hanged over a part of the sidewalk and halted their advance. “Now, listen. The man we’re after is Jothan DeVir. And if you’re familiar with the Corone politics, you know he’s a secretary to viceroy... Shit, what’s his name? I always mix them up. The one with the face and the hair... Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the gunslinger spoke in a hushed tone, occasionally looking around to be certain of their privacy. “Apparently, he’s the one who gave the Rangers information they used to mount the last week’s attack against the Watch. So we’re here to put him out of business. Now, look here...”

From one of the interior pockets of his leather overcoat, Victor produced a crudely drawn blueprint of the DeVir mansion. He tapped the other breast pocket, then the other two. “Shit, either of you have a light?”

Silas snapped his fingers and a tiny ball of white light came to existence above the three, like a bulb without a glass casing.

“Well, that’s handy. Thanks.” He turned to the map.

“This place has an iron fence all around it except the back. There’s a garden here that the mansion shares with four others. We’ll enter here, through the hedge...” He pointed at the place where the circular garden touched one of the badly drawn side streets. “He probably has sentries posted at the garden. We take those out as silently as possible, then proceed into the yard. There are probably going to be a couple of men there too. We take them out and make a move to the mansion exits as quick as possible. There are three...”

His finger moved to the square that represented the manor. “The front, the service door to the back and the parlor balcony here that looks on the garden. I’ll go in through the front, you two each take one of the others. Now, chances are that there are no guards inside, but don’t let your guard down. He supposedly doesn’t expect us, but you know what they say about army intelligence, right?” He smiled briefly, then returned to the matter at hand.

“Anyways, move in as fast as possible and secure the target. Take him alive, you understand? He has to be alive,” Victor said, his tone perhaps a bit harsher than he intended. He recollected himself and concluded: “Any questions?”

[Silence Sei]

The heat radiating from Silas' light warmed the exposed skin of all who had earlier been caught in the middle of the torrential downpour. The plan seemed rather simplistic, but sound in every way. Covering all three exits would ensure that there would be no souls going in or out of the mansion, at least not without somebody knowing. Sei thought about this plan for a moment, trying to find a folly in its simplicity. When he had found a minor issue with the strategy, he decided to speak up, lifting his head up so several strands of orange could be seen peering out from the disguise.

"What about communication?" 'Silas' asked to make sure everything was truly taken care of, "If we go in, and one of us gets captured, how will the other two know?" Victor looked at the man long and hard for a moment, his narrowed eyes hinting the slightest tinge of frustration that his well placed ambush was questioned by this mysterious magician. Artemis was still scanning the map with his eyes, taking a bit longer than the other two to notice the distance between each of the doors. It was a reasonably sized mansion, and yelling simply would not do, lest they alert anyone inside of their presence.

"He's right," the vagabond finally spoke out, pointing to each of the doors. "If DeVir hears any of us talking, he might have an emergency escape route. Don't most high-ranking people have something like that?" The question caused Victor to look back down at the map, taking a look at his strategy with the perspective of the others placed in his mind. The gunslinger slammed a fist down on the makeshift table and looked at Silas, as if it had been his fault that there was such a detail overlooked.

"What do you suggest then? Run through the front door, weapons ready?" Victor’s hair was starting to mat to his face again thanks to the help of sparse raindrops slipping past their makeshift shelter.

"I actually have something that can help," 'Silas' spoke, reaching into his coal colored cloak and taking out three different colored earrings, "These will allow us to communicate through telepathy, so long as we have them on our person, and only for a short distance." He set each piece of jewelry on the table. In front of Victor, a small diamond dangled off the end of the silver rings, shimmering in the magical light Silas provided. To Artemis, a tiny ruby stood at the end of a gold ring, highlighting a part of the mansions schematics in a blood red hue, as if to forebode something sinister afoot. Finally, in front of Silas was an amethyst gem on a platinum ring, its transparency making it shine all the more beautifully. Victor picked his accessory up and looked back to Silas, a quirked eyebrow being his mark of suspicion.

"You could have told us you had these before, you know," the fighter deadpanned and gripped the gem, placing it somewhere in his clothing that the mute did not quite see. Artemis also grabbed his item and placed it on his being, leaving only the telepath to grab the last one and place it back within his shroud. The telepath lifted his head a bit further up, flashing his white teeth to his leader while still masking the azure of his orbs beneath the blackness of the cloth.

"I did not think they would be needed. Now if you gentlemen would excuse me, I shall take the balcony..." Silas dropped his head once again, and turned to look out and await his fellow warriors. The light from the magician's magic slowly began to fade, succumbing to the constant attack of sporadic raindrops upon it. It was time.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis spent more time than the other two studying the floor plans for the target's mansion, taking note of all the rooms, their locations, and the routes available. Given the details listed, the home had a second story as well as a basement, and each exit led to a different level.

'I'll take the service exit on the north side into the basement.' Artemis thought, testing the functionality of the earring.

"Well, with Silas taking the balcony on the west, that leaves the main entrance to the south for me - front and center." Vic smirked at the two and rolled up the parchment, stuffing it into a pocket. "Better for me. Never was big on subtlety." With that, Silas stalked off to keep watch at the end of the alley.

"Can't we just bang the door?" Artemis asked Vic with a concerned look.

"That's just what we're doin'." Vic smiled wickedly at the vagabond before pulling out his gun and giving it a fond glance before he too stalked off. Artemis did not understand the reference.

With a shake of his head, he joined the pair and they quickly made their way to the small alley designated on their crude blueprint and poked through the hedge that led into the garden of DeVir's mansion. Vic pointed to a man strolling along one of the many pathways. "This one's yours, kid. Silas and I will take care of the guys on our side."

As the gunslinger waited for Artemis to make his move, the young man pulled out his bow, Judicis, and pulled back on the string without an arrow strung. "Are you forgetting something?" Vic asked.

Artemis continued to focus, his thoughts reaching out to the sentient spirit of his bow. 'Paralysis arrows, Judicis. I don't want to hurt these guys.'

Silas grinned as the bow conjured a black arrow of pure energy, the shaft of the bow also turning a charcoal hue. As Artemis let the string go the projectile flew at the guard patrolling the garden and stuck him in the back, dissipating upon impact. The guard fell without a sound as his body hit the soft grass. It even appeared that he never felt the bite of the arrow upon impact.

Artemis stepped through the hedge quietly and crept toward the back of the house, expecting the others to make their way toward their respective exits. He made his way to the service exit on the north side that led into the basement. Every room of the massive home seemed aglow, the dark night muffling the light.

Mud sucked on his boots as if not satiated by the recent heavy rain. He pulled a boot up, the small pocket of air making a squeal and he cringed at the sound. 'So much for being subtle,' Artemis thought to himself

He began to tread lighter, staying on his toes and moving too quickly for the mud to catch. His steps were unwittingly in harmony with the crickets that chirped nearby, making Artemis appear much like a caricature not to be taken seriously.

'Let's see who we're up against,' Artemis said as he switched his vision to the infrared spectrum. He tried to look through the walls for heat signatures that resembled humans, but unfortunately, the many lights and stone exterior prevented him from seeing much beyond the room beside him, which looked empty.

He switched back to the normal spectrum and turned the corner; he saw the service exit jutted above the ground - a hatchway into the storage room, if he recalled the plans correctly. He quietly stepped toward it, crouching down toward the handle and saw a solid steel padlock and realized he had forgotten to prepare for such a simple detail.

Artemis knelt down and examined the metalwork, noting the poor quality of the mechanism. It served more as a deterrent than an actual barrier, as most people would turn away after just seeing it. He contemplated picking the lock with a magical trinket he carried with him, but that would take more time than he had. Instead, he pulled out one of his many mythril daggers and slid it through the hoop of the lock. Standing upon the hatchway, he gave a good heave, breaking the locking mechanism open. Unexpectedly, the lock's old age and low quality made the break nearly silent, maintaining a bit of secrecy.

He threw the lock aside and cautiously began to open the door, and just as the well-worn hinges gave a screech, he heard a loud bang from the other side of the house. 'I guess they know we're here,' he thought, quickly stepping down the few steps and into the basement of Jotham DeVir's manor.

[The Cinderella Man]

She never looks back. As they start to pile the muddy earth on top of her dead husband, she walks away serenely without ever stopping for one last longing look. It’s not that she doesn’t care, Victor knows. It’s because there is steel inside of this woman, and looking back at the final resting place of her husband might melt it, turn her into one of those crying and screaming wenches that made a scene that people later talked about in hushed tones. The carriage isn’t far, but still the walk seems to last forever, and every second Victor expects, almost hopes, she would look in his direction again with that sharp accusation stabbing at him like broken glass. But she never does.

They help her out of the rain and into the black coach, and with a cluck and a snap of the reins the driver in a top hat takes the last of the congregation away. Nobody left now but the four men with shovels, working almost hastily now, eager to get out of the rain. Victor finally decides to move out of the relative dryness beneath the tree and makes his way to the fresh grave. He soon stands at the foot of it, staring at the disappearing coffin.

“You knew him?” one of the gravediggers asks, not terribly interested in an answer.

“I killed him,” the gunslinger responds.

Subtlety had never been a tactic that Victor Callahan used. He had no taste for it, and more importantly he had no talent for it, so when it came to clandestine business and pussyfooting, the ex-prizefighter was about as subtle as a buffalo. This lack of finesse cost him many a time both in the ring and life, but there was little to be done about it. Even his old boxing coach, Arslan, had given up on changing him all those years ago saying that he could easier shift the course of a river with a spoon than turn him into anything but a slugger. So he gave him simple advice: keep your head low and keep swinging. And for thirty-plus years, Victor had been doing just that. Sometimes it got him through. Sometimes it got him beaten to a pulp.

Silas and Artemis were nothing like him, though. The duo eliminated the yard sentries with very little hubbub, some with arrows, some with magic, some with just a good old fashioned hit on the head. The hooded weirdo was particularly efficient, distracting a guard with his light magic tricks before bopping him on the back of the head, then taking another down with what looked like a spinning metal disc. The only action Victor saw prior to approaching the main entrance was a guard that stood restlessly in the shadow of the porch, and the gunman tackled him and smashed his fist into his face before the man managed to alert the others. All things considered, it was a good start. If he had went solo, Victor figured he’d already be about two dozen bullets shorter with half a neighborhood aware of his presence.

But once all three reached their entry points, he saw no point in playing it quiet anymore. Secrecy was fine and all, but from his experience surprise and shock worked much better. You catch people with a dick in their hand, nine out of ten times they will panic. And panicking people were like headless chickens: they made easy targets. So he pulled the sawed-off with his left, wrapped his right around Aicha’s supple grip, and unleashed terror.

“Move in,” he muttered, not really knowing or caring if his companions heard him. They’d hear soon enough.

The first buckshot tore a head-sized hole in the door, blasting the lock, knob and a chunk of wood inwards. A slam of his foot opened both wings of the main entrance. Xanthous light hit him from the interior, spreading out onto the porch and into the night in a diminishing cone. He was a black figure in the middle of it, an angel of death coming to collect what was due. An unusual number of lamps shone in the foyer, the entire ground floor lit up as if it was early evening and not the middle of the night. They even had the huge chandelier all lit up, the angular crystals fragmenting the light of the flames and spreading it benevolently over the room. Victor reckoned the four men scattered around the anteroom had something to do with that. The quartet didn’t panic, rather unimpressed with the big entrance. Three of them stood in the main hall with brandished swords, with the fourth (possibly the leader of the group) standing halfway up the curved staircase that led to the second floor. A pair of flintlock guns hung lowly on his hips.

“Drop your weapons and you can leave!” Victor advised half-heartedly. He knew they wouldn’t comply, and they were keen not to disappoint. Brave amateurs all four of them, they gave it their best. The leader drew with his right and fired from the hip, the flintlock spewing fire and smoke, forcing Victor to duck and roll forward while the melee trio closed in. They were on top of him in a two blinks of an eye, but they never got a chance to do damage. The first came at the gunman with a thrust which Victor pushed away with the barrel of his shotgun, then proceeded to shoot the man in the chest twice from point blank range with his pistol. He swung the sawed-off beneath his extended right and blasted the second man away, splattering his lungs over the fine tapestry of the elven hero Radasanth on a pale horse. The third man was already swinging his broadsword by then, bringing it from up above with all the strength he could muster. The gunslinger blocked the blow by crossing both his weapons above his head, then swung the guns and the sword vigorously to one side and out of the way, making room for a headbutt that shattered the man’s nose and sent him sprawling.

The second flintlock went off, and this time there was no time for dodging. The pellet struck Victor’s right bicep, pivoting his entire torso and making him drop Aicha to the lush carpet below. The pain was like a sharp hot poker which someone stuck into his flesh and left there until the heat wore off. He pushed through it, recovered. The two gunslingers eyed each other for several seconds, both painfully aware that they were out and in need of reloading, both waiting for the other to make the move. But then the guard threw away his guns and brandished a dagger, and Victor dropped his shotgun and threw himself to the ground, grabbing Aicha with his left. He shot the advancing sentry six times while lying on the floor, the body in front of him dancing a bloody polka like a puppet whose master got a muscle spasm.

And then everything was quiet again.

[Silence Sei]

Silas had gone through the shrub in a style befitting of one used to stealth operations. He had moved the branches of green ever so carefully to make sure there was no unnecessary snapping. Even as he left the incognito bush, the mute's brisk pace seemed to not make a single sound upon the grass bending beneath his feet. He could hear Artemis behind him, trying to be just as quiet as his predecessor, but to little success. The cloaked warrior noticed several sentries around the perimeter of the mansion, each of them walking back and forth like pre-programmed machines. There were a total of three men patrolling the Mystic's goal of the balcony, two walking on each side of the cement sidewalk leading up to the house, and one on the balcony itself. These men committed no crimes besides doing their jobs, and they would not be punished for such a task.

When the two at the sidewalk had met one another, only to turn around, the telepath followed the one walking east. He crept silently a few feet behind the man, making sure that several dozen feet were between him and his fellow patrol before enacting his plan. The mute waved his hand, causing a white orb to appear on the ground in front of the sentry. The guard paused briefly, looking down to see what the strange object was. The robed Silas quickly wrapped one arm around his targets midsection, using his free arm to shove the bodyguard's head forward and send him tumbling into the ground face first. His body collided atop of the orb his attacker had created, quickly snuffing out any indication that someone had been there at all.

Sei turned around, watching as the other ground unit turned and began to walk back towards the sidewalk. The magician waved his hand once more, causing the guard to stop mid-stride much like his friend, and quickly jerk his head around the area as if some unknown person had been calling his name. Sei moved quickly, his dark cloak giving him the appearance of a reaper sent to collect souls. The guard quickly focused on this paranormal looking entity, attempting to reach for the gun at his hip. The man's hand was stopped half way toward its route, the Mystic's own pale digits wrapped around the guard's wrist. A quick blow to the side of the head of the patrol caused his body to crumple onto the soft grass. The Sound of Madness had done a great job in fooling the sentry.

He then turned, approaching the balcony. The guard above leaned on the ivory rails, looking out into the sky in a daydream-like state. He had less to patrol, and an easier view, so it made sense that this guard would be a bit lackluster in his duties. Sei jumped into the air, his wings sprouting for just a moment to launch him into the air. It gave the illusion that the mute had superhuman leaping capabilities, much like the plain earrings gave an illusion of shared telepathy. He landed softly over the rail opposite of his target. He took each step with planned patience, reaching both arms out and shoving the aloof man over. The fall would not kill the guardsman, as it was only a fall from the second story of the mansion, but it would be enough to knock him out quietly. Just like that, all of the obstacles before Silas had fallen.

He now turned his attentions to the door before him; redwood that gave the appearance of a recent varnish job. The paint was so shiny, the mute was certain that he could smell the fresh coating. Twelve squares of perfect glass covered the middle of the entry, which stopped would-be peeping toms with a red veldt curtain hanging in the room. He gripped the gold knob, his hand growing goosebumps from the chill transferred by the metal. He turned his hand, pushing the door open. To his shock, it obliged with the gentle request, allowing him to entrance to the house.

"Artemis, Victor," Silas spoke to address his fellow warriors, "I'm in."

Silas looked around the small room, the balcony apparently leading straight into a study of some sort. He could feel the red carpet even beneath his karate shoes as he looked around. Ivory like walls on every side of him and a door similar to the one the mute just went through stood at the opposite end of the room. A small black bookcase lined with several tomes stood beside the other door, which seemed to give an intellectual type of feel to the whole place. To the east of the telepath was a piano, where an average sized woman was reviewing sheet music. The one thing that did not seem to be in the room seemed to be DeVir.

"I found someone. I think it may be a relative." Silas spoke around the same time the girl started standing up, the bottom of her green dress falling to the ground. She turned to the mute, scratching the side of her head in a bout of confusion.

"Who are you? Where is Thomas?"

[SirArtemis]

Artemis stepped into the damp storage room and began making his way quickly and silently along the cement floor, knowing the other two had already entered as well. Countless crates and barrels of various contents lined the walls, stamped with their contents to make sorting easier. The poorly lit room made movement difficult, aside from the crack of the door letting in some light. He stepped toward it and stopped, hearing muffled sounds.

Switching back to his infra vision, he looked past the door to see where the voices were coming from. Two men sat in a room off to his right, seemingly at a table, while a third had begun to move to see what the sound had been. Switching back to normal sight, Artemis pushed open the door and quickly pulled out Judicis again, the black body of the bow ready to incapacitate more victims.

The one who had begun to move apparently did not take the threat of the bang seriously, meandering around the open area of the basement and to the bar, and stopping to refill his drink before he would go and check upstairs. After all, there were others upstairs and he assumed they would take care of it.

Pulling back the string of the bow, the black mist manifesting as an arrow yet again, Artemis let fly and stunned the drunken man. The body fell with a loud thud and his glass of scotch shattered as it hit the flawless marble floor, muffling the second gunshot from above.

"Oi, Jimmy. What're ye doin?" a voice called from the side room, raspy from what could be assumed were years of drinking and smoking.

Artemis moved closer to the doorway to the side room and pulled back the string on his bow again, moving silently.

"Jimmy! Ye deaf, ye fat bastard?"

BANG! BANG!

Still no answer and two quick shots fired upstairs. As the guards' cautious natures began to take hold, Artemis could hear the unsheathing of their blades.

Another gunshot.

Keeping enough distance between himself and the door, Artemis took aim and waited. One of the two peeked out, seeing the fallen body of Jimmy as well as Artemis' bow aimed at the doorway, and stepped back.

"Who the hell are you?" the younger of the pair called, his voice less used up than his superior as well as less courageous.

Artemis did not answer, switching to his infra spectrum yet again and strafing for a better angle at the doorway. With the heat showing through the wall, he would be able to tell as soon as they made their move.

The bodies shuffled and switched behind the wall, the younger pushing his superior aside so that he could glance around the doorframe. He saw his opening and took a few quick and silent strides forward. As the small orb of red and orange heat moved to peek around the bend, the black mist had already been unleashed. It struck him in the face, knocking him to the ground.

'Two of three down,' Artemis thought, forgetting that the others could hear.

He slung the bow back over his shoulder and pulled out his daggers, Justice and Virtue, seeing the last man storming around the corner and screaming with panicked rage. Artemis quickly switched back to the normal spectrum and took on a defensive stance, ready to counter any attack thrown at him.

With a roar, the big and burly man swung his two handed blade overhead, looking to strike down and cleave the vagabond in half. Artemis easily redirected the blade with one of his daggers, letting the heavy weight and momentum drag the man forward. The weapon struck the ground with a loud ding, the carpeting doing little to muffle the sound of metal on marble.

Stepping forward, Artemis swiped at the big man's feet, looking to drop him, but the weight was too much. The man let go of his sword with his right and struck an elbow into Artemis' abdomen, causing him to stagger back, breathless. Artemis sheathed Justice, taking his dagger with both hands.

"Your sword is a piece of shit," Artemis said with a grin.

"What's that?"

"I said your weapon is garbage."

Artemis knew metal, and the way the blade rang when it struck the marble let the vagabond know the crafting method.

"Pah! It's done the job before, and it'll kill ye just the same!" The man spat toward Artemis, just missing the vagabond's boots.

"Then try to hit me. Put your all in the next swing. I won't even dodge." Artemis grinned devilishly, gripping his dagger with both hands, tensing his muscles in preparation for the heavy man's strike. The man snarled and swung his sword like Artemis' torso was the trunk of a tree to be cleaved. Artemis put blade to blade, letting the sharp edges meet perpendicularly with all the momentum he could add to the big man's swing, and the man's iron claymore cracked. The end of the blade flew off and the point stuck into an expensive looking portrait hung upon the red-oak walls.

The burly man stared at his blade in disbelief. Artemis, expecting the result, took the pommel of his dagger and struck the man in the temple, sending him to the ground with his broken blade, as well as broken ego.

Artemis heard six rapid shots go off and sent his message before running upstairs to make sure the others were okay.

'Basement clear.'

[The Cinderella Man]

When exactly did it become so damn easy to kill people?

Victor doesn’t know, cannot remember. It didn’t happen instantly, that much he is certain. There was no great turning point after which pulling the trigger became easy, no single event that changed his mindset and turned him into a bona fide killer. It was an erosion of time that got to him, a compilation of good things gone bad and bad things gone worse. That and repetition. If you do one thing over and over again enough times, it becomes a habit, a reflex almost, and soon enough all you feel is the recoil and all you see are the remains of someone less lucky than you. You can’t afford to remember their faces, at least Victor cannot. He has enough bad dreams as it is without the blank faces of his victims, staring at him with their dead eyes for eternity. Instead he walls it all up, cloaks himself in stolidity and calls it strength. But today the demons of the past came to haunt him, and the shell he has constructed is starting to break.

The rain is relentless as he walks down the grassy field of tombstones. It is everywhere now, down his back, in his boots, drenching him to the skin. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even make a move to button up his coat. The carriage has long since slipped around the corner and out of sight, but he knows where it’s going and his feet take him onto the avenue sidewalk, following its route. He doesn’t want to face the woman again. But he has some unfinished business with her and he had postponed it long enough. The streets are hauntingly empty, the downpour’s grey tint chasing everybody away to their abodes, and it almost feels as if Victor Callahan is the only person left in Radasanth.

And a big of part of him wishes he was.

Silas’s words popped into Victor’s mind, the disembodied voice telling him he found someone on the top floor. The ex-con hated this communication doohickey that the weirdo provided. Every time words poured into his head it felt as if someone was disturbingly close, whispering something in his ear and it took a lot of composure not to turn around and look over his shoulder. A thought came to him that this was perhaps how those nutjobs in loony bins felt, and suddenly he could almost understand their insanity. If he had to listen to voices echoing in his head every day, he’d probably book a padded room for himself soon enough. Artemis announced the basement was clear, as if to drive the mental discomfort home.

Victor didn’t rush up the curved stairway. Whoever Silas found, it was obviously not Walter, and there were some more pressing matters to attend to. Once his weapons were back in their holsters at his flanks, the gunman sat on the stairs to assess the damage to his arm. He could feel the blood trickling down its length and the burning pain exploded every time he tried to move it. Pulling the wounded arm out of the coat’s sleeve, he tore away at the shirt to reveal a pair of holes gushing with crimson. Clean through, he thought with some satisfaction. If it were an inch to the right, it would’ve shattered the bone and he’d have to seek a healer immediately. As it stood now, it was just an inconvenience. An inconvenience that hurt like a twisted dagger, but still it was bearable. He sure as hell had suffered worse.

By the time Artemis appeared in the foyer, he was wrapping the wound up in the torn sleeve, struggling to get some pressure on it. The young man barely even noticed him. His eyes were staring at the four fresh corpses and the pools of blood spreading around them, soaking the carpet.

“You... You killed them?” he asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

“No, it was a mass suicide,” Victor mumbled, one end of the sleeve between his teeth as he tied it around his arm. He gave it a good tug, then did a second knot to make it tight. He got up, gave the arm a test run and winced at the pain darting up to his shoulder. He’d make a shitty medic, that’s for sure. “You look surprised, kid. What do you think we’re doing here? Slapping people on the wrist for being naughty?”

“Was it really necessary?” Artemis said, now his eyes and his disapproving frown aimed at Victor.

“Sure it was. Hell, it was self-defense. I knocked on the door, they came at me with their weapons, I shot them. Simple as that.” Artemis wasn’t convinced and Victor didn’t care all that much. He took out the sawed-off with his wounded hand, struggled to crack it open, then proceeded to reload it with bloodied fingers. “I wouldn’t fret too much over these dirtbags. If they’re working for our target, they had it coming.”

“We all have it coming,” Artemis said distantly, and Victor grinned, closing the shotgun with a jerk of his healthy hand.

“You got that right. Now, let’s get upstairs. Our friend has a live one.”

They walked up the stairs in silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as eyes glared at them from the hanging portraits. Each face in the painting shared similar lines and structure, with a beard here and a bald head there to differentiate the heads of the DeVir family. It was a clever little detail, Victor thought, certainly something Walter would come up with to give a more genuine feeling to his new identity. None of these men really looked like Walter. They all had proud and sharp lines, strong chins and piercing eyes. Walter Jimes had the eyes of a snake and a face of a boar. Not that it mattered much to people who might’ve visited the manor. Nobody really looked at these things anyways, and even if they did, they would never say out loud that the current DeVir didn’t look like his predecessors out of sheer respect for the host. You don’t walk into someone’s home and say that their father might’ve been the mailman.

After trying two doors and finding a lavish bathroom and a bedroom dominated by a huge double bed with a baldachin, Artemis and Victor finally rendezvoused with Silas. The study was dim, with only a pair of oil lamps offering their yellow light. It had that unmistakable smell of dust and parchment, a scent of ancient knowledge one would get in a library, amidst the endless towers of books and tomes. But there was something else as well, something fresh that stood out in the musty constant of the study. There was a woman, standing behind a huge piano, not amused by the midnight interruption in the least. Victor knew who she was immediately. There was mention of only one woman in the briefing.

“Angela DeVir, I presume?” Victor said, stepping inside the door, the right sleeve of his coat hanging loosely.

“Yes. Now I repeat, who are you? And what do you want?” She stood firmly, undaunted, as if three strange men didn’t just barge into her home in the middle of the night. Her hair was midnight black and long enough to reach her waist, and as a breeze pushed through the silky curtains of the study, it played with its loose locks. Her dress revealed little of her figure, but her face made Victor put her age at late thirties. “If it’s money, the safe is downstairs.”

“We’re not after your money,” the gunslinger said, approaching her with deliberate slowness. She didn’t flinch or back away despite the shotgun in his hand and some hundred and twenty pounds he had on her. “Your husband. I need to have a little chat with him.”

“I see. The Watch sent you? To do their dirty work?” Angela said. She proceeded to seat herself back on the piano stool. “Well, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him for days.”

“And you have no idea where he is?” Victor asked.

“None whatsoever.”

“Of course.” The bulky gunman nodded, then scratched his unshaven chin with the barrel of his sawed-off. “Well, see, for some reason I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“We shall see,” Victor said, then turned to his companions. “Tie her up.”

[Silence Sei]

"Just a moment, Mr. Callahan," Sei spoke up, walking over to the two men who had just recently joined him in the study, "Allow me to see what I can find out. May I have those earrings I gave the two of you returned to me?" Victor and Artemis both nodded, placing their jewelry in the hands of the mute. The Mystic then turned his attention towards Angela DeVir. The telepath raised his head ever so slightly, pocketing the gems he had just been given back. He looked over her posture, standing up straight like a woman of proud nobility and status. 'Silas' raised his hand towards Angela, waving it close to her face, her green orbs following his pale appendage as it moved from one side of his body to the other.

"You will tell us where your husband is," Sei spoke plainly, using one of the abilities he had learned in his youth to try and get the truth out of the woman. Meanwhile, he was also probing his targets mind with his psychic abilities, careful not to rip each and every precious memory from her skull. The whole point of trying to find the information he needed was to not hurt Angela DeVir in the process, and having one's mind torn apart to find information was one of the most painful things anybody could experience. This was ground that the telepath always made sure to tread softly on, and today was no exception.

"I most certainly will not,” Angela remained firm in her resolve for secrecy, displaying the strong mind she possessed. Such stern determination from the spy's wife made using any kind of mind manipulation on her next to impossible. Likewise, as Sei explored her mind, he passed through several memories that Angela was free to let flow through her mind. However, the recess of the woman's thoughts contained a black box of sorts. Sei had encountered such a thing many a time in soldiers; they were trained to take certain memories and hide them so far into their thoughts that it practically got embedded into their genetic code. Tampering with such memories would usually wind up killing the intended target, and still not release the information. Whatever secrets Angela was hiding in that black box, she was not going to part with them easily.

'Silas' took a few steps back, shaking his head. Angela was going to be one of difficult temperament to deal with. Whatever Victor had planned after tying the woman up, it could have possibly been the only way to extract the intel from her.

[SirArtemis]

Silas did his best to interrogate the woman and keep her from coming to physical harm. Vic had not left a single of his enemies alive. Not only that, but the deaths seemed to have no impact on the gunslinger – he may have even enjoyed himself. He did not want this woman under fire, in any way, before this man. Artemis always distinguished between an enemy and an opponent, and there were few people he would call his enemy; to Vic it seemed the two were synonymous.

Artemis took the time to take in his surroundings, browsing around for any signs that might lead them to DeVir. The study, though small, overflowed with grandeur. A Calrton house desk made of a deep blue liviol wood stood in the center of the room, the handles of the countless small compartments made of mythril, gilded to add contrast to the elegant design. More liviol lined the walls in the form of bookshelves, though this form took on a regal purple hue. The curtains draped by the large window behind the desk were made of fine sifan cloth, billowing with silk-like delicacy. Even the window itself had an elegant design colored with valaiyalman. Artemis' eyes wandered to an intricately hand-painted design covering the ceiling, a unique work of art that the wealthy DeVir would see every time he leaned back in his comfortable seat and lost himself in though.

Artemis stepped around to the desk, pulling out drawers one at a time and glancing inside for anything of importance. Countless documents filled the drawers, from bookkeeping to letters of correspondence. However, one of the compartments looked out of place. His eye for metal picked out a drawer made of pure dehlar, excellent for use in safes – hard to move, hard to break. He pulled it out of its compartment with some trouble, the box thudding upon the expensive wooden surface. He knew there was no way to break the box, but he noticed a small lock on the front of it and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small lockpicking device that he affectionately referred to as his lock plunger. He knew the lockpick used magic, but the chance that the locking mechanism itself was constructed of an alternative material made the attempt worthwhile.

Artemis did not even notice when Silas stepped away from the woman, apparently failing at garnering the information they needed, allowing Vic to prepare for his turn. He focused on the task at hand and using his little trinket. He leaned over the desk and pulled the plunger on the small glass cylinder which filled the chamber with magical gel, the black fluid visible through the carri glass and mythril webbing that kept it safe. Carefully, he willed the other end of the device to extend into the form of a syringe, taking the tip and guiding it into the lock. He pushed the plunger back in, filling the locking mechanism with the fluid as it prepared to solidify. He waited the two seconds he needed before trying to turn the lock, and where he expected a click nothing happened.

Disappointed, he straightened out, wanting to ask the others if either carried a normal lockpick to see if he could retrieve the contents; he hoped that they would help the situation, but when he saw Vic, he changed his mind.

[The Cinderella Man]

His feet take him through the urban desolation of the Corone capitol, his mind elsewhere, anywhere but here. He isn’t thinking about the events that brought him here. He had brooded over that for the last couple of days, juggling everything in his mind like the world’s worst carnie until it all dropped at his feet once he realized this was one knot he couldn’t untie. No, there is no more deliberation, no more empty justifications. It is time to man up and bring this to an end. How difficult can it be? It’s just one more bullet in a sea of them, one more worthless life coming to a premature end.

His hand goes to the holster on his left flank, but it fails to find Aicha’s grip and the emptiness that is there in its stead strikes him like a hammer. He left the pistol at the inn, he remembers, left it because it felt wrong to touch it again. The gun bore the name of his lost lover as a sign of his sworn vendetta, yet up until this point it exacted none of the righteous retribution. All he made Aicha do was fill the world with more hurt and suffering, and that is a desecration that he will never forgive himself. So he let her rest.

The DeVir mansion stares back at him with its empty windows with all the allure of a haunted house. There are no sentries patrolling the fence, none mounted on the balconies, none playing a game of cards in the lit foyer. Only a single light shines beyond the broken window of the study, a yellow shimmer in the pale grayness of the rainy afternoon. Victor knows it’s her. Who else would return to this place of pain and death?

Victor Callahan was staring out of the study window, expecting to see the torches of the Watch’s patrolmen stream down the avenue and through the gates, when Silas concluded his failed interrogation. The man clearly had some hypnotic abilities, or at least thought he had. Victor saw such tricksters before; they could make a man cluck like a chicken, walk on their hands and reveal that they wet their bed until the advanced age of twelve. But no such thing happened here. Angela DeVir held her ground against his psychic probing, keeping her composure and refusing to divulge any information.

Looks like it’s back to the basics, the gunman thought as he turned away from the benighted world on the other side of the window, relieved to see no sign of the constables. He relinquished the idea of tying the woman up; there seemed to be no point to it. She didn’t seem overly hostile and there were three of them to deal with any change of mind she might have. He took one of the chairs by the backrest and set it in front of the woman.

“Sit,” he said firmly. After a short pause, she lowered herself in the cushioned chair.

“Do you want me to roll over too? Beg?”

Victor disregarded the smarmy remark, his eyes bearing down on her from above with a look that seemed to stand somewhere between disgust and anger. “How well do you know your husband, Angela?” he asked.

“Well enough,” the short, dismissive answer.

“Well enough to know of his past?” the gunman continued. “Say, some ten years into it?”

The woman in front of him smiled knowingly, her eyes penetrating a thin layer of black strands that fell over her face as she defied his stare. Eventually she lowered her head, deciding to deal with a tangle in her lush locks of hair. “You must be referring to what he did before this charade with the Empire. Yes, I know about it. What of it?” She snorted a short laugh. “A man’s got to do what he thinks is right.”

The answer didn’t irritate the gunslinger as much as the tone with which it was said. The flat, apathetic delivery was an antithesis to everything that’s been simmering inside him for years now, an offhanded spit in the face of his anger, his pain. His affection.

“I see. Well, let me tell you a little story, wench. I crossed paths with your man some ten years ago. He hired me to do some protection for him. And I also did what I thought was right and tried to help a girl.” He took a step closer, leaning over her, a black shadow almost ready to swallow her petite shape. “And he shot her. He shot Aicha in the head. But that wasn’t enough for the bastard. No, he framed me for it. Ten years. Ten years I slaved in the Furnace because of him.”

His two companions looked at him with amplified interest, not introduced with these details beforehand. In all truth, Victor had never planned to reveal them. Walter was supposed to be here and he was supposed to fill him full of lead and they were supposed to be done by now. But it seemed that nothing was going the way it was supposed to on this night. The woman below certainly wasn’t touched by his little exposition, her face betraying only an assertive smirk.

“Oh, so this is revenge? Let me tell you something, knave. I don’t know who this Aicha is or why Jotham sent you to prison. But from the looks of it, it’s where you belong. And if this Aicha was anything like you...”

It was an instinctive reaction, his hand moving before even a single thought flashed through his conscious mind, a subconscious link that elicited the reflex. He backhanded Angela across the face with his left, the dull thud disturbingly loud in the silence of the study. The strike sent both the woman and the chair to the ground with a yelp. Silas and Artemis scurried to aid the woman almost immediately.

“She was nothing like me, skank!” Victor shouted. The anger bubbled up inside of him from somewhere in his chest, pouring over into his limbs and threatening to overwhelm his common sense. It was only due to Artemis’s intervention that he didn’t have another go at the woman.

“What’s wrong with you?” the young man said, pushing past and dropping to one knee to aid the downed woman. He and Silas did their best to gingerly bring the woman back to her feet, the latter shooting a stringent glance Victor’s way as they did so. Victor was unfazed by it.

“Where is he, Angela? In one of his old whorehouses? Where is Walter Jimes?” he insisted. The black-haired woman looked up at him through mussed hair, the two men at her sides holding her beneath her arms. He half expected to see a hazy, groggy look in her eyes after the hit she took, but her eyes were clear. She spat blood at his feet, wincing at the pain her broken cheek bone caused as she did so.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe she doesn’t...” Artemis tried to intervene, but Victor didn’t listen, couldn’t hear from the blood drumming in his ears. He drew his pistol and pointed it at the defiant woman.

“WHERE IS HE?!” the gunslinger shouted, cocking the hammer. He didn’t mean to shoot her; the metallic sound of a gun ready to fire usually rattled people enough to reveal all the necessary information. But then she smiled a cocky smile at him filled with red teeth and his finger shivered on the trigger for a moment before he gave it a good pull, filling the room with smoky thunder. Angela’s leg collapsed from beneath her as the bullet went through her knee, shattering it with an explosion of blood and bone. She screamed out as she went almost limp between the two men, her wail echoing out the window and into the night like a wail of some dying banshee. The two men lowered her to the ground, the younger of the two jumping back to his feet almost immediately. But all Artemis found was the barrel’s black eye staring back at him.

“Madman,” the youth said, his hand an inch from one of his daggers. “You’re a madman.”

“You no longer serve the cause of this mission and are therefore discharged from your service,” Victor proclaimed. “Get out of my sight.”

[Silence Sei]

When the crackle of thunder from Victor's firearm discharged straight through the kneecap of Angel DeVir, Silas wasted no time in acting. The mute grabbed the woman, one arm under her legs and the other under her upper back. Keeping Angela here was obviously detrimental physically for the lady, and mentally for Victor Callahan. He quickly turned as Artemis and the boxer began arguing with one another. Unfortunately, the telepath was not quick enough, and Victor caught a glance at this attempt at an escape, and refocused his attention, and his gun’s barrel, towards the mute.

“The box!” Angela shouted, pointing towards the object that Artemis had seen drop a minute or so earlier, “Everything you needs in the box!” Her exclamation came as a surprise to all three warriors, but Silas realized that the revelation through her tear-soaked sobs was the only thing keeping the two of them from becoming target practice for the gunslinger. If only she had known that something as feeble as a few bullets would not have been enough to stop her would-be rescuer…

Silas ran out the window, not concerned for whether or not Victor fired after them. He leaped onto the railings of the balcony, launching himself off and seemingly gliding down to the ground that had previously been so easily to infiltrate. He thought he had heard Angela shout for somebody to stand down, probably one of the guards that ‘Silas’ had knocked out earlier. Even the wife of a Ranger spy could tell where the best chance of her survival was.

Sei ran with his precious cargo, his shoes carrying him at a speed faster than that of a normal man. The buildings of Radasanth whizzing past him like arrows fired from a bow. Taking Angela to any doctor in the city would have raised far too many questions, perhaps even placing the mute under arrest. No, he had to take her to the safest place in the whole country, with some of the best medical staff that anybody could ask for. The blurs of manmade manufacturing soon became the docile greens of nature itself. The woman’s breaths had slowed down, something the telepath had assumed was an indication that the noble woman had passed out.

He made it to his home in about ten minutes. His arrival alerted many a person, and the second that somebody realized he was carrying a wounded woman, Angela DeVir was taken from him. He followed the staff that now carried the lady towards the infirmary, standing by patiently as his amber-haired niece used her magic and medical know-how to remove the bullet and treat the wound. Angela soon woke up, her eyes narrowing on her rescuer.

“Who… are you?” She managed to meekly whisper to her savior. In response, ‘Silas’ removed his hood, revealing the crystalline blue eyes, the orange hued hair, and the pale features that many came to know and love. The woman’s eyes widened to show her surprise at this new information. This man, the one who had broken into her house and was responsible for her being shot, was none other than the ‘Hero of Radasanth’ himself, ‘Silence’ Sei Orlouge.

“Mrs. DeVir,” Sei spoke into the girl’s mind quickly, the urgency in his voice apparent, “you need to tell me where your husband is, and now. Otherwise, I fear he may not live through the night.”

[SirArtemis]

Artemis stood horrified by Victor's display, emotion taking complete control of the gunslinger and having him fire a shot at the helpless woman's knee. The young man could relate, having a past that consumed him for a period of his life, but coming to terms with it had been one of the most beneficial changes he had made. However, just because Artemis could relate did not mean he would accept Vic's extreme measures.

Artemis felt relieved to see that Silas felt similarly toward Vic's recent actions. As the enraged man shot at the fleeing pair, Artemis saw an opportunity to give them time to escape. He pulled out Judicis yet again, drawing back on the bowstring and firing yet another mystical projectile at the gunslinger's back while he stood distracted. The black mist struck him just below the base of the neck, sending him to the ground, but not taking away his consciousness. Vic's eyes stared threateningly back at Artemis with a look of vengeance and relentless rage. Artemis, seeing that the effects would not last long, stepped to the doorway of the room.

"You won't find solace in revenge, Vic. There's always more to it than there seems. Always." Artemis hoped the gunslinger heard the words and pitied the state of the man, but he knew that nothing would change his mind in his mood. The vagabond rushed out of the room and down the hall, running down the stairs and skipping steps to get to the front where Vic had banged the door. The dead bodies lay motionless but the sound of footsteps rushing up from downstairs meant that Judicis' magic had worn off on the gentleman in the basement. It was time to go.

He rushed out into the yard, shouts coming at him from the few guards who had come to, and jumped through the hedge that they had passed through. Artemis cut into the alley and ran, feeling as if he needed to leave despite just arriving. Luckily, his enchanted armguard kept his movements silent, his steps barely making any sound as he sprinted down the cobblestone paths. As he rushed toward the docks on the eastern side of Radasanth, shades of gray appeared in the sky as the hidden sun began to warn the world of its coming.

[The Cinderella Man]

He couldn’t do this.

Victor Callahan stands now in the mansion’s garden just like he did a week ago, an obsidian figure in a sea of dull green. The house is huge before him, ominous, its emptiness patiently waiting to devour what little is left of his soul. His instincts – those in charge of his survival, at least – urge him to turn away, flee this place, this ultimate task. It’s the logical thing to do, not to mention an easier thing to do. And Victor was always good at taking that road, evading the problem until it either got buried under the rubble of his wasted life or it swung around to smack him in the face. Besides, there is still work to be done and time wounds all heals... Or is it the other way around? Doesn’t matter.

He looks down at his mitts, his bloodied hands that brought anguish to many and comfort to but a few. He is tired. All his life he had been on a chase. He chased the title, chased after the girl he couldn’t have, chased after a better life, a more purposeful one. And after his time in prison he had been chasing Walter Jimes, picking up the glimmering pieces of the bastard’s old life like an old crow. And he’s dead tired. Ahead of him the mansion offers the final resolution; behind him the road with more of the same. More blood and sweat and tears, more cries and lies and gunfire and blank stares and broken bones on a path that has nothing to do with Aicha anymore. No, this hasn’t been about the black haired vixen for a while now. It’s about Victor Callahan and his bloodlust. And he’s tired of it.

With a monumental push of something good still ticking inside his chest, the dark man moves forward, his feet dragging through the muddy grass. He ascends the steps to the porch, unopposed, and enters the unguarded foyer silently, adding soggy dirt to the blood that already stains the carpet. Up above, past the curved staircase, an unseen figure stiffens and draws a short breath.

“Treacherous swine!” the downed gunslinger shouted. “You better run! You better run far, because if I ever run into you again, I’LL KILL YOU!!!”

Only Victor Callahan didn’t really shout. He tried to, just like he tried to get back up on his feet, but all he managed was an undecipherable mumble as he lay on the floor of the study like a fish pulled out of the pond an hour ago, left to gasp for oxygen in vain. It was an odd sensation, to have only his brain working while the rest of his body refused to take orders, and at this point it only made the gunslinger more infuriated. He looked at his hand and the black gun it held, his face pressed against the polished wood of the floor, but every time he tried to will it to move, it felt as if he wasn’t trying to pick his arm up, but rather to push the entire world away from it. The utter inability to act made Victor think that Artemis somehow severed his spine and left him at the mercy of whoever came upon his immobilized body. And that only enraged the fallen man even more.

He strained every part of himself that he could, his fury fueling his efforts, and just when he thought that he would never move again, his hand made a shivering motion. So he went at it again. And again. And again. His body was perspiring heavily by the time he managed to even detach one of the arms from what felt like magnified gravity. By the time he felt his legs again, his head was pulsating with a deep ache and sweat was dripping into his eyes. By the time he managed to turn his body around and sit up with his back against the heavy desk, the voices from down below made their way up the stairs. By the time the two men stepped through the doorway, Victor already had the sawed-off pointed at them, right hand holding it feebly over the forearm of his left. He wasn’t certain he would actually be able to pull the trigger; there was no feeling in his fingers whatsoever. But then the shotgun’s twin barrels exploded without him explicitly wanting them to, and the butt end struck him in the gut from the recoil, and the two were in the doorway no more.

Get up, old man. Still some work to do.

He stumbled back to his feet, feeling as clumsy as if someone just struck him in the temple with a mallet, but he still managed to lumber his body to the other side of the desk. The tawny box was waiting amidst the stacks of papers and half-read tomes. He jimmied the lock a little bit, his fingers fumbling with it feebly for a couple of seconds before he holstered his sawed-off and pulled out Aicha. He turned his face away, fired a shot, wound up disappointed. Aside from a scratch mark at the surface, the lead bullet seemed to do little damage.

“Son of a...” There were more voices to be heard now, some mere groggy mutters, some clear words echoing in the hallways. He didn’t have a lot of time. His fingers were remembering their tricks by then and he set them to work on ejecting the magazine from the pistol. He hastily fished another from the interior of his coat, this one loaded with titanium-tipped bullets, and slipped one bullet out of the magazine. He pulled the slide of the gun back, chambered the cartridge, then let it click back. The titanium bullet went through the box, the desk and the floor, possibly ending its trip somewhere in the basement. The gunshot, though effective, only amplified the clamor coming from below. They’ll be making their move any moment now, Victor knew.

He rummaged through the contents of the box under the low burning flame of the oil lamp, tossing away gaudy jewelry and paper bills that were all the rage in Radasanth nowadays. Beneath them were neatly signed parchments with complicated contracts on them that Victor probably wouldn’t understand even if he had all the time in the world to study them rather than seconds. One of them caught his eye, however, mostly due to a huge emblem on the header that signified the Radasanth Docks Syndicate. It seemed to be a lease for a warehouse on the waterfront, where Jotham DeVir seemed to be keeping his schooner. It made sense, the gunman thought. He was on the run and the quickest way out of Radasanth was by sea. It was still quite a stretch, but after giving the box another onceover, it was the only clue that actually led somewhere sensible.

“Guess we’re off to the waterfront,” he muttered. By then the remaining sentries regrouped and made it up the stairs to challenge the intruder. It was time to dance again.

***

The docks were a miserable sight at any time of day, but they looked particularly haggard during the night. The stench of rotting fish and stale water was the strongest then, and with scarce lamps spreading their weak light through the streets, the buildings looked genuinely decrepit with their rotting thatch roofs and plaster facades that were peeling off like scales off a snake changing its skin. Only here there was nothing beneath save decay and misshapen bricks barely holding together. The only thing that looked alive were the taverns, the smoky hives of activity that spilled light and cheery music through their windows and doors, but even they were losing their vibrancy by the time Victor Callahan made his way from the Government District. His arm was hurting him something fierce by then, all the killing and blood spilling not kind to the gunshot wound he carried. But this was the final stretch, the twelfth round. Couldn’t stop now.

The warehouse looked lifeless, but he knew better. He could feel eyes staring out of those dead black windows. And though he had no way of truly knowing, he felt that Walter was still there. It made perfect sense. Walter Jimes shot Aicha as she tried to flee on a boat from a life she no longer wanted to live. And now Victor would shoot Walter as he fled with a life he no longer had any rights to. It was all coming full circle.

Tossing away his leather overcoat in one swooping motion, Victor drew his weapons and got to work.

[Silence Sei]

The mute only had the word of Angela DeVir, a woman who had just suffered some severe trauma, to give him reliable information. For all that Sei knew, the noble woman was probably sending him into a death trap of some sort. Sei had always advocated his allegiance to the Empire, after all. Rangers were known to be a treacherous sort, at least in the telepath's experience. Then again, if the Ranger felt that the life of her husband would be in danger, then trusting her enemy with information regarding Jotham's location could seem like the best course of action to take.

Sei had once again found himself passing the blurs of greens as they formed to grays. This time however, the Mystic was also met with a murky brown to his side, the water reflecting the a mirror image of Radasanth among its discolored filth. The piers of the docks had seen better days, most of the wood chipped away and cracked from weather and years of erosion. The stench of rotting fish made the orange haired warrior gag at first, causing Sei to slow his pace. Angela had not specified exactly which warehouse her husband was leaving from. Sei's eyes shifted around, his feet carrying him around the area to try and find a warehouse with a spike in its activities tonight. It seemed as though the Hero of Radasanth had managed to arrive shortly before Victor Callahan.

The sounds of gunshots from a nearby building told the mute just how wrong he was. Without having to look, Sei's body instinctively started dashing towards the source of the sound. The very windows of the warehouse seemed to be colored as dark as this particular Radasanth night. The echoes of gun fire continued to fill the large establishment, the mute's eyes shifting towards the double doors that seemed to be the only entrance. The handles had been blown away, barely hanging together by a couple of screws. The entrance had a slight crack of darkness that became illuminated every few seconds by bright orange and yellows. Taking a deep breath, a physical manifestation of the fear he held in his chest, Sei pushed through the doors.

Dead. Every single man that was alive possibly a few seconds earlier had been felled, holes through their bodies as if they were a fine Fallien cheese. Splatters of blood colored the wall similar to the way an artist would splash paint on a canvas. There was still smoke rising from the barrels of the guns that the mute could actually see. His eyes finally settled on the form of Victor Callahan, standing beside what appeared to be a fishing boat, his gun aimed at the last living man in the building, presumably Jotham DeVir. Sei reached out his arm, his mind began to send the message to tell Victor to stop and think about what he was doing.

Before the first letter could even be processed into the gunslinger's mind, the thunder from the gun filled the area one last time.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis arrived at the docks with his hood up, hoping to appear incognito and avoid a potential encounter with the City Watch or even Victor again. A part of him hoped that he would see Silas again, thanking the man for taking the initiative to save the woman. However, none of that mattered any more. The only thing that mattered was Artemis' need to get away, and so he wandered the docks.

With the morning sun peeking over the waters of the delta and casting its golden glow on the countless ships docked in port, those who sought an early start cast off on their ships, hoping for a better catch than the competition. Stalls were set up selling countless wares and the normal bustle of a capital city began to fill the boardwalk and many streets of the center of the Corone Empire. The sound of gulls crying out over the shore and the crashing waves hitting the wooden pillars that supported the docks mixed with the shouts and cries of haggling and greetings. One would never imagine that just hours ago a wealthy man's mansion had been cleared out and countless men killed for the sake of revenge over love, nor would they expect what was still to come.

Artemis found his way into a small tavern by the waterfront and sat by a window, looking out on the shore and cautiously seeking a way out of this dangerous city. Perhaps he would board the ship that he had just departed, heading back home to safety. Then again, maybe something else would come up and give him a quick reason to get away. Regardless of how the young man expected to leave, one thing felt for certain – if Victor saw him again, he would shoot him and kill him.

Still, Artemis did not hold a grudge. A piece of his heart felt a tinge of pity for the heartbroken man, the vagabond thinking back on the years he spent running away from his own past. He did not feel like revenge would truly make Victor Callahan feel free and satisfied. After all, if you live enough of your life just for revenge, what is there after that? Artemis just hoped that Silas had gotten to safety and so did Mrs. Devir.

He thought back on the dehlar safe that he had found in the desk of Devir's office, his curiosity leading his thoughts to imagine the countless possibilities of what secrets lay inside. He hoped that whatever was there, it might have brought some peace to the gunslinger and his vendetta. Because if not, Artemis could only wonder what Callahan would do if he found the man who had killed Aicha, and what that would do to Victor.

[The Cinderella Man]

She isn’t alone.

There are four other people in the study on the second floor and Victor recognizes them as soon as he sets a foot inside the door. They are the few that had stood by the woman at the funeral, the gloomy quartet that had escorted her to the carriage. Though they share little in ways of hereditary lines, he knows they’re probably family, relatives that had the courage to stand next to her in this blowout. But they are startled by his entry, their faces sporting those dumb expressions a person gets when someone catches him in the privy with his pants down. Angela DeVir doesn’t share their emotional state, though. Her swollen, bruised face rises from the papers she had been sorting moments ago and her eyes are like gun barrels, shooting bullets at the visitor. Victor’s hand falls to the holster, fingering the shotgun partially as an unspoken threat and partially as reassurance from the assaulting glare.

“You four, leave,” he growls. Two look like trouble, strapping fellows with blades at their hips and feigned bravery in their posture. After several seconds of dead silence, their hands finally listen to their minds, making quivering moves for the weapons. A voice, sharper than any steel, stops them.

“No! Leave us. You are not a part of this,” Angela orders them, but none of them move. A loyal bunch. Blood thicker than water and all that. “I said LEAVE! I will not have your lives on my conscience.”

Still they stand, but her eyes are adamant and soon they depart in regretful silence, knowing they are likely looking at Angela for the last time. The two women – a niece and an older sister by the looks of it – pierce the dark man with their eyes, certain their gender would save them from any retribution. Victor doesn’t even register them as they scurry out. His eyes are locked on the beaten woman on the other side of an overly large writing desk.

“So, you have come to finish your business?” she asks. She struggles to keep her voice flat, emotionless, but there is a wistful undertone to it. Nobody save the insane faced death with apathy. But she doesn’t cry, forces herself not to. She would not give this bastard the pleasure of breaking her completely. “Fine. Do it. Finish it.”

It is still not too late for him to back out. The last of his rationality cries out to Victor Callahan, imploring him to leave this foolish notion of redemption. But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, his feet take him closer to the woman, slowly, softly, the steps of a man walking to his own hanging, dragging out each step as long as possible. But those seconds pass and now he’s in front of her willowy form, standing defiantly against his dark onslaught. She never flinches, never shivers. She only closes her eyes and waits for the fire and smoke to take her away. But they never do.

She opens her eyes and sees the man on his knees. In his hand is the dastardly weapon that murdered so many, but it’s turned the wrong way. The trigger end is inches from her folded hands, the twin barrels staring Victor Callahan in the face. It was the right way to go. Live by the gun, die by the gun.

The first gunshot struck Walter Jimes in the back, just above his tailbone, cutting off his legs from beneath him just as he ran up the gangplank and onto the main deck of the boat. The fallen man screamed out in pain, but before he even tried to get back up, a heavy boot landed on his back, pinning him to the ground. Aicha thundered in the pre-dawn again, drilling another hole in the man’s back and piercing one of his lungs. But that wasn’t enough for the gunslinger. He took a step away, pulled his foot back and struck at Walter’s ribs with all his might, growling like a rabid beast as he did so. The kick sent the shot man rolling on the drenched deck, his tumble ending with him on his back and crying out in pain.

“Stop this!” the shadowy figure shouted from somewhere, but Victor didn’t even register Silas’s arrival. He was death incarnate, haggard and bloodied, only his burning lust for vengeance pushing him past the multitude of injuries he had acquired in his mad dash. He didn’t know how many times he had been shot and cut back in the warehouse; the entire battle was just a blur of gunfire and the drumming in his ears and Aicha’s blissful face crying out from the depths of his memory. Pain didn’t matter. Fatigue didn’t matter. This was the crowning moment of his life, the one shining moment that would justify all the grim ones. He knelt next to the man, cocked his gun, grabbed him by the hair and brought it to the face that had haunted him for a decade. The only problem was...

“You... You’re not Walter Jimes.”

The face that looked back at him from below was not the one he had expected, not the one he desired to destroy for so long. There were none of the smarmy, self-content lines on the face of his victim, no snake eyes looking up, no thin lips smirking like a man who knew something you didn’t. It was just a man, looking a bit like one of the fellows in the portraits back in the DeVir mansion, coughing blood and wheezing as he struggled to breathe.

Victor dropped Jotham’s head and stumbled away from the dying man, his face struck by disbelief. The cold shower of reality struck him like a two-ton hammer. This was not Walter Jimes. This whole charade had nothing to do with Walter Jimes. Now that there was an innocent man bleeding out at his feet and he looked back at it all, there was really nothing connecting this whole case with Walter. Nothing other than the name on that file. But why? Why would they deceive him so? Was it Leeahn’s doing? Did the Major play on the card of his vendetta, knowing he would stop at nothing to bring this man down? Victor didn’t know. All these questions were bringing him back to the cold, hard present, where the world was still bombarded by the heavy droplets of rain and constant barrages of the thunder gods. He sat back on a spool of rope, gun in his lap, raising his face to meet the downpour.

Jotham DeVir tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth were gurgles as he drowned in his own blood. Victor didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t help the man – no healer could at this point – but the thing that shocked him most was that he didn’t really care to help this man. He listened to his deathly throes and looked at the watery red pool spreading around him, and he felt... nothing? Nothing but more rage, anger at being shortchanged again, wrath towards his superiors. Was this all that was left of him? Just a shell of a man containing an infinite amount of fury? And if that was the case, what was he supposed to do? Shrug it off? Keep on keeping on? Or do something about it?

He got up and walked away from the dying man. Silas was standing on the deck by then, and though Victor couldn’t see his eyes, he was certain they were peering from beneath that hood. And he didn’t care. He walked past the cowled figure without a moment’s pause or a word spoken.

[Silence Sei]

There is no sound more chilling than the groans of a man that is slowly dying. The mute had tried to cast his trademark spell, tried to conjure the glass that could save the life of Jotham DeVir, but it was all for naught. He had been too late, and Victor Callahan had emptied the contents of his gun into the body of his target. The executioner seemed to turn his victim over, probably still enthralled with the thrill of the kill, only to realize what Sei had tried to warn the man of a few moments too late. The Mystic could see the mistake that the man had made through the story his eyes told.

Jotham was in agony, and Victor Callahan's response was to get up and leave the man in an immense amount of pain. As the gunslinger walked by his former ally, Sei removed the hood from his cloak. The orange hair caused the boxer to look towards the now not-so-mysterious stranger. The mute stared fiercely into the mocha eyes of the man. Victor hid his regret well, masked further by a light smile coming from the man. What started off as a grin soon turned into a mocking laugh, a type that truly grated on the telepath's nerves when added to the dying man behind him.

"The self-proclaimed Hero of Radasanth, huh? Sorry if I don't bow at your feet."

"Finish your job Victor. You know he will not recover. Do not let him suffer."

"It's not my job anymore, hero," there was a sting to the boxer's words, he then continued on his way, his shoulder making direct contact with that of Sei's, "Interfere with my revenge again, and you'll wish you were in DeVir's shoes." Sei ignored the threat of the man while making his way over to the dying DeVir. Each step upon the wood planks leading to the man seemed to be some of the slowest steps that Sei had ever taken. In all of his years, Sei had killed in self-defense, he had killed to eat, he had even killed for sport during some of his darker days. There were numerous times that Sei had killed for one reason or another, but this was the first time he would kill out of mercy...

And he hated it.

Sei kneeled down, looking into the pleading eyes of the dying man. The mute closed his eyes and picked up Jotham DeVir, holding the suffering man close to his breast. Sei's skin shivered as Jotham breathed heavily into the Mystic's chest, his heart slowly going from a furious speed to a slow pace. Sei could feel the man try to struggle against him, but the Ranger was far too weak to put up a fight. Steady tears rolled down the face of the telepath while he suffocated the man, finally releasing the poor soul once all movement and breathing had ceased. He stood guard over the body until the dawn's light broke through the windows of the warehouse. He would not allow any would-be robbers to commit sacrilige in this tragic building. The mute certainly did not look forward to telling the wife of the deceased of her husband's fate. Sei would pay for the funeral, and give Jotham a burial he truly deserved.

While the entire area around Sei filled with a certain kind of gloom, and all the mute could think about was Victor Callahan. The coward who would not take responsibility, the man who sought to kill for petty revenge, the man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Sei despised him, detested him with every fiber of his being. The kind of person who would do this to someone was no man at all, but a snake in the grass waiting to strike at the next innocent that wandered into his path. The mute could not allow for such a rampant beast to continue to travel in his city. Sei would find the animal, and put him down at all costs.

Sei Orlouge would not rest until Victor Callahan was dead.

((Spoils - Sei requests that 500 GP be deducted from his account to pay for the funeral of Jotham DeVir))

[The Cinderella Man]

How did it come to this?

Victor doesn’t know. The path he had been walking on seemed so clear at the time, his determination fueled by what he believed to be righteous fury. He didn’t see himself as a murderer then; he was God’s own instrument of justice, bringing the world back in balance one bullet at a time. All the way to Walter Jimes. Walter was the end that justified all means, and the means were dozens and dozens of deaths that he had caused on his warpath. He didn’t kill all those people. They signed their own execution papers the moment they associated themselves with Walter Jimes. It was alright to end them. Hell, he was doing the world a favor.

Only, this whole thing had nothing to do with Walter Jimes.

Leeahn Festian knew about it all along. Victor had confronted the Major on the morning after he shot Jotham DeVir like a dog, walking into his office and bleeding all over his good carpet. The Commander of the City Watch had tried to placate him, offering empty words and half-truths, but Victor saw through it. Leeahn knew. Maybe he didn’t know the details, maybe he didn’t want to know the details, keeping himself on the need-to-know basis just as he kept Victor. Because it was easier that way. If you had a rabid dog on your leash, you didn’t try to talk sense into him. You set him loose and hoped it wouldn’t turn around and bite you in the ass. Victor almost did. He was a heartbeat away from blasting Leeahn out of this world and into next one before he realized it wouldn’t matter.

None of it matters. Nothing save the fact that in his madness he went and did to Angela DeVir what Walter Jimes did to him all those years ago. Sure, the circumstances were different and Jotham wasn’t exactly blameless – he was a Ranger spy after all – but that didn’t change the fact that he murdered Angela’s beau in cold blood, shot him out of spite, in anger, shot him and enjoyed the pain that he had caused. On that night, as he had walked away from the dying man, he thought he could live with it, push the bad mojo aside and chalk it up to disinformation. But soon he realized that every time he closed his eyes the scene replayed itself, and sometimes Jotham was Aicha, and sometimes Jotham was Walter, and sometimes Victor Callahan was Walter on an oddly similar night ten years ago, shooting his beloved in his head.

Now he kneels in front of Angela DeVir, waiting for her to deliver the final liberation from a life gone horribly wrong. He cannot live with himself anymore, his shoulders unable to bear the fact that he is turning into the man he so thoroughly hated. His eyes are closed, the scene in his mind on an endless loop, and he waits for the thunder that will take him away.

But it never comes.

The sound of the shotgun hitting the floor brings him back to reality, where Angela is looking down at him with such hatred in her eyes that he feels she doesn’t need the gun. She can stare him to death with those daggers in her blue eyes.

“I will not shoot you, murderer,” the woman says to him, her voice low and cold. “Not because I don’t want to. I do. Oh, believe me that I do. But death would be an easy way out for the likes of you. No, it’s life that will be your punishment.”

She turns her back to him and looks out of the window, the silky white curtain billowing around her dark form. For the longest time she doesn’t speak, the silence in the room deafening, chilling. “I don’t know what set you on this path of destruction,” she finally says. “But I do know that by walking it, you became nothing but a killer. You’re like a ship in a storm; you’ve lost your rudder and now you’re hitting everything around you. And it’s only a matter of time before you utterly destroy yourself. And once that happens, you won’t need me to pull the trigger. You’ll do it yourself.”

“Now leave.”

He obeys. He never says a word. What could he say? That he was sorry? Apologies don’t cover things like this. He picks up his sawed-off like a beggar picking up alms and he stumbles out of the room. The DeVir family members stare at him as he passes through the foyer, but he doesn’t even notice them there. One of them could probably stab him in the face right now and he wouldn’t make a move to defend himself. Such was the power of her words. They struck harder than fists, harder than hammers, harder than bullets.

Victor knows of two things that can never be taken back once they were unleashed: words and bullets. And after tonight he is certain that of the two, the words hurt more.

((SPOILS: Victor loses 560 GP as per rules of the Blitz. 280 of his GP goes to Sei and 280 to SirArtemis. This is regardless of what we earn for the thread. Also, as for my spoils, just some extra GP for killing a Ranger spy (500 if possible, so I kind of break even. ;)))

[Sagequeen]

Plot Construction ~ 24/30

Story ~ 9/10 – I have to give kudos to you guys for telling two stories at once. I know it couldn't have been easy to make the timing seem as natural as it was. The narrative hook here was most compelling, and present tense of it dropped me right into the action: you see, I already know the ending. Or at least I thought I did. There were interesting dynamics of antagonist and protagonist. On the surface, it would seem that Vic, Art, and Sei are our good guys, taking out a nasty Ranger spy who leaked information that lead to an attack and deaths. However, while Sei and Art maintain the good-guy persona, Vic's is tarnished from the beginning and gets worse as his true motives are revealed. The reader can, to an extent, relate; who wouldn't want revenge for the murder of an innocent? The facade of man vs. man progressively reveals itself through the course of the story to a man vs. himself as Vic realizes he is becoming the man he has been hunting. The twist ending wasn't just an afterthought – it is foreshadowed and absolutely necessary to the story.

Strategy ~ 8/10 – There is no doubt that the main character here is Vic, and he drove the story very logically. It's the tragic tale of a man consumed by the lust of revenge, only to be robbed of both it and his humanity. I don't need to read his character sheet, but if I did, I feel confident I'd find only supporting information. Sei's presence is well explained; he likes to do good yet in doing so much good he's got to do it now incognito. He had a pivotal moment in the story, saving the woman, and Art made that possible by his sense of right and wrong – and his quick adaptation when things suddenly took a turn for the worse. However, I'm not sure why Art is there; it seems he's just drifting, and I didn't get his hasty departure; it felt unfinished. It was a strange thing for him to make an appearance at the docks... and then nothing, except for a somewhat awkward wrap-up for his character.

Setting ~ 7/10 – Let's see if I can explain this: there were good descriptions of the different places, but in some areas the description was lacking, especially at the DeVir mansion and inside the warehouse. What I saw a lot of were front-loaded sweeping descriptions and little consideration after.

For TCM's posts, the setting felt as though I were inside Victor's head, viewing the landscape of his sanity, and the world around him from his point of view. Considering his plot, this is a very good thing.

One thing I came across a few times was the use of cardinal directions as a description. This would be okay if I had some sort of reference, but I did not. One example in post 11:


“When the two at the sidewalk had met one another, only to turn around, the telepath followed the one walking east.”

This gives me nothing. To my east is a large, windowed studio-wall; what actually is to Sei's east? Is it the part of the lawn that butts up against the neighbor's, or perhaps the road? Maybe east is toward the mansion; I don't know. Without a point of reference or a visual, the description is lost to the reader.

There was a setting/continuity issue in the DeVir study – starting with the bookcases. First described as a single, small and black, Art's beautiful description later doesn't match. Overall the different posts give the impression of different rooms.

Characterisation ~ 22/30

Continuity ~ 8/10 – You guys did well here. There was very little that left me not understanding what was happening, or having to go back and read again. One shaky area was the bridge between posts 10 and 11, noted below. Also, the various descriptions of the DeVir study, as noted earlier. The story was centrally based on Althanas' current main event – the Corone civil war – and was true to canon. Additionally, it's a major blow to the Rangers to lose such a high-ranking spy, building on Althanas canon.

Posts 10 and 11: Vic makes a past tense reference to Sei's advance on the mansion. Then in post 11, we go back in time and Sei makes his advance. It's... awkward that the reader is asked to go so far back in time with little explanation or point of reference.

One other thing: Why would Art have taken a boat from Underwood to Radasanth? He was visiting his dad in Underwood, right?

Interaction ~ 7/10 – There were a few issues with some of the action.

Post 9: If Jotham DeVir pays for so many security guards, then why can he not afford a decent lock? The neglected lock goes against most everything said about the mansion, including a reference to fresh paint and other well-kept things.

Post 11: This reminds me of MMO's and aggro radius, where any given guard is mostly blind and mostly deaf. If the guard on the railing would have been asleep, it'd have been easier to swallow.

Post 11: However - I like the way Sei made use of the guards' poor choice of pathing. Should they have kept their pace and walked the same direction, one would have always been watching the other's back.

Character ~ 7/10 – To start with Vic, excellent character development. I cannot offer any criticism here; he is very well written. Well done!

I get a sense of Sei – enough was explained that I come to know him. He had growth/change: he will hunt down Vic and kill him. He acted in a way I would expect him to act from what is presented in this story.

Artemis – I didn't see a lot of growth. I saw action, but it mostly seemed as though he were swept in the wind from event to event, and it didn't affect him at all other than a shallow reflection on his exit post. I also don't get his motivation for helping, or even the reason he's in Radasanth. I see he's got a tie to Knife's Edge, but is he a drifter? Still, you presented him as a good guy, hinted at his not-so-good past, and he didn't really break character at any point. However, I am left wondering why he made such an awkward exit and where he went from there.

Post 9: “Artemis did not understand the reference.” Well you do get your point across, but it's important to let your character and his actions tell the story. Instead, something like: “Artemis gave him a confused look,” would have achieved the same purpose while allowing the characters to tell the story with action instead of the narrator.

Post 10: Here's a gem: “and every second Victor expects, almost hopes, she would look in his direction again with that sharp accusation stabbing at him like broken glass. But she never does.” This, in my opinion, is the epitome of writing. It captures a little piece of everything that is important about writing and packages it in a neat, little collection of sentences. It is also a very subtle foreshadowing of the interaction that will occur later between them.

Writing Style ~ 24/30

Creativity ~ 8/10 – As I mentioned before, interweaving the two stories was a device that really kept me interested. I truly appreciate that it's written in present tense. The reader is standing there with Vic as the story is told, knowing someone died. We assume it's Walter. I wonder who the mysterious woman is until she is finally revealed.

Everyone had some real gems in this category, especially TCM. Kudos.

Post 11: “He had less to patrol, and an easier view, so it made sense that this guard would be a bit lackluster in his duties.” I think the action/setting/description should show this instead of having to explain this. Show it by taking him out, which Sei did.

Post 13: Nice foreshadowing with the portraits.

Mechanics ~ 8/10 -

I want to address the way I docked points for mechanics. TCM: your posts are riddled with sentence fragments. Absolutely salted with them. If I were to dock points for that, you guys would be in the 2-4 range... and I would have done an incredible disservice to your well-developed tone and style. None of the fragments hurt clarity, and in fact, your use of them only added to your posts. It's a fine line to walk, breaking the rules, but you were able to do it. So, what I have done is look for errors that, in your posts, don't match your style or are just outrageously flagrant. Sei and Artie, you have presented more mechanically correct styles so the consideration there reflected the style you were hoping to achieve.

Post 11: “Even as he left the incognito bush, the mute's brisk pace seemed to not make a single sound upon the grass bending beneath his feet.” The bush is in disguise? Incognito used as such doesn't convey the proper meaning. I saw this in another later post as well.

One common error I see is the use of 'was' in the place of 'were' in regards to dealing with 'if.' For example if I 'were' to fall off a cliff, I might die.'

Additionally, be careful using the word 'you.' It breaks the fourth wall and points at the reader. I know, I know. All the cool kids do it. It's a shame I'm not cool.

Clarity ~ 8/10 – Altogether strong. My only problems here were in regards to:

Post 9: “Artemis said as he switched his vision to the infrared spectrum.” I do know what this is, but a little more explanation for someone who doesn't might be helpful. My character, for example, can unleash a bolt of energy. That is not uncommon and needs little explanation. However, for a person's actual vision to switch to infrared is not common (in fantasy :) ). The more creative abilities require more explanation since you must assume your reader has not read your character sheet. Otherwise, the reader might just think you are wearing goggles.

Post 10, 11: Noted above about a break in the action. TCM gives the impression that Sei is already in, then we got back to see Sei fight his way in the mansion.

Post 10: “All things considered, it was a good start. If he had went solo, Victor figured he’d already be about two dozen bullets shorter with half a neighborhood aware of his presence.” On first read, I thought he'd be cut down by 2 dozen bullets. Perhaps a clearer sentence would have 'shorter' replaced with 'short.' Otherwise it either reads that he was shorter physically, or he had fired his weapon already, neither of which is true.

Post 11: A new reader won't get “The Sound of Madness” here. Until I read the last sentence, I thought Sei had simply used his telepathic voice to call out to the guard, distracting him. The name is cool – just wish I knew more about the actual ability.

Post 15: I am assuming the metal of the box is magic-resistant, but it's not stated as such.

Wildcard: 9/10

This was a great read. All of you show moments of brilliance where I feel I should take note. Well done!

Total ~ 79/100

The Cinderella Man receives 1138 EXP and gains 90 gold.

Silence Sei receives 1580 EXP and loses 100 gold.

SirArtemis receives 774 EXP and gains 390 gold.

(Taken into consideration: TMC loses 560g as per Blitz rules, 280g goes to Sei and Art each. Sei pays for DeVir's burial at a cost of 500g. Victor gets his blood money to the tune of 500 clinking gold coins.)

Additionally, I would submit this for consideration as a Judge's Choice. The dual stories and exceptional foreshadowing deserve the recognition.