Interest from the Scourge!

[Restless Soul]

“Let the hunt begin.”

Amras smirked as he chided. Fate had contributed to his lifestyle, bringing up the teenager like a doting mother. The humble elven child of Olme ruffled feathers as a kid, causing trouble in the most obvious of ways. His parents scolding’s were harsh, their attention even harsher. With it he had learned many skills though, such as how to wield his weapons and natural dexterity. The most important lesson he had learned was not getting caught though. It was hard to scold one when there was no proof he was involved, harder still to suspect the young elf when his mischief was not noticed till long after he was missing.

The city of Scara Brae was different though, it was not the stomping grounds of the youth, it was a world altogether new. He knew the basics of lock-picking and thievery, which served him in Scara Brae as well as Olme. A general business, nothing spectacular or more than a shop of odds and ends, was easily infiltrated once the sun had set and the comforting still night had descended. Systems of detection, such as hidden chimes and dogs, were not so well known. A handful of gold was a bad take for Amras, especially after having spent so much time carefully picking the lock to the shop. He knew, though, that it was a learning experience and many more were still to come that night.

A quick flick of his dagger and the grate was lifted, his body slipping into the sewers like a snake. Barking echoed and reverberated against the walls of the alleyway. The bay of hounds was getting closer, too close for comfort. He hoped the underground passages would be secure and straightforward. The network of rooftops was certainly not an option for Amras, the new buildings a labyrinth to the newest thief in the city. He had no clue how Atelar was going to escape, the two had split up almost immediately by accident. It was certainly a fun new option to have sewers to escape to, as Olme’s were not big enough for a person, but the darkness was overwhelming.

No light penetrated the raw world beneath the city. Amras tucked the meager coin-purse into a pocket along his waist and slowly started away from the slim light from the grate at his back. As he continued his eyes did not adjust. It was pure and perfect blackness that greeted him. His heart began to beat heavily, anxiety attempting to overtake rational thought. It was the first time he had feared the shadows, the first time in his life that he had never been able to see at all. Gloom had a way of gripping him completely. He could feel his chest moving as he struggled to breathe, struggled to calm his nerves and push away the thoughts that screamed to return to the streets… and certain capture.

“Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it…” Amras began to chant to himself in a hushed and quick rhythm as he gasped for air and continued on. His focus was on every scent except sight. He could feel his eyes wide, subconsciously trying to open wider than possible as if it would force the shadows to give way. He concentrated on his chest, the skin crawling as goosebumps were restricted by the tight leather jerkin. His hair tried to stand on end, but met with the soft fabric of the hooded jacket he wore. Grime slipped between and across his opened hand, slick and unknown substances writhed between outstretched and aimless fingers.

Amras pushed back his hood, trying to calm himself. His hair tickled the back of his neck, sending a tingle down his spine and forcing him to shiver. Thoughts of spiders falling from their webs to harass him came to mind instantly. Without thinking he slapped the nape of his neck, the slime of the sewer tunnels mingling with his hair. Instantly he felt sick. Whatever he had unwittingly spread across his neck had stopped the fear of spiders and replaced it with the feeling of cool, gelatinous filth. “Keep moving damn it.”

His booted feet slowly shifted, one after another. The muscles were stiff and rigid, tensed each time his toe was placed and expectant to find solid ground. A rotten scent wafted past him, the humid air thick with the stench of decay. It was warm and gentle against his cheeks, as tender as rays of light from the winter sun, yet felt as if it was being sucked out of the tunnel. The smell was foremost on his mind though, as if the feeling of it did not exist at all. Death, decay, a lingering undertone of feces, and a hint of something metallic that just caught the back of his throat. It tasted like blood, old blood. Holding his breath made him feel better for a short moment, until he released it and a wave of dizziness washed over him and the thought of taking another gulp of fetid air appeared.

In the darkness of the sewers, without the provision of light, he was as helpless as a baby. He could hear scratching on the walls, undoubtedly rodent’s claws tapping the cobblestones as they scurried by. The drop of water from the roof of the sewer was different than any other fluid he had heard. Instead of a plop of purity he heard the gloop-like noise when a drop would strike the liquid he was walking through. Sometimes it was close, startlingly falling within inches of him. Sometimes the sound seemed miles away, and multiple drops fell in a faux-symphony. It was almost entrancing when Amras concentrated on it, a sirens call drawing him deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Time felt meaningless in the void world of refuse. He knew he was moving slowly, could feel as each step pushed aside unknown floating objects that caressed his soaked pants. Without light there was only timeless eternity to dwell on the scents, sounds, and tastes of the sewers. The guards could have given up; certainly they should have once the hounds that led them lost the trail. He could turn back, find that sliver of light that filtered through the traitorously promising grate. He could not have gotten very far, and he was certain the steps he would take going back were assured a solid footing. He could move faster backtracking than continuing his careful gait forward.

“No more,” he muttered. The thoughts were going to be his downfall. Time did not matter, it was going to pass whether he was in the sewers or caught and imprisoned by the guards on the surface. This was a learning experience, he tried to remind himself. It was not as condoling a thought as he hoped it would be. “Just… a little… bit longer…”

[Restless Soul]

Minutes passed, possibly hours. Muck was thicker sometimes and he could feel the grime underfoot when it was. Other times he felt nothing in the sewers waters, and the mind of the elven youth attempted to block his other senses and linger in the thought of walking through a still and clear river. He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. Anything that made him forget what he was doing, where he was, and how little he was going to be rewarded for his trouble was a reprieve. Especially the sound of laughter, that was something that made him almost smile. It sounded like a tavern on a cool night, filled with the citizens and people drinking.

“Laughter?!”

Amras opened his eyes and looked around, able to slowly make out the smooth shapes of cobblestones. His breath quickened as his pace was hurried. What was around his legs did not matter anymore. What he was stepping through and on was in the back of his mind. He ignored the burning of his lungs when they inhaled the rank air rapidly in his excitement. He could see again. Light was growing with every hurried step. He was close, close to the laughter and the area that was once again granting him his sight. In a matter of seconds another grate emerged in his vision, through it the laughter that had given him courage filtered through. Sight returned, he quickly pushed the grate open and scrapped his way out of the sewer, bound and determined never to repeat the same mistake.

“Now, to get back to my room and count my coin and see what Atelar got away with.” The young elf shook off his boots and ignored the splattering of sewer refuse that struck the alleyway around him. He did not look down to see what it was. “Some things are better left unseen.”

The cool night air washed over him, bathing him in with a clean and cold rush. The breeze of the early morning was filled with the scent of the sea, drifting the short distance from the docks. His tongue rubbed against his front teeth. The taste of the underground was disgusting, but replacing it with the normally bitter flavor of the salt-tinged air was a relief. Everything about his experience with the sewer was unwelcomed, especially when the cold wind made his wet pants bone-chilling freezing. It was a new world compared to the sewers, a place of calm.

Quiet before the dawn, the streets of the big city were peaceful. Amras let his purple eyes linger as he slowly crept to the edge of the alleyway. Around the corner he saw roving guards with torches and glittering armor moving dutifully, obviously oblivious to the young thieves exploits streets away. The only other light to expose the rustic buildings and their aged exterior was a single torch within reach. Amras waited for the guards to round a corner and disappear from sight before stepping into the light. He smiled as he made his way past the warm tavern door, listening to the night-crowd laugh over what was sure to be their last drink of the night.

It would be a couple more streets till he found the chosen inn, a dingy place undoubtedly known more for the scum that called the Numarr Slums home. Cheap, efficient, and out-of-sight was the way Amras wanted it though, and the Broken Lion Lodge was perfect. One thing he had learned about Scara Brae immediately was that the Slums were devoid guards, and a perfect place for any budding thief. He only hoped that Atelar had gotten away with more gold than himself, hadn't been caught, and had made his way back to the Lodge. Grab and dash was exciting, the sewers were even something to remember, but having to find a way to break his friend out of a Watch House was going to be terribly annoying.

[VietMyke]

“Let the hunt begin.”

"Hey! Get back here!"

As if anyone would obey a command like that. Atelar gave a half snort as he sprinted through the dark streets. He didn't give a full snort because he had no intention on wasting precious air on derision instead of running. The flaring torches of the guards chasing him were disorienting, and played hell with his eyesight. Atelar didn't dare turn his head to see how far behind they were, for fear that he might trip, or that they might not be as far behind as he believed.

On a dime he made a random turn into a dark alley and sprinted towards the end, where a low hanging balcony to the back of a flat-roofed single story house stood. He bulleted down the alley and jumped for the balcony, grabbing on and pulling himself up as he felt a hand brush against the toe of his boot. Atelar ground his toe into the stone of the balcony and was rewarded by a sharp grunt of pain and a feeling of release on his toe. Pushing off with his foot, Atelar sprinted across the flat rooftop and jumped onto another, and another, as he heard the distant grunting sounds and saw the shadows cast by torches, indicating that the guards were attempting to chase him over the rooftops.

Water, I just need to find some water! the back of Atelar's mind screamed as he climbed another rooftop. He ran to the edge of the rooftop and was about to jump to the next before he saw the ground below and lost his resolve. Somehow he had lost track of how high he was, and how far away the next building really was. It no longer seemed as if he were on a single story building, and it was quite apparent that he was overlooking a plaza. Atelar's eyes searched the dark ground and his mind raced as he attempted to think of a plan. He saw a few barrels below him and a small fountain in the center of plaza. as Atelar's mind began to calculate what he could do, he heard the huffing pants of a man, muffled by a helmet, and he saw long shadows that flickered in orange light. Atelar turned around slowly, his feet still on the edge of the rooftop.

"Alright son, you've got nowhere else to go. Just hand over what you stole, and we'll take you to the Watch House, you've got nowhere else to run." Said one of the guards, holding a torch in one hand, the other on his knee, supporting him. Two other guards bearing torches were in similar positions, obviously tired from the chase.

Atelar peered over the edge and glanced into the open barrels under him. One of them had liquid in it, the other was empty. That would do. He turned back to the guards and smirked.

"Wipe that smug look off your face kid, you're- wait, wait! WAIT!" The guard screamed as Atelar took a step backwards and plummeted off the side of the building.

As Atelar fell, his body slowly lost its color, starting with his appendages, and spreading inwards until it took over his body, until his body was as clear as water. In fact it was water. The puddle that was Atelar crashed into the empty barrel and knocked both barrels over, spilling water towards the fountain.

"Gods!" one of the guards cursed as they made their way to ground level.

When they got down to the ground, the looked all over the area. There was no body, no dead thief who died from jumping off a roof. Just a few overturned barrels and spilt water, trickling away down towards the plaza. No one noticed the water trickling away towards the water, no one cried out in surprise as a large portion of the water continued to trickle past the fountain, and go uphill as it approached the slums. No one noticed the small subsonic rumbles of a laughing puddle as it trickled far away from the guards.

The rather large puddle made its way all the way to the Numarr Slums before it stopped moving, well outside the view of any guards, well outside the view of anyone as well. The puddle began to collect, and grow vertically, until the large puddle resembled a human, completely made up of water. The human of water began to shudder until if burst with a shower of water droplets, leaving a rather wet Atelar standing in the middle of the street, the light sound of water hitting the ground filling his ears.

"Well, its back to the lodge I guess," Atelar chuckled to himself as he pulled out a decently hefty pouch of coin and goods from his pocket, and walked off towards the Broken Lion Lodge, tossing the pouch up and catching it every few steps.

[Restless Soul]

The Broken Lion Lodge was in all respects exactly what anyone would expect a lodge to be in the slums of Scara Brae. The sign was only hanging by a single strand of rusted chain, the other having long since been broken. Age worn paint clung on to the splintered wood, flakes trying valiantly to remain. At one time the three-story building might have been a hub of activity. Posts along the front porch area spoke of old guests with the money to own a horse having once stopped by. The sturdy beams holding up the overhang were stout in their resolve despite the roof itself not having worn well. Amras was sure that it was the type of place that would be raided for scum at any time, but the guard seemed to pay it as much attention as the owners. Tenants were quiet and kept to themselves, which fit perfectly for the young thief.

With hands tucked under arms, trying to warm his long fingers, Amras used his shoulder to shove the creaking door aside. The common room was normally cold and uninviting. A low fire glowing on the far side of the inn hardly battled the cool breeze that rattled against walls and slipped through broken windows. Compared to the streets of the slums, it was a welcome relief though. Amras immediately nodded to the inn-keeper, a heavy set man with scars across his face and reaching up his chest from beneath his stained clothing. Instead of waiting for his ale the elf shuffled towards the fire. After a few jabs with the broken fire-poker and a couple old logs the flame was once again renewed.

He stared intently at the tongues of fire, watching as they danced. It was as merry as the lodge ever got. A couple coins were placed on the table, in front of him so he could watch to make sure the correct hand reached for them. A minute later his ale was set next to him and the sausage fingers of the inn-keeper scooped up the payment. As he had come to expect, the glass was chipped and dirty. Amras grabbed the mug with one still grimy hand and gulped down the piss-water with a cringe. Half the glass was gone before he put it back down and continued warming himself.

“When’s the last time I showered?” The thought came out of nowhere, but he dwelled on it anyway. Olme had been boring, slow, and uneventful compared to Scara Brae. He had left the small town behind. Family and friends continued living in their comfortable lives, in comparative luxury. Clean, warm, not worried about when their next meal would come or how they would afford another night in an actual bed. It was a life he had abandoned to make a way of his own, on his own. What little money he had came from pick-pocketing and petty thievery. “Gotta make your own life sometime. Plus, what would I have done back there anyway? Followed mom and become a Brokenthorn ranger? I don’t even like the woods. Or dad, a guard… hah, the complete opposite of what I’m good at.”

Instead of lingering by the fire, Amras slammed the rest of his mug and left it empty on the table. He nodded at the inn-keep as he passed. The man nodded back. It seemed only right that names had never been exchanged, seemed fitting for the way the young elf was living. He quickly made his way up the groaning stairs to the second floor, third room on the right. The door was half-open, but without a way of locking it that was to be expected. Amras shook his head and pushed the door open completely without looking.

Home sweet home was a room small enough to be his closet at his family’s home. Two beds, barely more than a frame and a thin layer of hay, occupied either side of the room. There was no window, only a slit cut into the far wall. The wind howled quietly as it passed the opening. It circulated around the room and against the opened door. A light tapping made the elf spin quickly on his heels, knife out and ready for whoever had made the noise. Surprised, he found nobody at the entrance, but a piece of parchment tacked to the door. Amras unclasped the sheath across his chest and let his bow and arrows drop on his bed.

“What is this?” Amras sighed as he pulled the piece of paper off the door. A white hand was scribbled on it, a sign. A sly grin crossed his lips. It was a message from the Scourge. Amras and Atelar had caught their interest, and if the rumors were true, this was a sort of calling card. For better or worse, the two had made a mark. “Atelar, where did you get off to?”

[VietMyke]

As the lodge entered his sight, Atelar put his pouch of spoils back into his pocket and trotted towards the light coming from its creaky door, his long hair still dripping small droplets of water. Atelar pulled his hood over his head as he entered the square in which the lodge was housed, his head stayed down, and his shoulders slightly hunched as he reached for the handle of the door.

Before he could grasp the handle, the door opened and a rather rough, tough, and gruff looking man pushed passed him. The man stared into the darkness that hid Atelar's face for only a moment, and then grunted and moved on, without anything else to say. Atelar looked after the man for a moment, shrugged, and walked into the lodge.

The lodge was dingy, and worn, only starting to warm, thanks to the recently rekindled fire. Atelar pulled down his hood and shook his head, his hair flapping about him wildly, sending droplets of water flying throughout the lodge. The barman grunted, irritated, and Atelar grunted back. Something about this lodge, that the only way people ever communicated in there was by grunting. That, or silence. Atelar shrugged and made his way up the stairs and made his way into the room.

Armas was already in there. Atelar streched as he entered and dropped himself onto his poor excuse for a bed. He lounged lazily for a moment before he sat up again, pulling his spoils out of his pocket.

"That run was almost more trouble than it was worth," Atelar said non-chalantly, "What did you make off with?"

Noticing that his partner in crime wasn't paying attention, and was rather staring intently at a piece of paper. Atelar got up off his pile of hay and walked over, peering curiously at the slip his friend was holding.

"Hmm.. Whatcha got there?" He asked, not really able to see what it was.

[Arden]

Arden Janelle had learnt, long ago, that to live a life of peril and crime would always end with catastrophe. Fortunately for him, there was no life left in him to end, and the ill portended catastrophe would not his own. Of late, he had started to wish it was. Stagnation was the worst fate, worse than death for a playwright, and for Arden, though no scribe or purveyor or oratory bliss, if there were no heartfelt songs to sing or dances to dance, in blood or joy, then he didn’t see the point. Deciding on wherever or not he was going to sit and wait for that stagnation, or reach out and grab life once again firmly by its testicles had been a long, hard decision for the swordsman to make.

“A white hand for a new beginning, for a life to be lived,” he said softly, a trickle of blood rolling down his chin from the right curve of his lips, “and a red hand for death, of a friend and mentor.”

As he stepped out of the lodge and into the cold, the chatter of voices still fresh behind him, the Hound of the organisation known as the Scara Scourge smiled at the irony in his words. Twisting the meaning of his own mantra to a metaphor of sorts made him feel more at ease with what he had just done. Somebody had gotten themselves noticed on the cobbles and breeze, and that had not happened in a long, long time. For the occasion he wore nothing more than light brown slacks, a tightly pulled red sash about his waist, and a red demi-scarf which he pulled up into a hood.

He carried no blade with him, but held in his fingertips he felt the tingle of blood magic, ready to stay the sword arm of any foolish charlatan should they so wish to strike him when he was merely out for a stroll in the moonlight.

Of course, people had tried, called black sacrament and foul weather to their aid in a bid to try and solicit the audience they so longed for with the mysterious Master. Arden himself had been the last person to do so, and that had been nearly five years ago. Scara Brae, it seemed, was a safer place since the organisation had plied it’s influence to making crime less visible, and the streets supposedly safer.

The night, though, was still young, and whilst Arden’s message would plant a seed of curiosity and a thirst for ventures new in the two gentlemen’s hearts and minds, the swordsman had much to do to prepare for their inevitable arrival at the great, gnarled oak that stood at the heart of the old district of Panama. Planted in a large circle of red brick which it had long since outgrown, the tree pushed up the cobbles in long hairline fractures, a desperate show of strength from a tree that had witnessed some of the darkest tragedies the city had known.

It did not take Arden long before he turned another corner, seemingly moving through the streets with such speed and determination he hadn’t noticed time’s passing, and glanced up at the tree.

“Hello old friend,” was his customary greeting.

Pinned, tethered and glued with spit and polish to the trunk of the tree was a menagerie of messages. There were tattered and yellowed messages from yesteryear, unsolved and unwarranted, and newer, elegantly inscribed requests and declarations on matters of the heart and mind and revenge. Arden sometimes stopped the hectic pace of his life to stand, arms cupped into the small of his back and read them solemnly. Whilst he seldom remembered their contents for longer than it took to walk away, he felt duty bound, fated, destined and bound to show his face before the edifice of his office.

“A new courier shall come to you this night,” he stepped closer, stopping only when the tips of his heavy boots touched the rim of the tree’s plantation. “Be gentle with them, I do not think they will like what your siblings have become…” He looked down at the dirt, and silently mouthed a count of the small markings he had scratched into one of the more intact bricks when he had left his own message all those moons ago.

His intentions had been so innocent then, providence of the troupe, his true family had demanded he play the charade of a would be White Handed warrior. He could not have known then that he would rose, so grandiose in his blood wreathed maelstrom to be where he was today. The prospect of tutoring new blood in the family was almost sickening, a rolling, churning twinge of excitement. He smelt the carnal possibility, the iron in his nostrils, the fell wind of the night air carrying dockland perfume and seedy underbelly scent through skies and it made him dizzy.

All he had to do now was await their arrival. Then, they would cease to know sleep, freedom, rest, happiness.

There would be only the Golden Hall and the dagger’s thrust symbols of the Scourge and the protectorate of its members.

[Restless Soul]

Atelar entered the room directly after Amras had grabbed the symbolic note. The young human, the same age from what the elf could remember, was damp and dripping. It was a side note to the fact that he seemed to have a bounce to his step. Whatever had happened after the two had split did not matter anymore, despite the many questions Amras had. He gave the boy a sideways glance as he fell on the bed and sent a cloud of dust into the air. Turning his eyes back to the parchment he sighed. “So nonchalant for such a narrow getaway.” He commented under his breath, a comment that went unnoticed thankfully.

Amras let his amethyst eyes drift to his friends and watched as his hazel eyes darted. “It’s a white hand. It was tacked on the door.” The elf handed the paper to his partner and began to pace between the opened door and his bed. He wiped his hands on his pants and rid his fingers of whatever grime was left on them from the sewers. As he paced he put on his leather gloves and rubbed his chin in thought.

“That is a mark from the Scara Scourge. They’ve either noticed us because we are what they are looking for, or it’s a warning. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. If they were mad they would have put a red hand on the door and we’d be hunted. No, this is a good sign. It means we’re getting somewhere.” Amras paused for a second, looked at Atelar, and smirked. “We need to get to the Message Tree. It’s in an old district a bit away, but we need to put a note on there or chant something, I don’t remember right now.”

Without waiting for a reply he quickly moved to his bed and strapped on his bow. What little he had managed to get away with was pocketed along his belt, to be counted later. His tone was joyful and excited as he chattered on. “Forgive my rambling, and hurry, but we’ve got to go. I think it’d be best to get this matter taken care of first, before the sun-rise. Come on!”

((Go ahead and lead us to the tree.))

[VietMyke]

"The Scourge? Thats a pretty serious crowd we're dealing with," Atelar mused as he pulled a small rucksack out from under the cot that was his bed and tossed his little bag of spoils into it. He slipped the rucksack underneath cloak, following his partner in crime as they left the little lodge, heading towards the 'Message Tree' in the old Panama District.

The Human thief nodded to his Elven counterpart and the two took off down the streets, making their way to the Panama District, in which the tree they seeked resided. As they ran at a rather leisurely pace, Atelar shot Armas a look. "You think those guards are still looking for us?" The pair skidded to a stop, as the telltale glow of a torch became visible, and a rather sleepy seeming guard walked by, not actually surveying the area as he should, and therefore not noticing the pair of thieves that were barely illuminated by the torchlight.

Atelar shrugged and grinned, "I guess not, or word just gets around really slowly."

They were in the Panama District now, a considerably darker, less monitored part of the city. The kind of place a normal person wouldn't want to be caught wandering around at night without a weapon. Several of the buildings in the area were partially torn down or abandoned, and the few houses with lit lights had window coverings so thick, you could only barely see the outline of the light in the window. The streets were paved with wrecked cobble, small holes dotted the street and small piles of cobble found its resting places in small corners.

The tree they were searching for was none other than a gnarled oak in the central plaza of the district. The plaza was poorly kept, and it didn't seem as though many people came to the plaza to socialize. The plaza however, as empty as it was, it was not abandoned. The proof came in the fact that messages and slips of paper covered the Message Tree, some whiter papers signifying recent requests.

"Well.. We're at the tree.. What now?" Atelar asked his Elven partner quizically.

[Restless Soul]

Amras had never ventured into the Panama District; it was one of those places that had very little reason to be visited unless there was a set goal in mind upon doing so. It was a lesson in the degradation and evolution of larger cities such as Scara Brae. Numarr was an area known as the slums, but how long had it been that way? At one time the elven thief could have pictured Numarr as something better, old remnants of the past glory the Slums once held were evident. Old hitching posts and age-worn signs tried to cling to the way things once were. Panama was different though, it was what Numarr would turn into in decades. As the city grew and better area’s were developed and populated the Slums would move slowly to a new area, leaving behind a ghost town district like Panama was.

Doors hung haphazardly from hinges long since rusted on more than one of the buildings, creaking quiet complaints to anyone who would listen. Signs to buildings had been torn down or broke on their own with the passage of time. Amras could see a board across one window that looked like an old sign, though it was fractured and barely retained its former shape. What windows did have light were poorly lit, as was the rest of the area, leaving the two young thieves alone in silence. It was almost impossible to imagine what the area would have once looked like, but the young elf didn’t bother trying either.

The knotted and old tree was the only remnant of the past that still stood tall, though even it looked tired and full of sorrow. Its roots stretched from the base, cracking and breaking through un-maintained streets. Where once people had ruled, there was only nature left to contend with the unkempt district. Amras shrugged to Atelar in response, not sure what was supposed to come next. He knew there were words that he was supposed to speak, and had heard pieces of it spoken about since he had come to the city. The problem was, however, he was completely unsure as to what the next course of action was.

“From what I’ve heard there’s some ritual like chant we’re supposed to say, and we leave a note? Or maybe say a prayer?” He shrugged and walked towards the tree slowly. On the ground were notes scratched into the stones themselves surrounding the Message Tree; etched into the street, loose cobblestones left at the base of the tree, and along the ancient stone border. He reached out and turned the edge of a small piece of paper to look at a note. It was worn with weather and age, ragged and barely clinging on, but the language was one he did not recognize. “I’m not one for praying, personally… especially not to a tree.”

Amras nervously laughed and looked back to the human. He smiled and shrugged again, and Atelar shrugged back. “Hmm…”

“I know the white hand is life, and a red hand is death, but I’m not sure if we wait for the Scourge to come to us or not? The saying is something like that, but the last bit is the part I don’t know. Wonder if we’re supposed to just wait?” The elven lad plucked a lone nail from the tree. Whatever request had been supported by the little metal spike was either answered or lost. He took the white hand mark and pushed the nail through it and the hole it had already occupied. “Let’s take a seat and wait and see what happens…”

He turned and shifted his bow-sheath, dropping to his backside with his back against the rotten face of an old building. Worn out, he had no clue what else to do but wait.

[Arden]

The very second Arden heard footsteps; he pounced up the tree like a cheetah, clearing the trunk’s cragged heights in a matter of moments. He settled onto a wide branch and disappeared into the leaves, aided by the soften shadows of the evening’s descent. Something about the atmosphere in the home of the two would be Scourge initiatives had screamed enthusiasm, and when they appeared so soon behind him, he smiled.

“You haven’t lost your touch Blank,” he whispered, a smirk curling his lips into a satisfied grin.

It did not take them long to arrive at the foot of the tree, and from his vantage point, the swordsman traced their note, their hairline and their shoulders. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they carried themselves practically guaranteed a successful time amongst the Scourge. Swagger was half the talent you needed in this city, skill and luck was the other.

With the pledge of oath spoken, and both would be members rested, Arden waited just long enough for them to feel uncomfortable. He shifted his weight, and in a blur of crimson cloth and toned musculature, he descended like an angel from the branches of the tree. His feet connected with the battered stonework of the planting and his knees bent enough to break his fall. With hands splayed, neck straight and eyes set on the one named Amras, he let his smile fall into a neutral expression and straightened his back so that he stood upright and proud.

“Greetings gentlemen, I bring a message from the Scara Scourge.”

He produced a small envelope from the folds of his attire, and turned it several times between the busy fingers of his hands. It was a neatly folded vellum envelope, with a red wax seal clasping the contents tight in secrecy and intrigue.

“You will see me again, no doubt,” was all he added, letting the sound of the envelope falling in a spiral to the cobblestones add a dramatic end stop to his lack lustre introduction.

Before either gentleman could protest, he had turned and leapt through the trunk of the tree; he vanished in a medley of blue ribbons and a pompous melody of drums and high trills.

The letter came to a standstill, just as the ribbons faded from view.

Its contents read, scribed with a cautious, well trained and theatrical hand:


To the few brave souls who scour lethargy from their souls,

If you wish to join the Scara Scourge, then to the Remedy of Atlas tavern you must go. It lies in the Numarr Slums.

Tell the barkeep that you'll pass on the drink because you're quite fond of a dry tongue, and you will be introduced to the Hound, the Gatekeeper.