A Clean Pair Of Hands

[Izvilvin]

It was early morning in the city of Atatia, a moderately populated port on Alerar's main river that sat firmly in between Ettermire and southern Etheria Port. The first signs of morning had begun to creep through the city's high treeline, dotting the roads and the homes with bright, peeking rays of light. Moist air greeted those who rose alongside the sun, coasting along the modest stream that split the city down the center.

The early risers had dwindled to but a handful over the last year. Once an important hub of trade for the region's main city of Ettermire and a stop-off spot for traders from Etheria Port, Atatia once produced half the meat, vegetables and fruit consumed in the capital. Now the remnants of the city's once-vital legacy littered the area; abandoned pens with broken, jagged fences, grey stalks of abandoned crops, half-eaten by the local wildlife. Only three farms remained functional, and their keepers exited their homes at nearly the same time to begin the day's work.

From an ornate archway located at the front entrance of the town, a city guard peered inward, gazing through Atatia as if observing more glorious days through magical eyes. He had witnessed this land's hayday, when the sun's rise signaled the awakening of everyone in the city, when shipments north to Ettermire left thrice a week. It was a life and a routine that he had grown accustomed to, grown to love - but like everyone else in Atatia, the guard watched as the quality of life and the presence of purpose eroded.

His eyes focused then, coming back to reality. They were set firmly on a specific home on the other side of town, a building that no normal Alerian eyes could make out the details of from such a distance. Unlike other aspects of the city, it showed no signs of deterioration or abandonment. It appeared to be freshly painted, decorated with fresh flowers on its porch and planted in its garden. Its door remained closed, however, for its owner had no need to rise any earlier than he desired.

The one who lived there was enigmatic, likely by design. He was named Il'Valli Dormae and was an older drow, often seen walking the roads of the city with a slight limp and a gleam in his eye. He spoke only cursory words to the inhabitants of Atatia and seemed not to have a close friend in the world.

Izvilvin had lived in Atatia for three years and embraced his new life as a city guard, devoting himself so wholly to starting over that he no longer went by that name. Certain aspects about himself he could not change, however, and so he had seen things, heard things. Dormae had moved to this smaller town from Ettermire a mere year ago, but details on why were scarce. One thing was obvious, however, and that was the closeness in timing from Dormae's arrival and the sudden accidents which plagued Atatia's shipments.

Izvilvin, who would have been unrecognizable to those who had known him years prior, still stood with an easy grace which gave him the appearance of a loafer. He looked to be resting, while he leaned comfortably against the gate arching over Atatia's entrance. Gone were the heavy hilts of his trusted blades, the leatherbound handles of his sai, all replaced by the city guard's iron broadsword and shield. His eyes peered out over eyebrow-length bangs, and he was clean. Cleaner than he'd ever looked.

Killing Dormae without a soul knowing who had done it would have been an easy matter for the ex-assassin, but redemption led in the other direction. It led toward proving Dormae's guilt and imprisoning him, as any city guard in any civilized city would try to do.

A morning bird sang its song in the distance, likely as it bathed in Atatia's stream.

[The Trap Master]

"Miss Romaine," an exasperated sigh escaped the lips of the aging man, "I told you, I'm retired. I worked as part of the guard, and retired, then after a few years as a private eye, I retired from that as well. I'm completely out of the investigation business."

John Shelby walked down the Aleraran street of Atatia with an elven girl. Though the woman appeared to be in her teens, she had made it perfectly clear that she was over two hundred years old. Elves always were a confusing species for the gray haired Shelby. The girl, Amana Romaine, had sought out the former detective when she had heard he was vacationing in Alerar. Though he had completely rebuked any offer to help her family, he had been talked into having a nice lunch with the elf's family. John looked up into the sky, the sun being blocked from view every now and then by passing clouds. He chewed on a piece of straw he had acquired when he first entered the country, a way to calm himself and to try not to think about other activities.

"Mister Shelby," Amada began her reply, her human tongue not as good as her elven, "We need your help. It is, how you say...vital? My family depends on trading. With what has been happening, we will be forced to.... what is word for finding new home?"

"Moving," John continued chewing on his strand of straw, his eyes shifting back to the blue haired elf, "The word you're looking for is your family will move. And I'm sorry, but I just can't h----"

"Mister Shelby. This Mr. Dormae needs to know there is lesson to be learned."

These words, and the way they had been spoken with such sinister undertones, caused John to grab the young elf by the shoulders. He immediately threw her into a nearby alleyway, praying no locals had caught sight of the event. John pinned Amada against the wall, the elf struggling to break free of his grasp. He could feel the boney collar bone underneath her cotton white shirt. In this close range, she smelled of daffodils. It would be pleasant if the girl had not just hinted that she knew John Shelby's dark secret.

"What do you know?!" Though his voice was hurried, he maintained a whisper.

"Enough, Mister Shelby,” Amada spoke as if the man's hold on her was a strain on her body. When she finally did shimmy one shoulder out of the hold, "Enough to tie you to Trap Master. If you help my family, through whatever means, your secret will be carried to grave. If you still refuse, I will tell what I know."

John growled. He hated being blackmailed, but this girl had the upper hand. John Shelby had never taken a life by his own hands, just through his contraptions. Therefore, to kill this young girl now would leave too many variables up in the air. Releasing Amada with his spare hand, the Trap Master nodded.

"Fine, I will help."

((Apologies for being so late on this, have had a hectic little Sunday.))

[Izvilvin]

"Can't you just lend us a half-score to make sure the shipment makes it?" an exasperated voice pleaded.

Izvilvin shifted his weight to turn his ear toward the commotion. Only a few minutes had passed since the city awoke, but already a haggard-looking, exasperated drow woman had burst through the door of her home and marched across Atatia's main road to argue with one of the city's two guard captains. Torn and tattered work clothes clung to her muscled limbs, looking as if they'd turn to dust if a strong wind picked up.

The captain sighed. His life, too, had become a balancing act between delegating guards and trying to keep the city's citizens safe. Izvilvin had watched him age over the past year, growing new wrinkles and seeming to invent a new way of groaning. "We can spare only one, madam, please understand. He's experienced, an ex-scout and a former member of the Old Alerian Army."

The woman's worried face curled up into a furious one, scowling in anticipation for what she believed what was to come. She lifted a hand and for an instant, Izvilvin worried she would strike at the captain; however, she merely held up a finger. "Not one shipment in two months has made it to the capital! Not one! My family would be cast out if we hadn't saved so much beforehand."

"Madam. Mere bandits will be easi-"

"Bandits!" the woman spat, her face exasperated. "There is only one, and we watch you stand idly day by day and do nothing to stop his thieving!"

She stormed back the way she'd come, no solution in her sight. The captain would not have responded even if he'd had the chance, for he knew not what to say.

Izvilvin watched her progress, saw her enter a small clearing in front of her home where a wagon sat half-filled with various vegetables. It was a good crop, worth a livable amount in Ettermire, but she seemed to know better than to expect it to arrive safely. But what could she do?

The warrior made his way to the guard captain, whose eyes remained fixed upon the drow farmer as she set about her work. Izvilvin could see the weariness in his eyes as he stood before the city's barracks, a place where he'd stood every morning since Izvilvin had wandered into Atatia for the first time. "We truly can't spare more?" he asked.

The captain groaned as if irritated by the question. "We have our operation in place and need as many eyes here as possible. This includes you. The guard we've got accompanying her was a scout, and we're hoping he'll be able to get some kind of clues."

Izvilvin knew better than to gather hope from those words. Atatia once employed scores of militia to protect the important trade, but many had moved to Ettermire as the smaller city's troubles piled up. More importantly, Atatia's remaining guards had no training in espionage, in gathering information - it was a rare thing that they had to gather evidence against a citizen who was sabotaging shipments, as it was in each resident's best interest for Atatia to flourish. Whatever the nature of Dormae's motivation, he was hoping for the opposite.

Of course, Izvilvin knew that he could gather enough evidence to prosecute and imprison Dormae. It would be fairly simple to capture one of the goons he hired to hijack a shipment and interrogate him, but it was better not to stand out. For one who wished to shed his dark past, Izvilvin wanted nothing more than to hide his talents... even at Atatia's expense.

And so he responded with a mere "Let us hope," and rested a hand against the hilt of his old, chipped sword.

[The Trap Master]

((Apologies for such a late reply, could not think of anything for a while))

John slipped on a simple brown shirt, one that had been tattered from hard work and smelled of sweat. His graying hair rustles against the cloth, causing him to scratch the back of his head. He looked cautiously at the simple cart that belonged to the Romaine family. The wood seemed chipped here and there, but was in overall good condition. A horse stood at the front of the thing, standing as proud as the people of Atatia.

The cart held four barrels upon it. In the first barrel, there was the wheat that Amada’s family had sacrificed the sweat of their brow to earn. In the second barrel were miscellaneous clothes, something that could be bartered in hopes of new funds. The third barrel contained several things John had requested specifically for this assignment. He didn’t ask Amada how she obtained the things, and she did not ask John why he needed them. She would find out, eventually, because the fourth barrel contained a contorted Amada Romaine.

As John approached the cart, the fourth barrel’s top slid open ever so slightly, a pair of eyes peaking out from the darkness within. “This plan, Mister Shelby. You are certain it will be working?”

“Yes,” John sighed, reaching onto the cart and grabbing a straw hat. “Nobody in the village, with the exception of you, knows who I am. They’ll think I’m a simple hand here to help your family. When they raid these barrels, you just remain hidden and stay quiet. I’ll find you. Then we should have enough evidence to convict Dormae.”

“Mister Shelby, I do not want conviction. Alerar system is much different than Corone’s. I want to see Dormae suffer, as he has made my family suffer. You do this for me, and I will keep your secret.” John raised his eyebrows, hoping to dig some more information out of the talkative girl. Instead, he got a warning.

“I have informed family that if I am not to be heard back from in two days, they are to mail letters I have hidden in my room to everyone they know. Letters tell of you being the Trap Master. So do not be trying anything funny.” Amada sounded more serious now, though there was still that little girl pitch into her accent-laden vocabulary. The elf’s eyes slipped back into the inky blackness, the top of the barrel resealing.

John let out a grunt of frustration. Amada had thought of everything. Perhaps, in another life, the girl would have made a suitable apprentice. She was the only one; it seemed to ever figure out his true identity. However, John’s hatred towards being manipulated made such an alliance impossibility. He slapped the rear of the horse, grabbing the reins that dangled beside its neck and leading it towards a gate on the outskirts of town.

He would do as Amada asked. He would punish Dormae for all of his sins. However, there was also the loose end of Amada Romaine to deal with, and while John Shelby had never killed an innocent person through his various death trap puzzles, a thought danced in the back of his head. Maybe, just maybe, he would have to kill someone who did not deserve it in order to preserve his alter-ego.