What the eyes see

[Logan]

{{Open to anyone -- But try not to defer too far from the storyline -- The Rebuilding of the Bandit Retreat}}

Everything seemed darker, perhaps due to the storms well above the tops of the high canopy above the lone weary traveler. He had been on this adventure for more than six months, and all it had yielded unto him was a pathetic ring with an unintelligible signet adorning it's face. The ring was so atrocious in style, he dared not even wear it in public for fear of the scorn and scowls he would surely receive from the well-to-do. It was one thing to attempt to fit in where he had no business fitting in, entirely another to attempt fit in wearing the god awful ring while doing so.

The path he followed wound around and through numerous larger trees, some of which reminded him of the old days of the Bandit Brotherhood. "Ahh, yes, a time of musings and companionship. A time when family and brotherhood meant something," he reminisced to himself. Those were times gone long ago, and yet, in that forest on that day, he felt as close to them as he ever had before. The trees seemed to sway and sing to him a tune he vaguely recalled. It was as if they whistled, but he could not place the tune. The familiarity made him draw upon thoughts of his old friend, Gild.

He owed so much to Gild, and yet had no way, no means to repay him in full. There were even doubts as to whether his friend had any clue as to his influence upon the psion. Their friendship was, all things considered, incredibly short-lived, but it held a deeper meaning. A powerful pact was formed by the one-time leader of the Bandit Brotherhood, and it was the pact which brought a sort of renaissance to not only Concordia. Truly, the renaissance era of Althanas was ushered in by the Bandit Brotherhood, and it's subsequent counterparts, the Red Hand and the Black Hand.

Along the path, the psion would stop occasionally and listen to the whispers of the forest. He recalled the days when the towers of the Headquarters would stand for justice and unity, respect and family. Every member of the Brotherhood was as much as part of his life as he. The whispers spoke of friends long since killed by the wars waged by countless villains and do-gooders. Do-gooders who thought their righteous quest would surely bring them the peace they wanted, yet they were no different in reality than the villains who sought the same result.

The only result any of them ever enjoyed was the deaths of their enemies, or the ones they called their enemies. The innocence lost from that time could never be regained. The villains and the do-gooders all fell and vanished eventually. Every king who arose was felled by some other individual or group seeking power and fortune. As he remembered, he wiped the tears from his eyes quietly.

Moving from the path a few paces, he rolled a few small rocks and formed the original Bandit Brotherhood crest with them. Kneeling before the crest, he removed his swords from their sheaths and tapped them upon each rock in sequence. The psion then brought the swords to his chest, hilt first, and pressed them into himself. It was not a ritual from any time before he could recall, but it felt right. It felt...like he was back in the Bandit Retreat.

As he looked around closer, he saw the markings of the old buildings. Stones, which marked the pathways between the barracks and the library, littered the ground. Some of the wood pillars still stood upright, though most were either hewn into pieces all about the forest floor or razed to nearly nothing. He stood from his place at the small memorial and made his way to one of the remaining buildings, if it could still be considered a building.

Really, it was more or less just a bunch of sticks which had not been burned and stones which had not been moved for other purposes. Still, the small circle of materials, even half-broken as they were, signaled the true center of the old retreat. As he stood, he turned slowly and with tears in his eyes once more, outstretched his hand. Before him the old buildings took shape in his mind. He could see the old barracks, the old washing rooms. He could make out the first wall off in the distance a ways, and then in front of it formed the old officer quarters.

All around him the Bandit Retreat returned to form in his mind. Every log, every stone seemed to find their proper places amidst the organized chaos unfolding around him. Minutes passed, and then hours. Eventually, day turned to night, and even in the pitch black darkness, he could see. The forms of men and women, some he knew and some he didn't, took shape before his very eyes. The sounds of work and joy permeated the silence, and it became clear to him.

Logan was home.

[Dissinger]

It had been awhile since he had been back here. No matter how hard he tried the past refused to remain just that, and with the problems that cropped up with the last invasion of the Bandit Retreat, it of course fell to him to clear it out. He had received reports of someone moving about the retreat, but other than the fact it was a human male, he had nothing forthcoming to go off of. Still, that was more than enough, he had a target and a goal.

He just felt sorry for the poor bastard.

Life was rough nowadays, his daughter was kidnapped, and his wife was frustrated. He was constantly gone trying to figure out how to get her back. It was a vicious cycle of anger and self-recrimination. He couldn’t save his daughter, and in an effort to do so he abandoned his wife, straining the relationship. It was a tightrope he walked, and any chance to vent the frustration he was feeling into a fresh target was a welcome distraction from the problem. His eyes scanning the forest as he walked the game trail he had memorized years before. He was a different man than the Lavinian that had brashly strode into the camp declaring his intentions to join the brotherhood. Had he met that man, he was more than certain he would punch him in the face.

Moving through the tree lines he reached near his target and carefully began to move silently. Years of thief’s instincts kicked in as the man many called demon began to search for his target. A finger laced through an all too familiar metal loop on his belt. With a practiced tug the blade spun from it’s holster reflecting no light, giving no betrayal of the thief’s presence, before slipping into the palm of the hand. He continued to play with it idly, never looking at the blade in his hand as he narrowed his eyes studying the ruins of the once proud home of the Bandit Brotherhood. Remembrance of times spent drunk caused a minor smirk to cross his lips, and the first appearance of the personality that would become Sarah Dahlios.

When had this begun, when had the cogs of fate begun to turn, slowly grinding the Bandit Brotherhood beneath the tired treads of time? It was impossible to know for certain, caught up in the events that would one day see the holdings of the Bandit King Yari Rafanas reduced to such rubble. Yet even then, for a certainty they had loved so much, and fought so long for what they had believed in. Their laughter had echoed clearly beneath the skies of a free man, not slaves to the lords of Radasanth or anyone else…

He shook his head, feeling the reverie was too distracting. It was one thing to yearn for yesterday, but to be hunting someone while doing so was foolhardy. While the he was by far safe from most attempts on his life, he was still mortal. He had been reminded of that fact only too recently, when he had nearly killed himself from exhaustion, pushing when most men would have passed out from the fatigue that had gripped them. Had his will not sustained him in both body and soul, he was certain he would have died in the Night of Debauchery. He had been strung out to the breaking point by his hated foe Cassandra Remi.

There was a name that raised the bile in the back of his throat.

He leaned against a tree as he again chastised himself muttering softly, “Pull it together, you aren’t going to catch anything but a cold at this rate…”

Seth Dahlios was on the hunt, and he was determined to catch his prey. He moved through the forest as quietly as possible he circled the ruins, remaining in the tree line until he saw the man, the twin blades he bore and the silent ritual that brought a smile to his face. The lung popper dropped into the foliage, forgotten now in the moment as his jaw dropped open, in perhaps the first human reaction Seth had experienced in a long time. Immediately he ducked behind a tree and carefully plucked the knife from the ground, leaving no trace of his passing as he spied upon the man, a frown creased his face in worry lines that already had made a home on his features. No longer was he the carefree spirit he once was, but if that was who he thought it was, he wondered just what had pulled that specter from his past.

[Logan]

Nearly silent, he whispered, "Anita."

Anita Orlogue was someone Logan had developed a fondness for when she was but a wee little tyke. Sei Orlogue had been one of his dearest friends, possibly even the only true best friend he ever had. Well, apart from the Lavinian thief, and the one known as Ryan Kale. When he was at his lowest points, the Orlogue's, and more or less specifically, Sei, were always at his rescue.

Every time hope seemed lost, one of the Orlogue's always seemed to show up. Perhaps it was his psionic bond with Sei which delved into the part of Logan which no amount of time or pain could change, or perhaps it was that same fondness he felt for the little girl. Well, at least, he remembered her as just the little girl. He doubted if he could ever seriously see her as anything but the little girl he knew and loved as an uncle would. Then he began to wonder if she even would remember him at all. It had been so long, really, he felt certain she would probably see him as the unchained beast instead of the loving uncle he wanted to be for her -- he committed to be for her. Much like he relationship with Anita, the ruins of the Bandit Brotherhood were nothing more than burned stumps and piles of rocks.

The ruins were empty and devoid of life, but he felt they still possessed something to be shared. There was more there in those ruins than anyone else could see, even those who used to call themselves Brothers. The energy of the area seemed to tickle at something inside Logan, but he remained where he was gazing ever so quietly across the nearly barren forest floor.

At one time, the tumbled pile of rocks off a ways to his right would have been the east tower of the first wall, a watchtower to keep track of who came and who left. A few feet from there lay a toppled portion of the wall, though most of it had decayed to the point of being nothing more than fungal growths. Still, he could make out the chiseled points along one edge, the original intent to ward off those who considered climbing the walls an option. He turned slightly to he left and made out a rock line which signaled the entrance to the barracks. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he raised his fist to his chest and bumped it a couple of times.

Men and women were lost, and even some children. There was a war at one point which ripped the Retreat to shreds, but even then it had been rebuilt. What had led to the ultimate demise of the Bandit Brotherhood and eventually the total collapse of the Retreat they called home?

"Apathy", he projected outward.

He hated the thought of it, because he had succumbed to it all the same. The act of simply not giving a damn was enough to doom the Bandit Brotherhood and the Brothers. It was not the villains who razed the Retreat who destroyed it. No, it was the apathy of the Brothers. The damned cancer had found its way within the ranks, and had overtaken any sense of pride or resiliency they had left. When the Retreat was razed, the Brothers merely disbanded and let it rot.

"We did not care enough to rebuild you. We did not give a damn about your fate. It was our doing. It was our crime, our sin, that bound you to this end," he yelled out into the empty forest.

Taking one of his swords from his sheath, he slid the blade across his finger and drew the Bandit Brotherhood crest onto the bark of a nearby stump.

"You have died and been buried. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Your sins have seen you burned, your fortunes have seen you rot. Where you once bristled with life, you now lay silent with the dead. Graves were erected in your memory, memorials formed in your wake. In your silence, you see the world for what it is. Shameful, sinful, damned to extinction. Some day, everything of this world will be forgotten, will be gone. It will exist no more. You exist no more," he whispered to the bark.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"Your presence is welcome within the Brothers and Sisters of the Bandit Brotherhood. We have a special task for you. If you are interested, please consult with Logan at the Bandit Retreat."

I crumpled up the small note and slid it into the pockets of my pants for the tenth time since beginning my trek through Concordia towards the home of the Bandit Brotherhood. I had yet to get over my marvel over the impossibly swift response of the legendary group towards my interest in joining their ranks--no sooner had I dropped the scrap with my signature on it into the box placed outside the new location of my bookstore that a bird with a piece of parchment greeted me, instructing me to speak with Logan McCloud.

Logan McCloud. A name that hadn't quite left the tips of the tongues of old friends and associates of mine, even though the second incarnation of the Bandit Brotherhood had unceremoniously burned away and was rapidly fading from memory. Logan was a psionic, his powers far more developed than my own, and was spoken of rather fondly by the few contacts I had that had dealt with him and the Brotherhood. It was several days after I was asked to meet him that I was able to learn where the retreat was located.

The trek there had given me plenty of time to reflect as to why I wanted to join the ranks of this organization, and the only ones I could think of were admittedly selfish. After tossing around several different paths to continue my life's travels on, I settled on reopening the bookstore, and redoubling my focus on my alchemy studies--and the Brotherhood could help me with these. I wished to use their network and ranks to acquire unique and rare books for various special clientele, and perhaps a few things for myself. I craved the resources necessary to take revenge upon my family for all the grief they caused me throughout my life. I simply wanted to belong.

And in return, I would offer up my skills to Logan McCloud and his organization wherever and whenever they were needed. Certainly, the family symbol I scribbled down on my "application" would be proof enough of my usefulness.

I paused briefly by a small brook, where a trapper's small shanty once stood but slipped into disrepair long ago. Setting my satchel onto the forest floor, I took a seat upon a nearby rock. I reached into the satchel, pulling out a half-empty canteen, some jerky, a crudely-drawn map, and my compass. The jerky was rather spicy and tough, and took five good seconds before I was able to tear a piece off. I silently chewed as I scanned through the directions written down on the map. This was the last leg of the journey; less than two hours on foot from my destination.

I took a swig of water from the canteen before reaching for my compass. On the map, there was a wavy line that represented the brook I was at. Off to the right, there was a small group of squares, five or six of them, with a dotted line connecting them to a solitary square that sat next to the brook (where I am now, naturally). A second dotted line struck out at a near 90-degree angle in a northerly direction, stopping at a bigger square with "BB" scribbled next to it.

Getting up to refill my canteen with water from the bubbling brook, I reoriented myself with the compass, and struck out for the final leg of my journey.

Several hours later, with nothing but the chirping of birds in the trees and the midday sun to keep me company, I arrived at what was--in the past, of course--the Bandit Brotherhood retreat. It was in worse shape than I had been told, or could possibly have imagined. Decrepit doesn't begin to describe it... Abysmal would be more apt, I believe. In the clearing sat several stone and wood buildings, all of which had fallen apart from time, brutal attacks from the Brotherhood's enemies, and the apathy of the caretakers. I silently made my way through the rubble and ruin, taking in the sights and trying to imagine what this place had once looked like when the group that called this place home was at its zenith.

Sharpened points of stone caught my eye. I meandered towards what once had been a chunk of an outer wall, I guessed, and ran my fingers lightly over the spikes that failed to protect the retreat from its enemies--which must have been powerful indeed if they were able to reduce this complex to nothing more than rubble and charred timber.

I jumped with a start when I heard a voice shout from close by. It was a cry that was filled with... what was it, regret? Sorrow? Anger?

"We did not care enough to rebuild you! We did not give a damn about your fate! It was our doing! It was our crime, our sin, that bound you to this end!"

I turned away from the piece of the outer wall and silently made my way towards the source of the voice, taking care to avoid tripping on the wooden and stony debris that littered the forest floor. Near the edge of the clearing where the retreat sat decaying, I saw a lone figure huddled over the stump of a tree, drawing something on it with his finger and muttering to himself.

[Logan]

The emptiness of the ruins drew out a depression he had harbored for some time. Within him beat the heart of a man intent on reviving one of the most storied franchises in the history of Althanas, and yet he felt absolutely desolate and alone. Nobody could possibly understand what drove him to do what he did. Even though he felt alone, he really and truly was never alone.

All around him, it seemed, friends gathered. Old friends and new friends alike took their places, invisible to him and one another, but there were there nevertheless. As each watched over the psion, they could sense the motive that drove him. It was as if the very ground the Bandit Retreat was originally built upon spoke out to each of them. The tendrils of a long past ideal slipping around their minds and drawing them into its chilling embrace.

Taking another deep breath, he began in earnest, "it is not by coincidence or chance you should join me here this day, friends. Whether by your own thoughts or the driving thoughts of this very place you find yourself standing at the edge of a cliff. You either dive in, head first, only hearing the churning of waves upon the rocks below...or you turn and leave now."

He walked toward a tree, driving one of his shortswords into it with the full force he could muster. The sword found a mark within the flesh of the tree and stuck.

"Each of us finds ourselves here with purpose. For some, this is a chance to chase dreams of successes as opposed to our multitude of failures. For others, this is an opportunity to seek out a way of life. An honest way of life."

The last line slipped from his tongue as he smirked and strode back to the center of the small clearing.

"I know it sounds strange to hear someone proposing to revive the Brotherhood speak of legitimate ways of life, but the reality is we must present ourselves to the world as honest folk. They must believe we have found our way, made amends for our misdeeds and those that have gone before us. Once they are comfortable," he took the other sword from his side and threw it at a tree off in the distance. The tip slid between a crack in the bark and buried itself deep within the flesh of the distant tree.

"That is when we will do what we have been called to do."