Killing on a Prayer

[Gunther]

Knife's Edge, Salvar
a half hour before sunset
Günther had traveled to Knife's Edge a few times when he served with the Militia. The church and government troops went head to head here on more than a few occasions during the civil war and the Vyborg Militia served on the side of the Church of the Ethereal Sway. It was here at Knife's Edge where the Church's forces met a sad fate. The southern quarter was badly damaged, but Günther had left the city with the Vyborg Militia prior to that event. The last time he walked these streets, the city appeared to be prosperous. Those days are long gone. Many of the stone structures were abandoned during and after the war. The northern sections of the city are thriving now and construction is going on in the south, but the people here have a lot of work to do, to get Knife's Edge back to its pre-war grandeuar.

He crossed the stone bridge over the Testhan River and walked into the city. He had left his mule at the Order's stable. He wore the same leather jerkin he crafted for himself years before. It served him well and fit comfortably from years of wear. He carried his axe and seax. The sword and bow were left with the mule at the order. His steel helm was not needed either. It would draw too much attention. His current assignment wouldn't require him to engage in direct action against a military threat.

This assignment was more covert. He needed to learn some things about a man. Someone whom he should respect. Someone who, in another world, he would have respected. But that life is far behind him. He is no longer concerned or interested in those issues. He does not share the same values with his mother and father. His new life does not permit such frivolities, luxuries and niceties; whatever word you wish to use. Günther could hear his mother's voice stating in her warm appreciative lilt detailing the many fine qualities of this pious individual. He really did not care. He tried desperately to push such throughts from his mind. He focused more on the dilapidation of the city than the assignment or his mother's views. Günther headed toward the Jilted Glacier, a pub in the southern quarter of Knife's Edge, now known as Rubble Town.

Günther recalled visiting this section of Knife's Edge over five years ago. At that time, it was a beautiful place, with rising spires and sculpted architecture. But today, even as cold-hearted as he had become he was taken aback by the deplorable conditions set in by the destruction from the war. He searched the few shingles remaining for the one identifying the Jilted Glacier. Within several minutes, he was standing outside the front door. This was one of the few buildings in Rubble Town that had been completely restored since the end of the war.

He pushed the heavy oaken door inward, feeling the blast of warmth coat his soul upon entering. "Good health to all here and may the Gods look favorably upon thee," Günther spoke the greeting he'd always spoke when entering a guest house, pub, inn or other establishment where people gather to socialize. It was something the people of his village always did. He'd heard many other men say this. It was one of those accepted customs everyone from Salvar did when entering a social establishment. It let everyone there know that this person was from the land. He was not a foreigner. He knew and understood the customs. The statement actually removed eyes from him. People who tend to assess a stranger, would feel relaxed, complacent knowing that this man was one of their own. For those who entered without the greeting were held both in contempt and suspicion of being up to no good.

"Good health to thou, my good man," the barkeep returned the greeting to Günther. The man appeared to be in his early fifty's about 6' tall with graying temples and lines at the corners of his eyes. He had a swollen girth about the midsection covered by a filthy white apron. A smile hidden under a brown shrubbery trapped between his upper lip and bulbous nose expressed some warmth in his demeanor. "What can I get you, my Skavian friend?" Obvious, from Günther's appearance he hailed from the north. The barkeep had seen several Skavians in the Jilted Glacier over the years and could tell that was where Günther was born.

"I'll take a pint of yer finest mead, my good man," Günther spoke in hushed tones as he drew closer to the bar. He scanned the pub looking for a place to sit and to see who was there. A fair number of patrons seated around tables, playing games, having dinner or engaging in conversation. There were fewer empty tables than full. After dropping a few coins on the bar, hefted his beverage and took a seat at an open table near the window. He sipped at the harsh liquid, which cut across his tongue and stabbed at the back of his throat as it washed its way down into his stomach.

He was meeting a man here. Someone who would help him with his assignment. There was a great deal to learn about their target. They had a lot of work ahead of them. This could take a while to accomplish. Günther sipped his mead. The Order told him Greenwolf was shorter than him, by maybe five inches, average in appearance and build. He wore his hair short, right about neck length. Günther considered it short by his standards, as he wore his hair halfway down his back. Most of the men from Skavia did. This Greenwolf fella had a short beard as well and dark green eyes. Günther laughed when they told him he had dark green eyes. He'd never met anyone with dark green eyes before and he figured that was such a distinctive characteristic, why didn't the man at the order mention that first? In this lighting, he probably wouldn't see the color of his eyes anyway. So, he sipped at the mead inside the Jilted Glacier in Rubble Town, on the south side of Knife's Edge waiting for Mr. Greenwolf. Of course Günther didn't know the man's real name was Greenly Wolfshadow; bureaucracy at its finest, always getting some detail incorrect.

[Greenwolf]

Just outside Knife's Edge, Salvar, early afternoon

Greenley woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. It took him a moment to realize he was not about to drown. He took a few deep breaths, and then cursed himself for his weakness. He didn't usually remember his dreams, but he had had a nightmare about this 'Bill the Black' fellow almost every night since the phantom had given him his initiation contract, and it usually ended with Bill filling Greenley's lungs with water. Greenley shook himself and looked at the sky. It was still several hours before sundown, but he had a lot to do.

First he put on his disguise, then quickly cleaned up his campsite, scattering the ashes from his campfire, brushing out footprints, and generally trying to leave as little trace of himself as possible. When he was satisfied, he stowed all his gear -besides his set of darts - in a large canvas sack and hid it in a hole he had dug under a rock at the egde of the clearing. Then he settled himself on the rock to meditate. He smoothed out the last few ripples of fear from his life force, then let the events of the last few weeks drift through his mind.

Aside from the nightmares, his journey from Archen to Knife's Edge had been quiet. He used the villages along the way as test subjects, perfecting the disguise he intended to use in Knife's Edge. He finally settled on Freddy the Nose, a veteran of the war with a slight limp that drank too much, bathed too little, and, as the name suggested, had an unfortunately large nose. His outfit consisted of a ratty cap to cover his ears, a pair of rumpled shirts, stained with grease, and a pair of ill fitting trousers, held up with a knotted rope. Freddy had limped into the city a couple of days ahead of the scheduled meeting with the twist from the Order. He played the part of the tourist, wandering about the city, gawking at the buildings (he seemed especially impressed by St. Denebriel's Cathedral) and drinking his way into Rubble Town's seedy underworld.

Feeling much more centered, Greenley, now playing the part of Freddy the Nose, limped out of clearing and headed towards Knife's edge to do his daily rounds before his meeting with his fellow initiate, Günther. The guards at the bridge had seen him before, and aside from a guffaw that was poorly covered by an exaggerated cough, he crossed without incident. Once inside the city, he went straight to the Castle to stare open mouthed at the towering walls, and to watch the shift change of the guards. Then he made his way to St. Denebriel's Cathedral, admiring its massive size and unique architecture, all the while timing patrol routes around the exterior. Assured that the patrols had not changed, he wandered inside to poke around. This time he managed to roam around for almost a half hour before a priest upbraiding a young initiate stopped him.

"Excuse me, my son, how might the Church assist you?" he said impatiently.

"Yes, Father, I would like to see Father Peterson?" Greenley said, trying to project an air of obsequiousness.

"Ah, one of those," the priest said. "As you might have guessed, had you thought about it, Father Peterson is quite busy. I, however, would be happy to help you."

Greenley had to swallow a snort. This priest looked neither happy nor helpful. "I was so moved by his message yesterday. If I could just see-"

"I will be sure to tell Father Peterson that yet another miscreant found his words stimulating, " the priest interrupted. "Now if you will please come with me, I will show you out," he said, grabbing Greenley's arm.

"But Father, it's getting dark, and it's so cold at night..."

"Initiate!" the Father said, snapping his fingers at the young man, who had been trying to quietly slip away, "Give this poor fool your robe!" The young man complied, stunned, but obviously cowed by the much older priest. "As St. Denebriel gave selflessly to the Church, so the Church gives to you. You will have to deal with the dark on your own; I don't seem to be carrying any spare torches. Now out with you, the Cathedral is closed for the evening."

Greenley mumbled a thank you, Father, and limped quickly for the exit while he tucked the threadbare robe into his shirt. It was time for his meeting anyways. He worked his way through the city until he reached Rubble Town and stopped in a dark alleyway across from the Jilted Glacier just in time to see a large blonde fellow push through the door.

Looks like the guy the phantom showed me, Greenley thought, taking a deep breath. Greenley assumed a drunken stagger and headed for the Glacier. He stumbled inside, taking a quick look around. He noticed two things immediately; first, that Günther had grabbed a table near the window, and second, that there was a rather young-looking man - little more than a boy, really - that Greenley had pegged as one of the Church's spies seated at the table right next to him. Greenley cursed under his breath, made a quick decision, and hoped that this Günther fellow was up to a little subterfuge.

He hated working with people.

Greenley stared hard at Günther for several seconds, squinting and swaying drunkenly. When he was sure that most everybody had noticed, he called out to him, "Lewish?!" He started drifting towards the Günther. "Lewish, ish that you? It'sh me, Freddy! I haven't sheen you shince, shince - hic- the war!." He stumbled into the spy and muttered a slurred apology, then looked at the spy again. "Lewish, is thish you shon?" Greenley raised his voice in a not-so-conspiratorial whisper,"Lewish, thish ish, ish - hic - a terrible playsh to bring your shon." He lost his balance and bumped into Günther. "Spy," he mouthed, jerking his head towards the spy, who at the moment was turning rather red and trying to hide his face in his tankard - and most importantly, was not looking at either Günther or Greenley - just as Greenley had hoped. Now to see if Günther would play along...

[Gunther]

Everyone in the room including Günther was distracted by the drunkard stumbling into the pub. It was early and this man was already intoxicated. 'Some people just can't handle their liquor,' Günther thought to himself. The man called out a name, sounded like Louis, but his slur made it difficult to make out. 'Is he talking to me?' The inebriated patron continued staggering toward him, seated near the window. Günther noticed something about the man's physical qualities that exposed, he was something other than a man. He observed that the drunkard was actually an elf. He leaned into the young-looking man, maybe even a teen, seated next to Günther. He listened to the elf's words, 'Freddy!' and 'the war! I wonder which side he fought for? The church or the government?'

When Freddy the elf bumped into Günther, he saw something in the elf's dark green eyes. Günther spent time around intoxicated men, coming from the lands north of Archen. He assumed drunken elves looked the same. The dryness of the elf's eyes indicated that this elf was not drunk. He was pretending to be drunk, but for who's benefit? 'Was this the Greenwolf character I was told to meet at the Jilted Glacier? It makes sense.' When the elf obviously mouthed something that looked like he may have been interested in pie he realized this must be his contact, 'right?' Günther was confused as to the ruse, but since his curiosity was up, he was willing to play along.

Günther stood up, pushing his tankard of mead and chair away. He'd already drank all but just a few swallows. He looked over at the barkeep, "I'll take care of this one." Pushing Greenley Wolfshadow toward the door. "Come with me sir. I think you've had enough. Let's get you outside." The Elf seemed to be cooperative enough to move outside. Even if he wasn't, Günther is known for his physical strength, able to lift at least twice his weight above his head.

Once outside, Günther looked at the elf and asked, "is your name Greenwolf?" He moved the man across the street and helped him to keep walking away from the Jilted Glacier.

[Greenwolf]

Günther seemed quite determined to drag the seemingly inebriated 'Freddy' out of the Glacier, and Greenly was inclined to let him; he didn't really want to stay in the bar with that spy sitting there, anyways. Halfway to the door, 'Freddy' seemed to latch onto the idea of two "brothersh in ahrms" going out for a night on the town, for old times sake. He advertised this thought quite loudly as they exited the bar, and carried on for the space of nearly a block before stumbling drunkenly into a dark alleyway, jabbering excitedly about a "shortcut to par-a-diesh."

Once wrapped in the concealing darkness, Greenley pulled to a sudden halt. He stood silently for several minutes, listening for sounds of pursuit, signaling for Günther to wait quietly. When he was sure that they hadn't been followed from the bar, he said to Günther, "My name is Greenley," his voice even and quiet. "Yes, I was supposed to meet you in that bar. I apologize for my unorthodox introduction, but the fellow seated at the table next to you, your 'son,' is a spy for the church, one of a half dozen I've seen working Knife's Edge since I arrived a couple days ago. He's very raw, as spies go, but even he might have been suspicious had we left together so shortly after our arrival, and I didn't feel comfortable having this meeting right under his nose. I know of somewhere safer, if you will follow me, quietly." Though the last was phrased as a question, Greenley didn't wait for an answer, instead heading deeper into the alley, trusting Günther would keep up.

As he wended his way through the now-familiar alleyways of Rubble Town, keeping an eye out for its less savory denizens and detouring when necessary, Greenley thought of the spy in the bar. Why the Glacier, and why tonight? he though to himself. He was having some trouble letting it go, and his mind worried at it as a dog at a bone. As he approached one of the darker alleys in Rubble Town, though, he forced those thoughts aside and calmed himself. He asked Günther to wait, and scouted the perimeter. Sure it was safe, he brushed aside some scree to reveal a battered wooden cellar door. He opened it, motioned Günther indside, and closed it behind himself.

Once inside, he checked his traps to see if anyone had been here since his last visit two days ago. Nothing had been disturbed. Greenley finally relaxed, slightly, and lit a lantern for the comfort of his guest. "It should be reasonably safe here. We can speak freely. I am Greenley, as I said, Greenley Wolfshadow. Please, make yourself at home." He smiled a humorless smile as he looked around the ruined cellar. "At least, as much as one can in this cesspool."

[Gunther]

'Greenley Wolfshadow?' Günther thought to himself. "Greenley Wolfshadow?" He spoke the name aloud to hear it for himself. "Not Greenwolf?" He spokes softly under his breath. It took him a moment to put it together. He looked off into the distance as if Greenley Wolfshadow wasn't even there. "Oh, I get it. Green from Greenley and Wolf from Wolfshadow. It fits! I get it!"

Günther finally came back to his senses. He looked over the surroundings. They were a cesspool, just as Mister Wolfshadow described them. "How long have you been here? You've been scouting the place out? What can you tell me about our objective?" Günther Looked around and found a sturdy wooden stool to plop down upon.

"I was going to suggest that the first thing we do, is to observe the target and determine his habits. It sounds like you've already been doing this. Where does he go and when? Is he a lady's man? Does he like to gamble? Does he have any favorite haunts? If you haven't collected that information yet, we should plan to do so now. What about accommodations? Have you been staying in this hovel?" There are several details about this operation, Günther wanted to get into, but without knowing all these details about Black Bill, they really shouldn't try anything. "How did you know that Louis fella' was a spy?"

[Greenwolf]

As he waited for Günther to come to grips with the events of the evening so far, Greenley started a fire in a makeshift hearth in the north wall of the cellar. It was a crude but effective setup; someone had actually tunneled a chimney partway up into the collapsed building above, where the smoke was then diffused into the rubble, keeping the air in the cellar relatively clear. Greenley also pulled out a skin of wine and a package of tightly wrapped food that he had stored in the cellar earlier, setting them on a rickety table near Günther before taking a seat near the now blazing fire.

The dank space in which they found themselves had originally been the basement of some tavern or other that had been destroyed either during the war or in the ensuing lawless period which had followed. The delivery doors through which they had entered were set in the eastern wall. There were the remnants of wine racks in rows along the west wall and some rotted casks taking up space along the southern wall that had presumably held either mead or ale. There were several cracks in the southern wall, and a faint sewer smell drifted through one of the cracks. The floor, which appeared to have originally been just dirt, was now mostly mud from the water that had trickled through the wreckage of the building, save for the space around the fireplace; someone had carried stones down and placed them in the floor to make a small living area with the table, a couple of stools, and a pallet made of scavenged rags. The only sounds were the crackling of the hungry flames and the drip of water into one of several muddy pools.

Not as inviting, perhaps, as the common room of the Jilted Glacier, but it would serve their purpose.

Greenley studied his new partner. Günther had not been quite what he expected; he had been prepared for the blood thirsty youth out to prove himself, or perhaps the jaded mercenary looking for a quick score. Günther didn't appear to be either. The speed with which the soldier had accepted the subterfuge back at the Glacier spoke to a subtlety not usually possessed by hired swords, which had surprised Greenley, and he really did hate surprises.

Finally, Günther came out of his reverie and started asking question. How long had Greenley been in town, what had he seen, and where should we go from here? Greenley grimaced slightly, the thought of explaining his actions leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

He really did hate working with people.

He sat quietly before answering, trying to organize his thoughts. After a few moments, he began to share his thoughts, speaking slowly and evenly.

"As I said, I've been here for a couple days. I haven't been to Knife's Edge for.... a long time. I wanted to familiarize myself with the city, learn the patrols and guard changes, and generally see what challenges we might face in this endeavor. In the past, I have found that it can be helpful to establish a cover identity, one that fades into the background. "Freddy the Nose" has spent the last couple of day touring the city, gawking at every major structure and drinking at every minor establishment open to the public. By now, rather than suspicion, the guards greet me with a chuckle, or at worst, indifference.

"As for our target, I know what my... contact from the Order shared with me, and what is common knowledge on the streets of Knife's Edge. By day, a revered member of the clergy, by night a maniac addicted to the power of a witch-hunter and the thrill of taking human lives. I have been trying to arrange a meeting between 'Freddy' and Father Peterson, putting it out that 'Freddy' has been incredibly moved by the words of the Father. As yet that venture has not borne much fruit, although just this evening I did manage to acquire an initiate's robe, which may be of some use later. So far as his nightly habits are concerned, to the best of my knowledge, he has not been here in Rubble Town since my arrival. I have, discretely, asked about this mysterious new disease which causes the residents of Rubble Town to drown in their own fluids, so as to know which areas to avoid. The only response to that inquiry so far is that the church's healers have things well in hand, and I need not worry, for there have been no deaths this week; they imply that no deaths this week means that the contagion has run its course and there will be no more deaths." Greenly stopped briefly to wet his lips from the wine skin, then continued.

"I knew Louis, which is not his name, as far as I know, was a spy from my observations of the church. He is the newest spy in their ranks, and the least practiced at subterfuge. I observed him entering the church three separate times my first night here, each time in a different outfit, which aroused my suspicion. I followed him from the church to what must be a witch-hunter outpost here in Rubble Town, and it was there that I learned the faces of the other spies. There were also at least three Hunters that entered or exited the premises during my vigil. Concerning Bill the Black, I have yet to learn if he is one of them in truth, or if his identity as a witch-hunter is a farce.

"To this point, I have no accommodations in the city proper. I made camp in a grove outside the city at sunrise this morning, and though I masked the site, I did hide my weapons nearby, which will necessitate a return to that camp in the near future. This 'hovel' is one of three sites that I had scouted as possible bases of operations for this mission. This one is possibly the easiest to conceal and, if the smell of sewage is any indication, has potential access to the sewer system. I am convinced that there is an entrance to the underbelly of the church from the sewers, and that this is how Father William Peterson leaves the church for his masquerade as Bill the Black. I also posit that his stash is either hidden near said entrance, or in a structure much like this one here in Rubble Town, as it would be much too risky for him to keep it in the church itself.

"And that, sir, is the whole of it so far." Greenley unwrapped the food packet and began picking at the stale bread and the hard cheese; it had been a long day, and any reservations he had about the simple fare were subsumed by the demands of his stomach. He leaned back, eating slowly, waiting for Günther's response.

[Gunther]

"Well that would appear to be a good start. We should check out the sewer system. It undoubtedly runs into some sort of catacombs. That will be where the church is located. There must be a passage from the church to the underground system." Günther considered this option and eyeballed the stale bread and hard cheese. He had intended to buy a meal at the Jilted Glacier but his new friend interrupted those plans.

"I was informed that Black Bill likes to gamble," Günther spewed out. "I also have a penchant for gambling. I would be more than willing to check out some of the underground gambling establishments here in Knife's Edge," he said with a smile. "How about we split up. You check the sewers and Catacombs. I'll go check out the gambling centers and we meet back here at first light?" Günther was already thinking about finding a new place to get some food.

[Greenwolf]

Greenley nodded grudgingly; wandering about in the sewers was not the way he wanted to spend his night, but splitting up made sense. He now regretted leaving his bow outside of town; it would be fairly useless in the confines of the sewer, but its familiarity would have given him some comfort.

Greenley finished his simple meal, resealing the package and stashing where he had found it. "First light, then," he said. "Don't get yourself killed." Greenley gave a grim grin, then slipped through the crack in the wall to the sewer, taking one of the lanterns from the room with him. It was going to be a long night.

[Greenwolf]

Greenley sat in the dark, in the cellar, seething. The sun had come up an hour ago, and Günther still hadn't made his way to their arranged meeting. After a fruitless night crawling through the sewers, Greenley had emerged tired, frustrated, and covered in shit, hoping Günther had had better luck than he. Tardiness was not a promising sign.

On the bright side, if Günther had been discovered by Bill the Black, he was likely dead, and as drowning someone in their own fluids left little time for questioning, Greenley was probably safe. Still, likely and probably didn't keep you alive when you were an assassin. Greenley had to assume that everything Günther knew was now compromised. Freddy the Nose had to disappear, this cellar had to burn, and whatever he was going to do at the church had to happen today, before they had a chance to act on information they might have gotten out of Günther.

Greenley picked up one of the unlit lanterns and threw it at a pile of rotted wood, growling angrily. He hated working with other people.

Cursing vehemently under his breath, Greenley reached into his pouch for his flint and steel. Instead, his hand closed around a small, irregular wooden object. He stood there clutching it for several long moments, his rage subsiding. Greenley pulled it out of his pouch and sat down, staring at it in the darkness, picturing the object in his mind. It was a small carved picture of a wolf head, not expertly done, but carved with obvious care and worn from handling . He ran his fingers over the inscription on the back, wondering again if it had been meant for him or someone else. It read simply, To G love S. It had been the only personal item in his possession when the old man had found him half dead those several years ago, and the mystery still haunted him. Who am I?

Greenley shook himself from his reverie; it was time to go. He carefully placed the carving back in his pouch and retrieved his flint and steel. He took the unbroken lantern and poured the oil onto the wood by the cellar doors, then lit it on fire. Walking over to the broken lantern, he lit the spilled oil from that, too. Then he grabbed the stashed package of food and slipped back into the sewers without another backwards glance. He had work to do and only a day in which to do it.