Shrikehold Prison Blues

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Closed to Otto

The atmosphere in the room was subdued. Quiet. Tense.

Every man was silent, his thoughts rattling through his head as he saw to his own gear. There were none of the usual jokes or insults being traded back and forth between the group, none of the common joviality - today they were preparing for serious business. The sounds of their labour were the only things to disturb the silence - cleaning rags oiling gears, liquid sloshes as pure grain alcohol was mixed with lamp oil in bottles, the repeated chime of metal striking metal, or wood creaking and eventually cracking as another crate was levered open, its contents distributed. Crossbows were checked and re-checked, molotovs were piled carefully next to the work-stations.

The front door was flung open, scattering dust across the worn floorboards as the midday breeze whistled in. Everyone was on their feet in an instant. Small dirks, and one or two crossbows were levelled at the newcomer, but everyone recognised the man - well, at seventeen years old, he was barely out of being a boy - as one of their own. They went back to their tasks with a professional focus that drill sergeants would be proud of. And in fact, over half of the men present were here with their former sergeant in the Coronian Armed Forces.

One of the assembled group, the lean rogue and former sergeant himself, Shadra, stood from the knife-scarred table, patting one of his men on the back as he passed, and made his way quietly over to the boy. Mopping sweat from his brow, the mousy looking youth exchanged a few muttered words with his superior. Shadra handed him a heavy looking pouch and with another few words the boy was back out the door and running down the street. Rubbing a hand across his unshaven jaw, the mean-as-a-weasel, slender man closed the door and grabbed a pair of apples from a bowl on the workbench. Padding across the floorboards of the small storehouse-cum-base of operations, he stopped before the only occupant of the room not toiling away with the rest.

"That was Tomin - he says he dropped the tip to a few guards, and they were mighty interested. We're nearly good to go," he said, running a hand through the mop of black hair on his head, clearing his sharp blue eyes.

"Good." was the only response he got, if you didn't count the stream of smoke that accompanied the word into his face.

Shadra didn't.

The figure sitting before him sensed the whip-thin former soldier was still standing over him and lifted the brim of his wide hat to look up. His eyes were cold. Inhuman. Every time, every damn time, they sent a shiver up Shadra's back. Slit pupils narrowed in rings of lambent yellow, dancing in surrounding fields of black, not blinking as they scrutinised the scarred veteran.

Instead of meeting Aurelius' gaze, he looked down at the man kneeling next to him, needle and thread in hand, working away while humming softly to himself. Everyone simply new him as Doc; he had a gentlemanly air about him, despite his relatively shabby attire, and his auburn hair was always tied back neatly at the nape of his neck. No-one really knew his history, but he knew how to patch up injuries, so no-one asked. Right now he had his needle buried in the skin of Aurelius bicep, closing a neat little gash he made a short while before.

"Somethin' more I can 'elp you with, cutter?"

"You nearly ready?" he asked, nodding to the thread wound through the tiefling's flesh.

The half-breed looked to Doc, raising his pierced eyebrow in a quizzical arch. The man raised his eyes to the others' as he mopped the black blood from Aurelius' skin with a cloth.

"Just try not to pop the stitches, and you should be fine. It will be.. uncomfortable for a while though," he said, his voice carrying a soft edge. He packed up his surgical tools without another word and left the pair alone, making his way over to help the other Anarchists prepare the flammable bottles.

"So what do I call you now? Boss? Chief?" Shadra smiled, dropping an apple in Aurelianus' hands and crossing his arms over the stained tunic he wore, fingers caressing the regimental-tattoos scoring his upper arms.

"A simple 'Your Highness' will do." The half-demon yawned as he dragged himself to his feet, stretching out his back and pulling on his jacket. He stubbed the end of his cigarette out on the edge of the crate, hissing as the stitches pulled a little tighter - he gave his arms a few experimental flexes, wincing. Doc was right, it was uncomfortable. Still, needs must, he thought.

"Ha! The day I call you that's the day I decide I have a taste for wearing frilly dresses."

"I wouldn't do that, mate," the tiefling feigned worry. "If I get too drunk, I might take a fancy to you. An' I promise, your arse would sting like a woman with teeth in 'er beef portal for a week after," he added a lewd wink.

"You think my 'ead is the only place I have these?" he asked, gesturing to the four glossy horns emerging from his brow like a crown of thorns.

The two companions shared a chuckle as they wandered across the workshop, making sure everything was ready. The crates Aurelius had arranged to be smuggled in from Scara Brae (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26016-Lionheart-(Ixian-Knight-Assignment)) had arrived two days ago and he was glad to see his fledgling Anarchists were rapidly working through the supplies - oil, alcohol, and a few light crossbows smuggled in underneath the seemingly innocent trade goods. The Red Right Hand, they called themselves. It was an apt name; they had fought as the bloody hand of the Empire for years, and now they were turning that energy on their oppressors. When civil war came, they had fought on the "wrong" side. Radasanth had become a city-state and most of the so-called rebels had fled to fight from hide-outs in Underwood, and anywhere they could safely retreat when the Coronian Armed Forces fought them down. Shadra had refused to retreat with his tail between his legs like some beaten dog, and he and his squad had remained in the city, biding their time to strike.

After his.. antics (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25156-Gaolhouse-Rock-(closed)) with the law-dogs the previous year, Aurelius had managed to escape the measly two guards they assigned to bring him in and fled to the shadowy underbelly of Radasanth.

Only to run smack-bang into Shadra and his boys.

They weren't new to fighting for their own freedom from oppression - more than half of the seven other Coronian men in the room had fought in the civil war - but Aurelianus had given them a name, a faction; something to belong to. He had given them the means to fight for the cause. He had made them Anarchists. He could feel their need to fight, to bloody the nose of the Empire, to make a difference. And that was just what the faction required - dedication to the pursuit of freedom and Truth. They had taken to it quickly, soaking up everything the veteran insurrectionist could teach them - sabotage, misinformation, subterfuge.. and a whole list of other underhanded and devious tactics that would cause untold mayhem. They even nodded their heads, and voiced approval when he explained the existential nature of the multiverse and their place in it. True, less than half of them were likely to have followed the pedagogue when he got fired up in his oratory. But they believed. It was enough.

The tiefling bit into the apple, his fangs shearing away the flesh of the fruit and unleashing a small dribble of juices down his chin. Wiping it clean with the back of his sleeve, he picked up a few of the molotovs and examined them with the eye of an experienced arsonist.

"Good work, Sam," he nodded to the brawny dwarf who had made it. The bearded barrel of muscle grunted in response but his hands never skipped a beat making another one. Aurelius turned back to Shadra, the multifarious talismans and trinkets tied round his wrists jingling musically - he wasn't wearing his usual armour for today's work, instead donning his "Anarchist's garb". The clothes were much less distinctive than his usual attire, comprising simple breeches, a drab grey tunic, a heavier over shirt and a scuffed leather jacket. With his status as a wanted man here in the Jewel of Corone, subtlety was key today. He had a plan, and nothing was going to interrupt it. Everything was going to go exactly as he wanted it to. That meant no bladed armour, no trademark duster coat, no quilled mohawk on display, and though it pained him more than he would admit, no Junior.

"So, you sent Tomin to the court 'ouse?"

The human nodded, running a hand over his stubble as he examined the patches of sunlight streaming in to the dusty room from the high windows.

"He should be nearing there by now, and should have everything taken care of by the time.. well, by the time everything kicks off," he finished with a shrug. The ex-soldier always got the feeling Aurelius was playing a much deeper game than he let on; something far more sinister than the misrule he seemed to take great joy in inflicting.

"And you're sure 'e can 'andle it?" Aurelianus asked for the dozenth time, running his unsettling black tongue over his fangs. It was a habit that unnerved more than a few of the men assembled.

"Like I said, Tomen's young, but he's clever. He'll see it done."

"What about the other messages - the ones to go to Ags?"

"The fairy woman? Yeah, like you said - he just dropped your name, and she was happy to do it. Said they'd be in Knife's Edge and Ettermire before the end of the night."

Satisfied, the warlock turned back to the group - no, the cell before him, and tossed his apple aside. With a small spring, he perched himself on top of one of the empty crates, and let his serpentine eyes flick from face to face as he removed the wide-brimmed hat he was wearing and set it down. The room quietened, as the last of the oil and alcohol was mixed in bottles, before the rag-wicks were stuffed down the necks.

It was time.

"Well lads, before we go 'ave some fun, are there any questions?"

Jaime, once a butcher, and a bit slow in the brain-box, raised his hand. Aurelius darted a glance to Shadra, who merely grinned and spread his hands with a gesture that said "what do you expect me to do?"

Hiding a sigh, the half-demon nodded to the thick-set Coronian.

"Why aren't we hitting the armoury, or the barracks? Wouldn't that make more sense?" he asked, dumping a molotov in the crate next to him with a sound that made a few of the men next him edge away slightly.

"Well, let's see if any of you sods 'ave been payin' attention when I rattle my bone-box," Aurelius said.

Blank stares all around.

"He means, you thick-wits, how many of you listened when he went over the plans," Shadra barked, his voice betraying his past in the army.

Admittedly, the newly-formed Anarchists were still getting to grips with the tiefling's outlandish vernacular, and he was glad to have a sharp sod like Shadra there to act as translator and enforcer.

"We're going after their records office," Garrin called from the back of the room, where he was adjusting the sights on the crossbow in his hands. The swarthy-skinned Coronian had been Shadra's second in command during the war, and was as ruthless a bastard as any could hope to never meet. He was also the best marksman of the cell.

"Canny cutter gets a goodie," Drak'shal smirked, tossing the man an apple. "Now, which of you boys can tell me why?"

Clearing his throat, Doc stood up from the table.

"Because knowledge is power," he stated, before sitting back down.

Running a hand through his bloody-red quills before setting his hat back on, Aurelius hopped down from the crate and sighed. "Well, for the less cryptic bodies in the room, I s'pose I'll explain again. We're takin' out their records building because that's where they store their files on everyone they arrest, and that goes through their," he grimaced at the words that followed, "legal system."

He could see everyone was with him now.. everyone except Jaime. The dull-witted butcher started to raise his hand again before the tiefling cut him off.

"We burn their records to cinders, and they got nothin'. They don't know who they've taken in before, don't know what crimes they committed, who's been in their prisons.. long story short, we burn that place to the ground, and we make their work a whole lot 'arder."

Slowly the lights brightened in Jaime's eyes and he nodded, smiling. Then his smile took on a darker edge, and he gathered up the molotovs next to him. Aye, he might be a leather'ead, but when 'e catches on 'e's a vicious sod, Aurelius smiled inwardly. Added to that, the man was built like a brick-shithouse and had no love of the law.

"Well?" he asked, looking over the group, "what the pikin' 'ell are we waitin' for? An invitation?"

"Move your arses, you dung-hill rats!" Shadra snapped, his parade-ground voice snapping everyone into full focus. They grabbed up molotovs, slinging them into bandoleers which they then hid under heavy cloaks. Three of the men took a crossbow each - Garrin would lead the other two and take to the roofs to occupy any guards long enough for the rest of their brethren to make a clean getaway. In a minute they were all geared up for war, and without a backward glance the Red Right Hand filed out of the small building, into the dazzling noon sun.

Aurelius was the last out. He cast a weary glance over the room, his thoughts racing. With a final sigh, he lowered the brim of his hat and stepped out into the bustling crowds of the Radasanth streets.

[Otto]

Paper rustled. Ears strained. In a small, cramped office, people leaned anxiously over their desks as the locus of their attention put booted feet on his own and leaned back in his chair.

"Alright. Okay," said the young man, rifling through sheafs of paper. "The rest of it's in here somewhere."

"Get on with it, William," pleaded an even younger fellow, from the back of the office.

A dark-skinned woman looked up briefly from her paperwork. "Who'd you say was the A.O.?"

"Arresting officer", said William, clearly relishing the suspense, "was Sergeant Stevenson."

A gruff voice rumbled in from towards a window. "What? Old Spoonie Stevenson? This should be good."

"Ahah!" William triumphantly flourished a couple of pages in the air, and the chatter quickly dried up. He cleared his throat, and then began to read. "... at which point, we did apprehend the accused, in the process of caching the stolen goodes down his trousers. It was evident that the accused had not ample tyme to hide lord Bermont's silverware satisfactorily within his Unmentionables - he used a capital 'U' there, too - where upon I did say to him, is that a sterling silver candelabrum in your pocket, or art thou just gladde to see me."

"He didn't," exclaimed the young man towards the back. "He didn't actually put that in the report, did he?"

"Carrin, shh," someone hushed. It was an elf, purple-eyed and the only one apart from William to be lounging in his seat. The way Orlannes sprawled haphazardly across its frame would have put a sedated cat to shame.

William help up the report and, to dispel doubt, tapped the line in question with his finger. "It keeps going, of course."

"Of course," Otto rumbled. The orc was gazing listlessly out the window, but his ears twitched attentively at William's every word.

"Let's see... I ordered the accused to drop his trousers, but he cited his civil rights against unlawful search, so I said to him, alright then, if you want to play hard ball, I am game, no punne intended. Constable Ardwick and myself then charged the accused with Public Indecency, for reasons which should be obvious, and this allowed us Probable Cause to perform a search upon his persons. We were compelled to do so in the Line of Duty, albeit against our better judgemente as we were lacking gloves."

"Hazardous job, isn't it," sniggered Carrin.

"We seized goodes matching those described to us by lord Bermont, these being a sterling silver candelabrum, single holder, sterling silver appetiser plates, two, sterling silver drink mixer, and a bagge of assorted jewellery, where upon I said hello hello hello, what have we here. Constable Ardwick volunteered the use of his cloak to carry the goodes in, as we were not wont to handle these items with our bare hands, for which I would like to recommend an official commendation to the lad. However, I ordered Constable Ardwick to refrain, and instead... oh goodness, yes, here we are... and instead confiscated the accused's trousers to continue carrying them in, reasoning that said trousers be considered as evidence."

Orlannes' eyes were closed, his lips moving gently in an echo to William's recital. "Genius..." he murmured, in tones of quiet awe.

"As is standard procedure, we cuffed the accused's hands behinde his back and escorted him along Main Street to the city garrison-"

"Er... excuse me..."

An unfamiliar voice broke through the spell. As William trailed off, all eyes swiveled around towards the new speaker; a smartly-dressed soldier, standing in the doorway, arm upraised in an uncertain salute. The man's eyes were set dead ahead, and he seemed to address the room in general as he spoke. "Corporal Otto Bastum, you are ordered to Captain Reinhardt's office immediately."

The rest of the squad looked around bemusedly. Otto blinked. Then he stood up, and saluted the young private to put him at ease. The messenger let his hand fall back before turning sharply on the spot and marching off. Otto, meanwhile, had a quick look down at his uniform to see if it was acceptable. It wasn't, being a bit rumpled and stained, but now that he considered the problem some more, he concluded that there was nothing he could do about it.

William peered at the orc over the top of Stevenson's papers. "What's up, Otto?" he asked.

Otto shrugged. "No idea." He thought some more and, grinning, added, "Probably wondering where Stevenson's report has got to."



* * *


Where is it? Damnit!

Otto continued to rifle through his chest, scattering neatly-folded clothes across his cot and the dormitory floor. He had already found and carefully laid aside his suit of mail, his two hammers, his spear, his shield, his old iron helm and plate gauntlets and boots, and his pack of field essentials. There was one thing missing, however - something he was ashamed at almost having forgotten about, but desperately needed now, and couldn't for the life of him recall where he had put it. Half of his mind churned frantically through memories of handling the thing, but the other half seemed to have settled firmly on replaying the brief meeting with the captain.

Otto had strode in, saluted, and waited for the captain to reciprocate the gesture, which was all normal enough. Reinhardt's office was much larger and airier than lieutenant Orman's, and more richly furnished too. However, these had remained vague background details to the orc. Otto had remained rigid at attention in front of the man's desk the entire time, with his eyes aimed just over Reinhardt's head.

"Corporal Bastum. We have just received some pressing information," Reinhardt said, by way of greeting.

"Sir?"

"You will of course remember the attack on one of our Citadel training exercises, in which you took part? The exercise, I mean. Not the attack."

Otto's mind cleared as suspicion rallied. All the little distractions - the sore feet, the lingering bruises from training - they disappeared like inconsequential nothings, leaving him with naught to focus on but the captain's words.

"We now believe that the saboteur is not working alone," Reinhardt went on. "Also, that he plans to make another attack."

Otto's ears creaked with the strain, but a soldier did not interrupt his superior officer.

Reinhardt coughed softly. "According to the information we received, this... Aurelius... will make his move today. Needless to say, time is of the essence." He hesitated, but then, scowling, carried on. "We underestimated him before. Terribly so. And to be frank, given your ingenuity in handling our last encounter with him, you're an obvious choice for the response team we are currently assembling. We need your experience on this one, so your current assignment is suspended forthwith. You have ten minutes in which to kit up and report to the courtyard for a formal briefing with the rest of the team. Questions?"

"Sir! What about Private Fitch and Corporal Tallow? We were all there, sir."

Reinhardt gave another little sigh. "Private Fitch is considered a little too junior for this assignment, corporal, and I understand that Corporal Tallow may have some lingering issues from his ordeal. Furthermore, Kaphyka has been given a dishonourable discharge for his handling of the incident-" Reinhardt scowled here, which clearly showed what he thought of the farce that Kaphyka's trial had been, "-and Corporal Becker is in a similar position to Tallow."

Otto startled at the last point. "Becker is back in the Force? Sir?" he blurted out. The last he'd seen of his old squadmate had been in the Citadel sickbay, in the aftermath of Aurelius' incursion, where she had been partitioned off from the rest of the team. He had very much doubted that she would ever be able to return to the ranks after what had happened to her.

"Have you not been informed?" Reinhardt sounded a little nonplussed. "She only just rejoined, but as your squadmates had been fully replaced, she was assigned to another company. I hear she's doing remarkably well. Very driven. Even so, putting her on this assignment would be a poor decision."

Otto felt a mix of shame, but also relief, which then just made the shame worse. He had clearly underestimated the woman.

"Anything else?" Reinhardt enquired.

"Nossir!"

"Very well. Dismissed."

And so, here he was, rummaging through socks, shirts and 'Unmentionables', in order to find a small and what might, all told, turn out to be an inconsequential item. He'd made it himself, and was sure that he'd done everything right, but had never been able to get it to work. Nonetheless... the recollection of the report William had read flashed before his mind, as did his own memories of Frederick 'Spoonie' Stevenson. Hah, yes, never underestimate the small things, Otto thought. Stevenson certainly hadn't, while, if the stories about him were true, at least three other men had, and thus was born the man's monicker.

Something clinked at the bottom of the chest. Otto froze, and his bristles parted in a grin.