Sneaks and Snakes

[Kroom]

Semi-closed: Ask if you would like to join, please.

Mud was such an absolute nuisance sometimes. In all his travels, Jak had never stopped disliking mud. It had all the irritation of sand with all the discomfort of water. It rubbed the skin raw, soaked clothes and turned wind into a mocking devil. Jak hated mud. He was amused that the other man was covered in it, and not himself. It was always amusing to watch men in fine clothes get covered in mud. Jak took a sort of sadistic pleasure in it.

The other man didn't seem to mind, though. He had the bearing of a man who was used to wearing silks, and was used to regularly having his silks covered in mud. That piqued Jak's interest, along with the companions at his table. He was the sort of man they were seeking; a man who was obviously possessed of money and a traveler. Pestovo and Tirel often saw his sort, which meant they often saw men of Jak's sort.

Jak, Togan and Mathes all watched him from over their beers as he swept into the bar. The burly dwarf in front of him was obviously a bodyguard; and a decently paid one as well. His gear was in good repair, and the axe on his back showed a keen and polished - if somewhat nicked - blade. Beyond that, the dwarf was unremarkable, squinting through the smoky tavern and scanning for threats. Jak smirked and went back to his tankard, as did Togan, but Mathes kept staring. He was a tactless sort, but men like him had little need for tact. The dwarf noticed and glowered at him, but he looked away before Mathes did.

The merchant, however - at least, that was what Jak and his friends had assumed the man was - swept himself up to the bar and ordered an ale, drinking it with obvious relish as soon as the pewter tankard clanked on the bar in front of him. What was a man like him doing in a place like this, anyway? Even for Pestovo, this bar was on the dodgy side of town, and this was obviously a man with money. Everybody, whether or not they had eyes to see it, would be out for his money. The only difference was whether or not they wanted to work for his money. The merchant paid no attention to the hungry eyes on his back, however, and continued drinking. His throat bobbed as he drank, and drank, and kept drinking.

Jak's eyebrows rose as the merchant downed the whole tankard at one go. Thirsty bastard, Jak thought. It was admirable, all the same. The merchant finished his drink and slammed the tankard back into the bartop, loudly gasping in pleasure.

"Aahh!! Now that was needed!!" He laughed and slapped his stomach. He ordered another and one for his bodyguard. The dwarf scowled but took the beer and drank, leaving foam in his beard as the merchant laughed and turned to face the rest of the tavern. He was a man of average height, a bit on the portly side, with a handsome face and a healthy beard of copper-red. Slight streaks of grey shot through it, but apart from that and the wrinkles of adulthood, the man seemed ageless. He narrowed his eyes coyly and scanned the room, lighting on Jak and his friends for only a moment longer than any of the others. Jak noticed all the same. They'd been marked. He smiled and raised his clay tankard only slightly, acknowledging the man's attention. The merchant's eyes narrowed but he made no other sign, laughing to the bartender.

"A pitcher of ale for every table!" he declared, sweeping his hand about the room with magnanimity. The tavern gave an acknowledging cheer as he slammed a gold piece on the bar, as if to thank him for buying them a drink before they stabbed him and slit his purse. The merchant seemed oblivious to the wolfish eyes on him, however, as he took his beer and sat down at Jak's table. Mathes laid a hand on the hilt of the longsword at his hip, and Jak brushed his knife into his palm. Only Togan seemed not to notice, but Jak knew that Togan was most dangerous when he seemed to be paying the least attention. The merchant laughed and pounded the table with one hand.

Slower eyes would not have noticed the stack of gold coins that he laid down before he slipped it back into his sleeve, but Jak and his friends did. They all laughed with him, humorless eyes waiting for a sign of what service the man was expecting. Wiping false tears from his eyes as his bodyguard edged up behind him, the merchant hissed through his smile.

"My name is Isstar Maloch, and my life is in danger." He drank deeply from his beer and belched, masking his next words in his sleeve. "My enemy has bought several of the knives in this room, but I would buy your blades in my defense." He drank again and pretended to cough. "See to it that I survive stepping out of this bar, and there is twice that stack in it." He smiled and rose, surreptitiously leaving three gold coins in the table's cracks, where Togan slipped them into his palm. They'd be distributed in a moment. "For each of you."

So, that was his offer. Become his bodyguards for a moment. Jak's eyes flicked back and forth to Togan and Mathes. As he had expected, they were interested. Togan passed them each one of the gold coins, and each in their own way examined the currency. Genuine metal, genuine stamp: good coinage. Almost immediately, Mathes stood and belched loudly, staggering to the bar and bumping into Isstar. He mumbled as he passed him and wobbled out into the rainy night. He'd be waiting in the nearest puddle no doubt. Isstar smiled and called after him, finishing off his second beer. The dwarf's scowl deepened and he filled his beard with foam again, clenching one knotted fist on the knife in his belt.

Jak grinned toothily and rolled his neck. He would be next, and Togan would personally watch Isstar's back when he left. Jak had time to finish off his tankard and another before he finally rose and fumbled his way up the stairs, past a pair of whores with overflowing bodices who leered at him in what they must have thought was the epitome of appeal. Jak ignored them, pretending to be too drunk to notice. It was hard to forget the women in Alerar. Something about Dark Elf women drove him absolutely wild. As soon as he was out of sight of the main room, Jak dropped the façade of inebriation and slipped into the room he was sharing with the other two sellswords.

They'd been fortunate to get a room with a sort of window: wooden shutters with a ragged canvas curtain. Jak snuffed the light in the room and slipped out the window, climbing along the tavern's face until he was almost perched on the lip of the roof, just above the main door. No doubt there would be a knife waiting for him there. Jak swung himself higher, onto the roof of the tavern's second story, and drew his cloak around him. Then he looked down. Sure enough, just below him skulked a weedy man with a long knife glimmering in the dull light from the tavern's outer lantern. He was soaked to the bone and shivering. He was deafened by the rain and blinded by the night; he should have been able to hear Jak approach.

The brawny smith smirked and coiled himself. This man would be his first mark. Just outside the ring of lantern light, Mathes was slumped against a wall, in a puddle. Conveniently, he was slumped so that he was able to perfectly observe the tavern entrance and the street in front of it, and he'd be able to reach them in two steps. Jak's keen eyes could make out three other shapes lurking against the surrounding buildings; for such a dark knight, Jak was pleased with how well he could see.

The door creaked below him, and everyone tensed except Mathes. The man was a master of his particular tricks. Out stepped two men: just two drunks, and they staggered away into the night. Jak let out a slow sigh, and he could tell the man below him was doing the same.

It was a full half hour before Togan and Isstar finally stepped outside, the dwarf leading the way. Jak grinned and slipped his throwing knives into his palms.

[Tobias Stalt]

The best thing about these cold nights, Tobias had decided, was the stars. The Winter sky was a canvas, covered in a rich, deep blue, with a smattering of brilliance, as though the artist had set the backdrop and then lost himself in dabs with the tip of the brush. The moonlight was nearly nonexistent now, cloud cover all but abolishing what visibility that celestial body offered. Instead, the street was dimly lit by the lamps that littered either side.

It would be enough, Tobias told himself, rubbing his hands together greedily for warmth as he hissed a plume of steam through the scarf wrapped securely around his face. His eyes flitted rapidly over the area, wary of his surroundings, as he drew his cloak tighter around his rattling bones. The sound of bustling taverns was not lost on him, though he had managed only enough coin today for the cloak that now kept the cold from killing him outright. An ale would have to wait.

At times, he wondered if he would be better if he had heeded his father, and taken the lessons to heart and become a merchant, married into a family with some wealth and secured their combined future, stayed back home, and lived in monotony. Instead, he found himself in the streets of a frigid city, looking for some poor sod to victimize.

Father would be so proud.

The lessons of a merchant were grimly applicable to other things, and the irony of that tugged at the corner of Tobias' lips with mirth. "Always pick your target," his father said, "a man with no money will profit you nothing. Likewise, a man who is not receptive will not welcome you."

Perhaps the wording could use a tweaking, but Tobias applied it just fine. Looking at the older man walking ahead of him, several yards, he could see furs stitched finely with elegant trimming, and an ornate sword hilt protruding from the confines of that contrived warmth; someone like that, Tobias decided, would be a profitable mark, if the risk was not so high. Someone carrying a weapon of that quality doubtless knew how to handle it. And besides that, this cold made him sluggish- someone with a sword like that could draw a line across his throat before he could think to evade.

No, that would be a piss poor target. Tobias wrinkled his nose at the thought, casting a glance in the direction of home. Home, where he wished he could go, but he couldn't without the money in hand to repay the land lord. Gritting his teeth, Tobias snorted, and he urged himself forward.

A man stepped out of a tavern just ahead of him, and Tobias blinked. By a quick look, he did not seem incredibly wealthy- the venue he had left just now bespoke his lack of class, in fact- but he did seem to have something that Tobias did not: coin. Enough coin, in truth, to be comfortable, and to have paid a bar tab.

Even if the assessment was wrong, Tobias stood the chance that the fellow had just enough. Better, the mark might be drunk, and that would muddle the amount of resistance Tobias faced. Gripping his dirk in the folds of his cloak now, Tobias moved fleet footed toward the establishment, as if to hastily enter, bumping the man rather intensely with his shoulder.

"Hey!" The cry was loud, unexpectedly so, and Tobias' eyes widened. The man would definitely not be alone, if he cried out for help this close to a crowded tavern. Oh, hells. Damn it, Tobias! His father's words hit him once more, "location, my son, is everything. A good place to set up shop is vital to the trade."

And here he was, mugging a man in front of an audience. Tobias moved quickly to apologize. "Many pardons, friend," he said with kindness gleaming in his eyes. His hands had moved over the man quickly, and discovered a small font of gold pieces that had erupted from his pouch. In the flash he had taken to frisk the fellow, he caught several gold pieces between his knuckles, masking them from sight even as he offered a palm full of them back to the man he'd bumped. "You dropped these."

The man accepted his money back with a cautious look around, more interested in what was going on around him than actually looking at Tobias. Perfect. The target was distracted. Tobias slipped his earnings skillfully away, and smiled to himself. Now he could get a drink. And no one had been hurt! Oh, this was a profitable night.

Father would definitely have been proud.

As he moved into the doorway, Tobias looked up, and the color left his face. "Shit."

[Kroom]

From the moment when Isstar laid his hand on the door and opened it, the events of the next few moments were irrevocable. He brushed past Tobias with barely a glance and a secretive smile on his lips, scanning the shadows and corners around him. His sharp eyes caught Mathes lying in the puddle, and the merchant smiled - but he didn't see the other man, the brawny man in the leathers. He heard a scuffling on the roof above him, and turned, looking skyward with a lifted hand to shield his eyes from the rain. A falling shingle cut his hand and he swore.

On the roof itself, Jak's mark had started moving the instant the door opened, creeping towards the edge of the roof. Jak had followed more quickly, sure-footed on the slick cedar shingles as he slipped down behind the mark. The man had a long knife in one hand; it was rusty and held together shakily by cheap nails. Jak smirked silently in the darkness, spinning one of his attractive steel throwing daggers between his fingers. Just a moment more- then Isstar was in sight. The mark slipped and knocked a shingle loose as he attempted to jump down, but instead he lost his footing and bruised his knee. To his credit, he kept his pain silent, but he had missed the chance for his last words.

Jak hurled one of his daggers into the back of the man's neck even as he reached forward and dragged the mark back by his sprawled leg. The man's spine was viciously contorted as Jak's other hand seized him by the hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat for the knife, but the man was beyond noises. The sharp steel blade across his throat was nothing more than a formality.

Inside the tavern, Togan pushed past the dwarf as he tried to bully his way outside, attempting to keep up with his careless employer. Jak may have had the best nightvision, but Togan's eyes were undisputedly the keenest of the three men. He had seen Tobias' theft, and now he stepped directly in front of the boy, smiling icily. Even as the thief swore in fear, Togan's deft fingers seized Tobias' hand, twisting cruelly as he dragged the boy past the dwarf. Deftly, he kicked the dwarf out into the rain - his formidable talents would be needed momentarily. Applying a savage lock to Tobias' arm, Togan slapped the boy across his face and frisked the usual places that thieves hid things - yet he found nothing. Frowning, he released Tobias' hand and let him fall to the floor.

"If you run, I'll find you. That money belongs to my employer, and I'll be back for it." Then he was gone, out into the rain.

Isstar had not heard or seen a thing after the shingle fell, but now he knew that the attack had begun. He wheeled and faced out into the open area, crouching into a ready position. An arrow whistled past the place where his eye had been an instant earlier, thudding into the tavern wall behind him. The dwarf came stumbling outside, and immediately behind him dropped a man's body. Three shapes burst from the shadows as Togan and the dwarf leapt forward. One of the thugs, wielding a mace, stepped past Mathes. His leg shot out from the puddle and neatly tripped the thug, and then Mathes was on his feet, drawing the keen sword on his hip. The attacker turned with a vicious swing of his mace, but Mathes knocked the blow aside with his blade before stabbing it into the other man's spine.

Everything was happening at once, and Isstar could barely keep track of it. Haggor, his dwarf, charged with his axe held low, swinging a vicious uppercut into one thug's kidney. As the man toppled, a blow to the neck finished him. Togan intercepted the third man. Not even bothering to use the long knife on his hip, Togan caught the killer's wrist and broke the man's arm with a swift motion, an instant before he drove the thug's sword into his own stomach.

The night was silent. Everything had happened in the space of a score of breaths, from the moment that Tobias bumped into Isstar in the doorway until the moment that Jak stalked out of the shadows and into the light, carrying the sniper's broken bow and wearing a satisfied smirk. Isstar seemed shaken, yet pleased, and he clapped softly.

"Well done, gentlemen," he murmured. The door creaked behind him and he wheeled. A whip flashed from beneath his coat and snagged - Tobias. The boy had been trying to creep out behind them, and now he was dragged facefirst into the mud and the lamplight. "And well done to you too, boy: I almost didn't notice the lift. You've earned this offer too; I could use somebody with your skills."

The three men closed in, cleaning their weapons and sharing looks that all said the same thing. Offer? He said save his life and we'd get paid. There's more? Jak folded his arms and narrowed his eyes, and Mathes drew his shortcloak around his shoulders against the rain. Smiling tautly, Isstar glanced at Tobias, releasing his whip with a flick of his wrist and coiling it in his hands. "Keep what you took, boy, you did well. I have an offer for the four of you." He finished ordering the leather lash and stowed it on his belt. "But first - what's your name?"

[Tobias Stalt]

It all seemed to happen so quickly that, if not for the pain, Tobias would never have believed it to be real. He almost got away cleanly, right into the bar where he would enjoy an ale and a night of warmth, free of all his worries and cares. And then, the young thief felt a pressure on his arm and a jolt of pain as he was restrained and forced into a submissive position, eliciting a low growl of pain from his lips and an uncharacteristic scowl on his face. Anger flashed in his otherwise brilliant eyes, tainting their fire with something darker.

He knew better than to struggle, however. These sorts of submissions became far worse if you attempted to resist them. Better to not get caught at all than to break your own arm trying to wrest it free. He waited patiently, eyeing the man gripping him with a studious eye. He always remembered a face, even without a name to go with it. If not tonight, he would find this man, and...

Bollocks! Revenge was the first thing on his mind at a time like this? Had he learned nothing from his father? "Let go of your failures and those who would put them on you. You gain nothing from dwelling on defeat, only from overcoming it." His nostrils flared in meager acceptance as he allowed himself to cool off.

It was about that time when he heard the whisper of an arrow, and his thoughts moved from his own peril, to the scene of violence just beyond the threshold. The man let him go, strangely, and he was walking into the tavern, his take still intact! The gods of luck must have been on his side this night.

Or it had seemed for all of a moment. The skillful crack and subsequent pressure of a whip on his arm impeded him for the second time, and he whirled around and called out, "will you make up your bloody mind, you knob-goblin!?" The other men outside began to crowd him, however, and started talking nonsense. Praises followed by job offers? Was life like this in every city besides the one he'd come from? What absolute lunatics!

He was told to keep his gold, and then, asked his name, and with the due caution and skepticism, Tobias waited several moments and looked the group over before deciding to play along. "Tobias," he said as he was released, and he cradled his arm while rubbing at the whiplash that afflicted his wrist. "A merchant. And you are...?" The offer for employment was a rare thing, and it would not due to pass at hearing this man out, even if he was full of nonsense. If nothing else, he was full of money, and that was enough to keep the Merchant's attention.

[Kroom]

"Isstar Maloch," the merchant crooned, adding a slight bow. "A simple trader, like yourself."

Simple, my eye, thought Jak. And nothing like this rat. Isstar radiated exotic oddity. He hadn't needed the three men to guard him, that much was clear. The dwarf was lethally efficient, and the way Isstar used his whip spoke of hidden talent. It was a test. The thought bloomed in Jak's mind like a sun, and he could see similar dawnings in each of his comrades. Isstar had been testing them, evaluating their performance to know whether or not he should make this new offer.

"And you, my protectors - what are your names?" Jak sniffed and gnawed his lips, glancing at Togan and Mathes. Unspoken conversation passed for an instant, but the decision was simple. The man obviously wanted to hire them, and it was common courtesy to give a man your name if you would take his money. Togan stepped forward first with a slight bow, brushing his soaked hair back from his face.

"Togan Otel." Jak nodded his head stiffly.

"Jak Roth Rute." Mathes, ever taciturn, simply growled his own name and squeezed his sword hilt. Isstar smiled a practiced smile, letting just the right amount of honey tint his words.

"My name is already known, and my companion is Haggor." The dwarf nodded slowly, cool gray eyes sweeping the four new faces from beneath stony brows. Jak stood last in the line of inspection, and he held Haggor's eyes with his own bold stare, sizing up the dwarf as frankly as the dwarf did him. Mossy green met dark granite, and after an unnoticed moment, both fighters looked away. Jak was smiling slightly. If ever a creature was meant to typify its race, Haggor stood in that place for the dwarves. He was short and thick, built like a stone, with a thick black beard and a braid banded in steel hanging from beneath his leather cap.

The few blinks that it took for the examination to pass were unnoticed by the other men. Isstar was speaking again. "I deal in curiosities and rarities when I can find them, like any merchant; however, through various and clever methods, I have discovered what I believe to be the resting place of a certain relic -"

"'scuse me," Jak coughed, "but either we can go inside or you can kindly cut to the feckin' chase." Isstar blinked, then seemed to remember the rain pelting down on them all. He looked up to the black sky, sputtered as rain tickled his nose, and then nodded.

"Yes, that seems best." Muddied and drenched, the six men retreated into the tavern.

"Now," mumbled Mathes, "try again." They all sat at the table nearest the fire, mugs and trenchers before them with cloaks spread to dry, as the rest of the tavern shot them envious looks. The night was cold, and the tavern's walls took a savage delight in letting frozen drafts into the main room. The men of business had paid good money to have the fire, however, and so they sat in its warmth. Isstar took a long draft of his brown ale and, smacking his lips, began again. He spoke slowly, handcrafting each word before it thrust from his lips.

"I have acquired a scroll which I believe to be a map to a tomb, leagues east of Pestovo. I believe this tomb to hold a treasure which, even shared unfairly, would make us all rich men. I also know that certain of my competitors seek this tomb, and would be elated if I were to encounter misfortune on my attempt to recover the tomb's riches. I wish to hire you all to travel with me, protect me, and assist me in recovering the tomb's riches. I will pay you ten gold pieces now, twenty upon completion, and you would each receive an equal share in any treasure recovered." The table was silent. Isstar drank deeply once more, then folded his arms and eyed each man searchingly. "What say you?"

"I say there's aught you're na' tellin'," Mathes muttered in his mug, eyes cutting at Isstar and Haggor over the crockery's rim. Togan's thin lips curved, all the sign of assent he needed to give. Jak nodded as well.

"You're a man of means, and I've worked with many before. Never seen one that was hurting for arms, or that needed to hire his own." Isstar's cheeks bloomed and he made an obvious effort to resist hanging his head. Instead, he leaned back and forced a grin.

"You're not wrong. It's quite simple, though, and I'm not ashamed to say it; I've fallen on hard times, and I hope for this to restore my fortunes." His smile grew tighter and more like a mask over his embarrassment. "So either take my coin or go find another purse to suckle at."

For once, Jak was impressed by Isstar. The man's blunt jab was refreshing and pleasing, having finally gotten past the saccharine airs that he projected. He didn't need to look at Mathes and Togan to know they were with him, and as one they nodded.

"We'll take it," Jak murmured, making a concerted effort to drain his black ale in one draught. Isstar's joy was poorly concealed, and he turned to look at Tobias.

"And you, boy? I can certainly use a pair of deft hands like yours. What say you?"

[Tobias Stalt]

The world around him spun as though he had already ingested twelve pints, and Tobias felt the churning in his stomach as the rain pelted him and the men around him spoke, words swirling together in a mass of incoherence. He barely grasped the concept of going into the tavern, now, so preoccupied with still having his fingers. Without even a lashing, or bleeding, or any sort of reprisal. Instead, he was praised for his thievery, as though he were some kind of lowlife. This must have been the feeling of how low he had fallen finally catching up with him. Fumbling with the gold inside his cloak, Tobias cursed himself for the wretched desire to hand it back, awkwardly standing in the torrential downpour and just staring blankly at the ground.

They didn't wait for him to give any kind of response before moving into the warmth of the tavern, though, and the young man snapped back to reality several moments later, hurriedly following the already half seated bunch toward their table, looking about with apparent suspicion. Someone wanted Isstar dead, that much was clear. And without saying so, Tobias already knew his more intelligent notions wanted nothing to do with any of this.

But the destitute, depraved urchin who had turned to theft as living listened so intently, one would never guessed at an internal conflict. Tobias' eyes were alive with a fire of fascination that burned almost as bright as the fire next to them, and he sat himself down without bothering to cast off his cowl. If somehow he did regain his sensibilities, he didn't want his face known as one associated with the other "simple merchant."

Snorting, Tobias finally saw the irony of that statement- though it was likely lost on the rest of the crew gathered. There was much here that went unspoken.

Holding up a hand as the barmaid came by to take orders, Tobias waved off the query toward his drink preference, though the mood had only minutes before been upon him to drain ale upon ale. There was no thirst in him, now, save for the golden thirst. He had his first bite of it, and gods be damned, he was tired of all the rationality. He wanted a life far different from the lot he had been cast, and finally, the chance was on him. "Opportunity often passes men by because they refuse to greet chance." Another gem from his father.

Tobias' eyes narrowed. Today just seemed so grim, and filled with Father's wisdom. As the others began their introductions and Isstar sized them all up, Tobias drew his blade out under the table, running his finger along the edge idly. If he'd known the others would step in, he might not have been so unprepared. Hell, he might even have stabbed one or the other of them.

Bitterness, however, was a dull blade. Unlike the weapon in his hand, Tobias knew, the uselessness of feeling resentment only served to harm him. Still, the desire was daunting, and his jaw was set like iron. The best things his father had taught him about being a man were slipping away into the depravity that he had, unwittingly, bestowed on the now accomplished thief.

Perhaps, Tobias mused, that he ought to tailor himself to the role a bit further, and embrace that depravity a bit. It might even save his life, one day.

His gaze flickered to the merchant as the man finally spoke to him directly, petitioning him for his "skilled hands." Tobias could only snort his indignation at that. "Deft my arse," he muttered, "all the same, if there's money in it, I'm in."

Somewhere far away, Tobias' father lamented the loss of his son.

[Kroom]

The men at the table all chuckled in agreement, and the three mercenaries all drank deeply. Isstar sucked the remaining foam from his ale, letting it soak his beard, then slammed his tankard down.

"Right!" he exclaimed, belching. "Get some rest, all of you. If you have any preparations to make, make them as short as you can. I want to get moving with the sunrise." With that, Isstar slapped the table and stood, stretching and belching again. Haggor followed, and the two disappeared into the tavern's dim haze. The four men still at the table watched them go in silence, then Mathes finished his beer and dropped the clay vessel on the table, letting it clatter.

"Well," he muttered, "I don' trust 'im."
"You never trust anybody with money."
"No I don', na' even a li'le. Them as have money jus' want more an' they'll do wha' they can f'r it."
"Always so grumpy when you're in your cups." Mathes muttered something obscene and stood slowly before beginning to stumble his way to the stairs. Togan grinned and followed him.

"Better make sure he doesn't split his head on the stairs." He smirked, and slipped up the stairs. Jak's lip curled and he drained his own tankard.

"Mathes never has been able to hold his ale. He'll be snoring 'fore he gets his boots off." The smith stood and stretched, then slapped Tobias on his back. "What about you, kid? If y'need a place to sleep, y'can stay in our room for the night. End of the hall on the left." Jak was leaving, but turned back at the stairs. "And one thing: we all sleep light. Even Mathes, and he's grumpy after his cups. Don't try pinching things if you like your fingers." Jak grinned dangerously, then stomped up the stairs and into his room. As expected, Mathes was sprawled on his pallet, snoring, and Togan was curled next to him, under his cloak, using the swordsman's thigh as a pillow. Jak chuckled, then shrugged out of his outer clothes and collapsed on his own pallet, tucking a knife under his armpit.

As he closed his eyes and began to drift, his mind wandered. Isstar Maloch. Something seemed false about him, but most merchants Jak had met were like that. Teiran hadn't been, but Teiran had been different from everybody. All at once Jak remembered that he was quite young, after all, and he felt it fully. He curled up and covered himself with his shortcloak.

He missed Teiran, and his old life in the half-elf's caravan. It had stability.

Shadows blanketed his mind, and just as he drifted off, his mind conjured the same image as it did every night. A man, silhouetted against a twilight sky, dressed in black and holding a sword. The bizarre picture had grown oddly familiar over the years, and by now it simply brought a sleepy smile to Jak's face. The shape's hand lifted as it always did, in what looked like a sort of greeting, and just as he always did, Jak drifted into slumber's dark embrace.

[Tobias Stalt]

As the others drank, Tobias found himself less inclined to partake with each moment that passed him by. He stared into the tankard at the ale, his eyes growing distant, as though he were under a strange spell. Images flashed through his mind, of the perilous road from home to here, and the close calls that had brought him nearer to death than he had ever wanted to be.

Yet here he was. Less than successful at the trade he had thought to take up, without a steady income, and on the cusp of hire for not his skills as a merchant, but as a common thief. It was a baleful transformation, he reflected, but in retrospect, one he should have foreseen.

The sound of iron scratching across flint as Tobias honed his dagger was drowned beneath the chorus of song and yells, the motion seemingly rehearsed, almost reflexive. He snapped out of his trance as something slammed on the table, and slowly looked up, listening to the conversation with only vague interest.

Time elapsed at a staggeringly slow pace as the words moved back and forth, The concept of distrust and the subject of men with money came up, and Tobias gave only grunts with respect to certain sentiments, but was otherwise silent. This was an interesting lot, though he was far from fitting in. Many philosophies, he found, he almost completely agreed with. To think, mercenaries could be so wise- but then, any man had wisdom who had been through something. At least, a man who had experienced something you had not knew more than you did about it. That just made sense.

The tall, darker sort of man - Jak- suddenly clapped him on the back, and Tobias struggled to halt the immediate reaction of raising the knife and driving it toward the Smith's fleshy stomach. The blade rose slightly, however, and the motion of the arm would have been apparent to Jak. Tobias was more than just a little jumpy.

With a practiced breath, the "merchant" stilled his fast bearing heart, and gulped down his fear, banishing it to the pit of his stomach. He had come into a world he couldn't back out of. And it was new to him. "That would be perfect," he admitted, though he didn't want to get much into his personal problems. The less these men had on him- the less that could be used against him, or held over his head- the better. "I don't exactly have stable accommodations."

But soon, that would all change- if Isstar could be believed. Which Tobias doubted. But gold didn't lie, and Isstar did have gold. As long as the funds kept coming, the nubile thief would stow the questions. "Don't worry," he grunted, rising from his seat and jamming his blade back into it's hiding place, "the profit margin is higher being on your side than it is risking my arse. So long as that's true, you needn't worry about your particulars."

With a winning smile, Stalt passed by Jak and bumped purposefully into one of the stumbling drunks, twisting to face Rute, lifting his hand up in a wave. "But one day, I'll be as strong as you. Then..."

He opened his hand, and a small golden locket fell down to dangle from his palm. He shook the object a few times, then pocketed it with a satisfied nod, heading toward the room Jak had indicated. From behind him, he heard "H-hey! Where's my damn locket! That was a present from my wife- she'll have me balls if I..."

But for the first time, Tobias found, he just didn't care.

His eyes closed, his head tilted back, and he clutched the locket tightly to his chest and headed toward sleep.

....

[Kroom]

Togan swore and stopped right there on the slope, sitting on a outcropping of rock and slipping the moccasin from his foot. Ignoring Mathes' confused stare, he slapped at the shoe and shook it until two small pebbles fell out and tumbled back down the hillside.

"Ruusta paty kundrey…" he hissed, pushing his foot back into the worn leather shoe. Jak laughed as he passed, walking alongside the pack mule and putting his own formidable strength into pulling the cart. The animal was straining, and, not wanting to exhaust it, Jak had thrown a rope around his thick chest and set to with a will.

"Mind your language in front of the children, kunder," he snickered, then ducked as Togan flung a pebble at his head with a good-natured snarl. Mathes, nearing the crest of the ridge ahead of them, grumbled and shook his head, as usual. Using his scabbarded longsword as a walking stick, he was making the steadiest progress, never faltering in his plodding stride. He wasn't as fast as Togan or Tobias, but Mathes had the quality of being tireless, much like Haggor. The dwarf was at the top of the hill, waiting with his hands posed on his battleaxe. Like Mathes, he was using it as a walking stick, though nobody would think he needed it. He seemed barely fatigued by the stony ground and steep incline; if anything, he seemed invigorated by it. His impenetrable features bore the barest signs of pleasure, and there was a light in his eyes.

Togan stood and dusted himself off, then resumed his trudge uphill, now at the rear of the column. He joined the others atop the bare ridge, looking down at the moors below. The vista below was bleak. Dusk was falling on a knotted mass of hills and valleys, covered in scrub grass and dotted with boulders. Farther north the land began to sweep upwards into a thick evergreen forest, but just below them, in the very pit of the valley, sat a tall stone cairn with a small black mouth yawning at its base. Isstar was standing atop the pack cart, excitedly gesturing.

"See! There it is! The tomb of Nander-Thay, or at least its entrance." Togan narrowed his eyes, and to his left Mathes spat into the rocky soil.

"Don't like it," he said, "feels wrong." Togan cuffed him.
"Don't be an idiot," he hissed, "you signed on for this job. Don't lose your balls now." Mathes bared his teeth and hissed, but said nothing further. Isstar ignored them both and gestured down.

"We'll camp down there tonight, near the cairn. Jak can take first watch, and tomorrow we go in." Jak nodded silently. Over the past fortnight of travel, he'd actually come to enjoy sitting up after the others had turned in for the night. He'd volunteered out of simple indifference at first, but then he'd found himself spending those few silent hours happily staring at the fire or fiddling with his tools and weapons. There was peace, an odd homeliness to the experience. Night was becoming a blanket to the smith.

The six travelers had to switch back and forth down the slope for the sake of the cart, but before the sun had disappeared below the horizon, they were at the bottom of the valley building a fire a stone's throw from the cairn. They were all glad for the light and warmth; two weeks of travel on the moors would take a toll on almost any man. Two weeks of up-hill and down-valley, cold wind and dried meat when they couldn't catch anything fresh, and even then rarely more than a rabbit or bird, although once Jak's bow had managed to bring down a deer, and that had lasted for a few days. Two weeks of fitfully sleeping on cold, hard ground by a scant fire, waking to thin sunshine and bleak wind.

Mathes was first to sleep. Almost as soon as the fire was lit, he took a deep draft from one of the wineskins, gulped down a chunk of dried venison, and was snoring on his bedroll within minutes. Togan glared at the noisy sleeper, and for a moment looked to be seriously considering dousing him with the remainder of the wineskin. Instead, Togan took a draft himself and set to languidly gnawing on a chunk of biscuit and cheese, claiming one of the sack of apples in the cart and a strip of flesh. The others furnished themselves similarly, and Togan and Isstar struck up a low and meaningless conversation about the aches and pains of travel. Jak finished his own meal quickly, wrapped himself in his thick traveling cloak, and perched himself atop a nearby boulder with his bow strung and arrows laid on the rock beside him. He also took a wineskin.

Night fell quickly, and by the time The Hunter stood in the sky overhead Jak was the only one of the party not in his bedroll. He breathed deeply of the crisp night air, staring up at the clouds scudding across the navy-black night. He stood, taking a draft of wine to warm himself, then gathered his bow and began to circle the cairn. It seemed so ordinary and dull: a moonlit finger of stacked stones surrounded by scattered stones in the middle of Salvar's wastes and moors. That was probably Nander-Thay's thought, though. If his tomb was as full of riches as Isstar seemed to think it was, then Nander-Thay probably had had some idea of taking his riches with him, and so hid himself and his horde.

Jak snorted. He'd heard that sort of myth before; powerful or wealthy men clinging to hopes that they could live on in some other world after death, bringing their loot with them. It seemed silly to Jak. He'd never quite bought the idea of gods and afterlife. The Ethereal Sway hadn't had much sway - Jak smirked at his own pun - in his village, and he'd never seen anything to convince him that, even if all that existed, a dead man could bring his physical belongings across to whatever awaited him. Even if he could, who was to say they would do him any good?

A thick cloud passed in front of the moon, casting its shadow over the watching smith, and for a moment the only light in the valley came from the campfire. Jak suddenly thrilled with nervous excitement as the darkness enveloped him. His eyes fluttered and he felt himself falling, then stumbling over rocky ground. Jak's eyes snapped open and he shook his head, trying to clear it of the black fog in his mind. He frowned. Hadn't he been standing atop that boulder? How was he now next to the cairn? His frown deepened as he tried to judge the distance. Perhaps the moonlight had been playing tricks on him. That, and the wine were probably muddling his head, and he had stumbled this way somehow.

Best leave the wine be, he thought. Need to be sharp in the morning. The smith began circling the cairn slowly, watching the stars as he walked and keeping his ears open. It wasn't that harsh of a night after all, and perhaps he didn't need the wine to stay warm.

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias had made the trip to Pestovo originally along for the ride with tradesmen, hopping from city to city with anyone who happened to be heading the same way. Granted at the time, he hadn't had a clear destination in mind- just "as far away from everything familiar as possible." Now, however, he regretted not getting his boots a little bit muddier on his own.

Things that came naturally to a seasoned wanderer were dawning on Tobias as they happened- for instance, the fatigue that set in when you force-marched from dawn til dusk, not even stopping for a tidy, only drinking what you carried in your canteen or waterskin. Then, there was the rugged terrain- not altogether shocking to him, as he had dealt with it to a small degree as a boy, but the sheer vastness and scale of it was enough to wear on the body.

Of course, Tobias had the grace not to complain. He watched the overly-enthusiastic Isstar Maloch, reminded constantly of the promises the man had made. Empty or not, right now, they were the thing that kept him going, through all of the sweat and ache, and the balmy weather. He knew it would be difficult, but if the man crossed them outright, he would have the comfort of the others behind him as he gutted the merchant like a fish.

Pausing briefly, Tobias toyed with the thought a bit more- he had never enjoyed the thought of taking a life, nor reveled in the aspect of taking one; the only time he had ever experienced it, it had been necessity, and he had felt numb. But, months later and hundreds of miles away, when reawakened to the thought, he was notably less hostile- a chilling realization.

Yet also comforting, to know that if the need arose, he would not hesitate. Isstar Maloch would not be so lucky as that Nathaniel Caplet had been. If you could call a murder victim lucky; Tobias had hesitated to bury the knife, and he had scars, bruises aand various other terrible injuries to show for it. None of them visible, of course- wounds were stories, and of himself, Tobias had learned, information was a precious commodity.

He stared at his right hand- a habit he had formed in the days immediately following the passing of Nathaniel. It had not been an immediate death- Tobias had hit a major artery (his training had been rather thorough about targeting, or so he had surmised from the amount of blood that gushed from the wound,) and in shock, the bastard had folded on himself and clutched at it, frivolously attempting to stop the bleeding, succeeding only in decorating his hands a fashionable shade of crimson. Fashionable for a cadaver, at any rate.

Now, whenever he stared at that particular hand for any length of time, that shade of red overtook his hand, and he became mesmerized by it. He could do it again; he knew it now, which confirmed his morbid obsession with the memory as something more. His eyes flickered slowly as he looked up to Jak, who happened to be on watch duty, and nodded his head in recognition.

He didn't move closer to the man- the only sounds around them were the occasional call of a wild animal, the crackle of the fire, and the whisper of the wind, which allowed for them to speak normally to one another. "This entire thing is foreign to me," he told the man honestly, certain the others had passed into the realm of dreams by now, "Once, I had much, and a father who cared for me. I thought of adventure, and of freedom," he continued, by now staring into the fire, "and thought I was wise, leaving all of that to make my own fortune, spurning the lessons I had been given and the love my father had in favor of my own desires."

Producing the dirk, now visible for the very first time since their meeting back outside of the tavern, Tobias turned it over thoughtfully as the fire danced between them, casting Jak Roth Rute's massive shadow ominously against the rock face behind them. "Only now, in true wisdom, do I understand what a child I truly was."

Their time together was short, but out of the lot, Tobias only trusted Jak- so far, at least, and for a given value of the word. This was a man be felt he could speak somewhat candidly to, and perhaps, enjoy a conversation with. It had been a very long time since anyone had indulged him with a genuine interested conversation. "What do you make of Maloch?" he looked up to Jak, nodding toward the snoring entrepreneur, not taking his eyes off the Smith. You could tell if a man was being straight with you by the way his body moved. A lack of eye contact, shifts in body stance, fidgeting, flighty responses, a simple twitch of the eye... Tobias had learned so much about these things that he had become dangerously skilled at them. A fact that, very likely, would save his life one day.

Jak, from what he could tell, was the other stoic member of this bunch- he had a camaraderie with the group that left him quiet unless talking was deemed necessary or he had some quip to deliver, but there was more to him. He might have been the brains of the outfit, or the intimidation- Tobias just hadn't been able to place him yet. He was a large man, though muscular and not plump, with a musculature that belied some manner of heavy lifting or repetitive movement. The ashen flavor of his skin and the burn marks hinted at a trade with heat as an occupational hazard, which pointed to a very select grouping of skills. The quality of the man's weapons and armor, however, sold Tobias immediately on blacksmith. And a man who made weapons was usually a man who was well-versed in using them. If Jak ever turned on him- and Tobias hoped that would be a non-issue- he would have to catch him very off guard. A fair confrontation between them would not end with Tobias unharmed, and he knew it.

Best to make nice with this man now.

[Kroom]

Jak's third lap around the cairn brought him near to the campsite. Tobias was sitting up and looking at his hand. Jak's curiosity stirred in its sleep, but he let it lie. He was about to continue walking when Tobias started talking to him, rambling about wisdom and his father. The smith paused in his patrol and stepped closer to the pickpocket, loosening a dagger under his cloak as he did so.

He hadn't said anything, that first night in the tavern when Tobias had made his ultimatum, but ever since then, Jak kept a weapon in hand when the boy was around. Jak had the distinct impression that Tobias was angry at the world and seeking revenge on it for something, but he had no idea what that something could be. Something cynical in his chest laughed at that thought, wondering how long the kid could go before he got himself killed or killed himself.

Angry people always end up with ugly deaths, thought the smith. Almost immediately, he laughed at himself scathingly. A young man of about twenty years, pretending to know truths about humankind? It seemed absurd, but at the same time, people weren't that hard to figure out, and Jak had learned to watch how people lived their lives -

The smith stopped his own train of thought, blinking. Tobias was saying something about his own immaturity, and Jak was thinking far too much. The smith wordlessly regarded the pickpocket from under his hood, then very deliberately walked to the boulder and retrieved his wineskin. The rock seemed… odd. When he thought back on it in the morning, the best word Jak would have for it was that it was whispering. It looked the same, felt the same, and yet somehow it was not the same.

A deep draft from the wineskin helped clear the smith's brain of his pesky thoughts, and he returned to the circle of flickering firelight. He stared at the flames silently, then good-naturedly smirked at Tobias.

"You always this deep, kid?" he murmured, his baritone voice almost hiding in the night. The moon was fully risen now, bathing the valley in silver half-light and shadow. Jak glanced up at the white face in the sky, breathing deep of night air and the smell of the fire as Tobias posed his question. Sniffing and sipping, he passed the wineskin to the pickpocket, now half of it what it had weighed at dusk. The smith crossed his arms and bowed his head, frowning under his hood and staring at the fire.

At the end of the day, what did he make of Isstar Maloch? He'd traded observations with Mathes and Togan, watched the merchant out the corner of his eye, but he had done very little probing of his own. The merchant seemed friendly, honest, generous, and he was no coward or slouch either.

So why didn't Jak quite trust him?

"I think," Jak said slowly, "that Isstar is a merchant. They always angle for a better deal, and will never pay more than they got to. But… at the same time, contracts have to matter. Nobody deals with a merchant they don't think that they can trust, savvy?" The smith drew his knife and began toying with it, absently flipping the steel end over end in his hand as he stared at the fire and haltingly composed his answer. "I think… I think he's got his own motives, and I don't think that's gotta be a bad thing. We all got our own motives. If he's thinking of cheating us, he might be a fool. He'd have to kill us all, and if he needs our help, then he can't take us all at once. And if he can, then he doesn't need us." Jak snorted a quiet laugh. "Never yet met a merchant that'd buy something he didn't need."

The smith quieted for a moment. An old memory rushed back. He and Teiran were meandering through a bazaar in Corone, and Teiran had stopped at a silk merchant stall and bought a bolt of gorgeous crimson silk. When Jak gaped at the expense and asked him why, Teiran had simply shrugged and said, smiling, "You never know when you might need something pretty." Within the hour, he'd bartered it to another merchant for a bale of plain white silk, which, as Jak remembered, had later sold for several times the price of the red silk. Teiran always had had a golden tongue for bartering.

Jak shook himself. His reverie had lasted an instant but had fully disrupted his train of thought. He glanced at Tobias - the boy was still silently waiting for the smith to finish.

"At any rate," Jak said, "I only ever met one merchant I trusted, and it ain't Isstar Maloch. But he's alright for now. Ain't it past your bedtime?"

[Tobias Stalt]

"Only while I'm breathing," Tobias grunted as he brought his hands together and fiendishly rubbed them, all the while huffing a plume of steam through his nostrils. "Which seems to be a chronic plague." Jak did not stop talking, however, to entertain the remarks- not at first, anyway- and Tobias turned his gaze toward the mysterious merchant, Jak providing his own thoughtful commentary.

That much could be agreed upon by all parties; trust was not only subjective here, but also ill-advised. "Aye," Tobias agreed, "I was picking up on that, too," he confirmed, more to himself than the Smith, but the sharing of thoughts here could help them better assess their total grasp of the situation. To that end, not sharing would be counter-intuitive. "There is also the possibility that he just needs bodies," Tobias suggested grimly, "fodder to be cast aside. It would make sense with the offer he's made. Not having to come through on it would certainly be a profitable business venture."

Somehow, the aspiring pickpocket did not think his suggestion was as well placed as it sounded, though he would rule nothing out. What ate at him wasn't what Maloch wanted from them, it was what he wanted them for. Their destination was shrouded in mysteries that their benefactor claimed to understand. If that were the case, what yet had he left unsaid, that would undoubtedly come back to bite all of them in the ass?

If not one thing, another. As Jak commented on his bed time, Tobias turned his gaze toward the man once more, the firelight catching just right to illuminate the dark bags that had accumulated beneath his normally bright eyes. Insomnia, or paranoia, had set deeply in, and he had likely not slept in several days by his look. "Aye," Tobias snorted, "Quite past it. But I can't seem to convince the ruddy sleep fairy to come. Ya gonna sing me a lullabye, you bloody bastard?"

Glancing back down to his dirk, Tobias cut in, "Let's ask for an advance on our pay. See how he feels about it. If his response isn't favorable, we'll know what to expect, I think."

[Kroom]

Jak chuckled wordlessly at the thief's retorts and began circling the fire, still flipping the knife in his hand. When the boy was done talking, the smith smirked again.

"Done much trade, Tobias?" he asked, though the question was obviously rhetorical. "One thing I learned from merchants is you can't do business without trust. Y'got to have some faith that the man takin' your gold is giving you its worth, else he ain't gon' get your gold, savvy? Same with hiring swords. Either they're as good as they seem and they deserve the pay. If that's so, y'can't really afford to cross them; if you could, you wouldn't need to hire 'em. If they ain't worth spit, then they die and don't get your gold, and could be you're dead."

Jak hacked and spat into the fire, a hard look in his eyes. "Payment on completion gives the merchant insurance that the sword's gon' try to earn his money, and gives the sword reason to try. Same reason you don't pay gold for silk before you've had it in your hand. I been on both sides of it; buyers don't trust swords as ask for early pay. See 'em as lazy. Isstar's already given us a fair bit of coin as a hook, an' it'd be pushing to ask for more, 'specially as he's not given us much reason to doubt him - least," Jak mused, "not yet, not as I see it."

The smith stretched his arms over his head, relishing the crackling in his shoulders. "You can ask 'im if you want, but I don't need to, not yet. An' if he does try to cross us, well," Jak said, turning towards Tobias. The firelight caught his face beneath the hood, illuminated his broad grin with flickers and shadows. His green eyes glimmered.

"I'll kill him myself, and won't think twice of it."

The knife flipped again, landing hilt-first in his palm with a dull thud before the smith hid the weapon under his cloak.

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias was not enthused by the initial retort from his seasoned companion, evinced by the grim setting of his jaw when the man equated sell-swording to trades. If there was a requisite, innate level of trust required to complete a transaction, then this had become a very raw deal for them. Jak, to his credit, had enough faith for the both of them, but faith did not amount to coin.

Still, there was a hope in Tobias, small though it may have been, that stayed his ever twitching hand from dragging the knife along Isstar's fleshy throat. "You had better be right," Tobias snorted, "for his sake."

Much of their march up to this point had been inhibited by foul weather that, Tobias had learned, was not uncommon to Salvar. This night had proven little different; the stars were blotted out by dark clouds, and the howling wind so high above seemed to be staved off by some unseen force, though flurries still buffeted their encampment in spite of the effort. The brown eyed youth narrowed his eyes as he watched the dancing clouds swirl through the sky, unsure if his vision was playing tricks on him.

Shaking his head, he glanced back down at the snow-dusted rock that spanned the ground below him, and he wrinkled his nose. "It's cold here," he observed, more to himself than to Jak, his voice taking on a hushed sound. "Not like home. It never got cold like this back home."

He grimaced; this had been the first time he had ever truly been homesick, and he was showing it in front of someone. There was a fire in his mind much warmer than the one at their feet, a hearth surrounded by love and a warmth that surpassed the bittersweet promise of gold. For the first time, Tobias could truly appreciate the lure of family over the promises of adventure or coin, and it was too late.

There was no coming back from this now. Even if he did go home, his father would never take him back. A quick glance toward Jak reminded Tobias that his family was made up of men who would come and go, now. Such an empty feeling, being a sellsword. Nothing concrete. No promises for tomorrow.

"I'm going to sleep," he muttered, falling off his rocky seat and slipping into his bedroll. As his eyes closed, he began to dream.

[Kroom]

Jak made no reply to the boy. He wasn't even watching him anymore. The smith smiled softly as Tobias tucked himself away, and began circling the cairn again. The night was getting darker, the wind picking up, but to Jak, it was simply a thicker blanket in which to wrap himself. He realized that he wasn't scared of the dark, not like he had been as a child. He hadn't been scared of the dark for quite a while now, and he couldn't even conceive being afraid of the darkness. The realization came with an easy sigh, like a man reining in his mount in front of his home and knowing he had arrived.

His watch finished uneventfully, and the smith shook Togan awake, knocking aside the knife that instantly threatened him.

"Gods below, Tog, ease off."
"Shut it, Jak." The other man chuckled and gathered his own winter cloak. "Anything?"
"Black weather's coming. Kid was feeling talkative earlier, might wake up and try to chat you."
"Right."
"Eyes sharp, Tog."
"Sleep tight, basher."

Jak cuffed his friend with a smile and collapsed on his own bedroll. Throwing a few more sticks onto the fire, he hid under his blanket with a knife in his hand, and began to drift. Just like every night, the man in shadow reached for him. Both arms, tonight. Jak thought nothing of it. He smiled behind closed eyes, and slept.

Morning came with grey skies and drizzling rain. Haggor was awake for his watch, and Mathes was cooking a rough stew over the fire. Isstar was nowhere to be seen, likely having stepped away to piss. Tobias was rousing himself as well, as Togan went through a routine of stretches and exercises near the cairn.

Jak stood and stretched, enjoying the creaking and cracking of his joints. His guts demanded release, so the smith wandered to the boulder he'd been resting on last night and squatted behind it.

Sitting at the fire, Mathes poked the fire with a stick and glowered at Tobias from under his hood.

"Oy, lad," he growled, "you 'ungry?" He gestured towards the stew. Togan cackled, standing on his hands next to the cairn.

"Easy, Tob," he said, righting himself and walking to the fire. "I've never known Math to kill a man with his stew, but he's come close." Mathes spat on Togan's shoe, which earned him a swift kick in the shoulder. Togan seated himself and filled a bowl with stew, grinning. "Better leave it to those of us who are used to it."

Standing atop his boulder, Jak stared at the men gathered around the fire. His breath refused to stay in his lungs, and his hand was shaking. Something was terribly wrong with him, but he couldn't call for help. There was a certainty dancing in his mind, a hard premonition that something menacing was coming for them. It had struck him like a wave mere instants past, and now he was frozen.

Togan, Mathes… even Tobias and Haggor. Something is after us all, and I don't know if we're going to survive it. At that moment, Isstar came into view from behind the cairn. He was stuffing something into his satchel, and he looked shaken. You're a part of it, aren't you, trader. It won't work. Whatever you're expecting isn't going to get me, or my friends. A black cloud swept overhead. Deep shade fell over the valley and the rain thickened. Jak was free again, though the looming sense of menace did not fade. He dropped from the boulder, and shadows yawned before him for an instant. Then he stepped on his bedroll, only a few feet from the fire.

This time he was sure of it. Somehow he had covered the yards between the boulder and the fire in an instant. Jak was suddenly aware of a warping coolness at the back of his mind, and he realized that it had been there for years, but only now was it strong enough to be noticed. What the hell is going on? He felt dizzy, but forced himself to sit down slowly before he reached for the wineskin and scooped a bowl of stew.

Nobody had paid him any attention because just before Jak had made his transit, Isstar had approached with a broad smile nailed to his face.

"Well then, lads!" His tone was saccharine in its good humor. "Everybody rested and ready to go?" Jak grunted in assent, standing and walking to the cairn. He needed a moment, space to focus on whatever mayhem was unraveling his head.

[Tobias Stalt]

The terse nod Tobias gave in reply to the offer of stew was nothing short of sleep induced. The words had sounded blurry in his head, and it had taken several moments to decipher it as an offer for food and not the two men asking if he wanted to die today. Clearly, the thief's dreams had been unkind the previous night.

His gaze found the hastily returning Isstar Maloch before the man was fully back to the encampment, and Tobias squinted, considering the implications of the merchant's absence. How long had he been gone, he was going to ask the other two, but then thought better of it. Best to figure things out without making another scene or rousing any more suspicions about the nature of his distrust.

It was about then that he caught a glimpse of Jak out of the corner of his eye, before anyone else saw him, that Tobias stopped himself short of calling out to the man. There was something amiss, here in this place or somewhere close by, and he was certain they were both feeling it. That would explain the man's strange behavior. "Aye," he muttered, "something's not right here."

Looking back toward Isstar Maloch as the man spoke, Tobias stared blankly, hand now tightly gripping his dirk beneath the folds of his bedroll. More and more, the diminutive man wanted to abuse the power that his wealth presumed over the group, and less and less Tobias felt inclined to heel before it. Even a good merchant only goes so far before even money cannot sway him. Or at least, Tobias had decided that.

Tobias had enough of that merchant thinking. He wasn't one of those, if he was anything at all. The thief still had yet to decide what it was that he was- if that made any sense. So far from home, he had lost sight of his original goal, and lost fragments of himself along the way. In spite of his losses, the young man had gained confidence and learned things about himself. He was surviving (if only barely) the harshness of Salvar, and he was surviving the foulness of everyone around him. That had to merit something.

[Kroom]

Isstar stood at the fire with hands to his hips, smiling broadly. Jak was watching the merchant, and was struck by the man's countenance. Isstar was a handsome fellow. He'd noticed it before, that first night in the tavern, but in this moment he couldn't help but be a little dazzled. His smile was wide and honest, completely without malice or guile, not even a whisper of the fear Jak had seen moments ago. It was a face that bred trust readily. Jak circled the campsite and stationed himself near the cairn, wrapping himself in his cloak to hide from the rain. He leaned back against the stone cairn, watching Isstar share Mathes' food.

The smith staggered for a moment, eyes fluttering. The malice that cracked at him was almost palpable, like icy spears that boiled the blood. His mouth gaped and he wanted to cry out, but he did not. His breath was choked in his chest. The smith sat down hard, trying to catch his breath as the sensation drew back. It was gone with as much mercy as it had come on, leaving his eyes wet and his lungs quaking.

What the hell was that?! The smith blinked to clear his eyes and looked to the circle. His companions were gathered around the fire, making conversation, and none had noticed his episode. It must have come on the instant he touched the cairn.

The cairn.

Jak stood shakily and turned, examining the stone monolith. It was what he expected: a huge pillar of stone several yards tall, perhaps made of granite. Yet something was amiss and he could not identify it. He stepped back, looking the giant over. No symbols, no lines, barely so much as a scratch. Whatever tool-marks it had borne had long since been erased by the elements. Not a mark on you, is there, Jak thought. Not a mark…

His thoughts trailed off as he realized. Not a mark at all. The whole cairn was one piece of stone. Jak had never heard of something this big being cut, shaped and moved in one piece. It bore no tool-marks. Who pulled you up from your roots? Tentatively, Jak reached a hand out and laid his palm against the wind-blasted granite. This time, he felt no blast of malice; rather, it felt how Jak imagined it would feel to lay a hand on the flank of a sleeping dragon. Fascinated in unease, it was with difficulty that he finally pulled his hand away and turned back towards the fire, absently pulling his cloak tighter against the wind and the rain. Jak had a mute desire to surround himself with his friends right now. Silently, he sat next to Tobias.

…gods below, what is down there?

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias stared blankly at the rock formation, enticed by its strange structure. He barely noticed Jak sitting next to him. The sounds of the other two bantering and bickering back and forth drowned beneath the frosty wind as it rose and blasted over them. The sudden nature of the blistery gale cut through the thief, sending a shudder though his bones.

"I don't like this," he decided aloud, and he took a sharp breath through his nostrils. "It feels wrong."

He stood and glanced toward the darkness below, and his eyes narrowed. Whatever was down there, it wanted them. Almost carnal in desire, the bloody flavor it left in his mouth made him sick. It was as though the land itself wanted their deaths. "We should leave." He did not expound on the thought, nor did he leave room for questions.

Tobias felt the familiar weight of the dagger in his sleeve, and his eyes slid shut. He often found that he wished to be home, though he had run away. It was an unpleasant realization. Fingers twitched over the blade, cold steel mirroring the cold wind. "Are we going to tarry long?" He directed the question to Isstar, raising the blade to point to the man. "Time is money, aye?"

[Kroom]

Isstar laughed, voice carrying nothing but the best good-natured reassurance. He clapped Tobias on the back, a gesture dripping saccharine camaraderie.

“Eager lad? Don't you worry, adventure is impending as soon as these fine men,” he gestured proudly to Mathes and Togan, who stared back with blank faces, “have finished their breakfasts. Haggor's axe is keen, and Master Rute seems as fit as ever, doesn't he?” The merchant's upbeat words fell like damp moss. Jak spat, saliva falling in the light patter of rain that covered the camp. The silence grew more rank with each passing instant, until finally shattered by Haggor, the dwarf rescuing all present by scraping a whetstone along his axe blade.

As if waking up, each man shook himself and went back to what he had been doing. Within moments, breakfast was finished and the fire stamped out, and all six men were standing at the entrance to the cairn. Isstar was in the lead, carrying a crowbar that seemed comically ill-fit to him. He stepped to the door, which was merely a slab of stone cut out from the cairn itself, then turned and looked to Jak.

“Master Rute, if you don't mind...?”

Jak spat again, unslinging his bow and quiver and wrapping these in his cloak. He pushed his hood back and stepped forward, taking the crowbar, and stared at the slab for a long moment. It was large, crude, but undeniably a door, and meant to be moved. Eyes narrowing, the smith set the bar in a crevice, wedging it home with a blow from the hilt of his shortsword. His thick hands gripped the curved end, and with a grunt, he heaved.

The door creaked, the iron bar groaned, but nothing moved. Jak felt his blood begin to race in the exertion, and grinned, gritting his teeth. It was something he had always enjoyed about being a smith: for all the fine-work and deft grace that was required in more delicate creations, it was not a goldsmith's trade, and there would always be a stubborn ingot that needed to feel the full exercise of Jak's formidable strength. There was always an opportunity to strike with full force, and to break the will of the opposing material, to bend it to his own will.

“Stand back,” he mumbled.

Having taken the test of the door, Jak now set to work in earnest. He braced his feet and took a deep breath, then began to pull. There was no jerk of sudden attack, no abrupt onset of force, but a slow and steady siege of the smith's strength. His breath hissed, veins beginning to stand out in his forehead and neck. He hauled back, arms coiling in towards his chest, which also tilted away. His legs shifted, feet digging against the moss and stone as they sought purchase and pushed.

Jak could not recall when he had last felt such a muscular challenge, and smile grew on his strained lips. The bar was bending; not giving, but bending, and stone powder fell from the place where the iron tooth bit the rock. There was a grinding noise as the stone moved – only a fraction, but it had moved.

The smith's grin widened, and he relented his onslaught for a moment; only to return with the full attack, jerking against the crowbar with all his weight and force. The bar shrieked, and the stone door begrudged another few inches. Jak reversed the bar, then, and set the hooked claw into the protruding edge of the door. Once more, he began to pull, dragging against the stubborn stone.

Of all the natural forces, stone has the strongest spirit. It will never bend; it may break, or it may be moved, but it will never bend. When it moves, its nature is such that it must rapidly find a new place to settle, or else it tumbles indefinitely, restless, wild, and purposeless.

Metal may bend, by contrast, but its bending is such that either its nature will change permanently, or it will return to its former ways with such force that all before it will sunder.

Which is the stronger?

The door tumbled away, giving up its struggle with a great clattering roar. Jak stood over it, weapon in hand and panting with the exertion, flushed with triumph. Behind him gaped the crypt's darkness. He left his cloak on the ground, gathering his bow and arrows, and stepped into the darkness, nocking an arrow.

Isstar attempted to hide his admiration at the display of strength, turning to take the lanterns from Haggor and lighting these from an ember. Togan rolled his eyes, mumbling. Mathes slapped the back of his head and shoved him forward, and the two mercenaries disappeared after their comrade, carrying one of the lanterns. Isstar hurried after them. Haggor, carrying the second lantern, laid a rough hand on Tobias' back.

“C'mon lad,” he said gruffly, though obviously trying to be friendly, “t'ain't going to get any brighter down there.”

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias stumbled dumbly forward when the impact came; Jak was strong and Tobi was lanky. The pale youth staggered down the first few stairs with a loud curse, then blinked. The entire descent was natural. Carved into stone and earth, the dank smell of ancient earth was stale on his senses. The thief blanched as he threw a hand to his mouth, gagging. "What the hell," he spat, then grimaced back at Haggor. "You must do this all the time. No wonder you smell awful."


He pressed a hand to the wall to right himself and stared into the darkness. "You're a git," Haggor replied with a barking laugh, "but you'll learn soon enough." Tobias glanced sidelong at the other man, but did not respond. Haggor continued. "Things like this, these are the easy part."

Togan snorted. "Easy, he says."

Haggor protested. "Aye, easy, Tog. There's no fight; we just go down into the nasty ruin, find whatever's to be found, then leave. Ni killing."

"There's always killing," the other man muttered. "Whether or not it's down below. With people like Isstar Maloch, it's never that easy."

"Shut up, the both of you," Tobi snapped. "I hear something."

They emerged into a large, unlit antechamber and a cold breeze wafted over them. Tobias crossed his arms as the group came to a halt, and the thief shook his head. "Anyone notice that Maloch seems a little too eager?" He looked for the man, who had disappeared into the darkness ahead of them. Tobias sneered.

[Kroom]

Jak stood, just beyond the seeping light from above, arrow nocked and body frozen. He had turned to the left upon entering the room, intending to clear out the flank and thus ensure that his comrades could proceed safely. The smith was almost to the wall when he had stopped, legs coiling instantly as he crouched and drew back on the bow. The dusty scent of a tomb tickled his nose, but he dared not move. He had been the first man into the chamber, and had distinctly heard sounds from further inside.

A thousand thoughts flooded his mind. The stories of his childhood, folktales and superstitions his mother had crooned over him, all came back like an avalanche of cold steel. His muscles were tensed, his eyes widened in the gloom, darting back and forth as he tried to pick up any sign of motion, and his breath was caught in his throat like a fish on a barbed spear.

What's in there? Ghouls? The walking dead? He was scared. The realization tasted like rotten meat in his stomach, but for the first time in a long time, Jak knew that he was scared. The living were easily dealt with: a sword to the guy or the throat, a quick slash of a knife, and they troubled you no more. The dead were... they were dead.

How do I kill a dead thing?!

He found the strength to move as Togan and Mathes, followed immediately by Tobias and Haggor, came down the ramp. Their voices broke the spell keeping him still, and he almost leaped back towards the light. Still keeping his eyes and arrow trained forward, Jak strafed back to his friends. They were about to speak, but Jak spoke first.

"Something in there," he hissed, not turning his eyes from the gloom. He could make out the shapes of supporting pillars and a few low lumps. Maybe stones, maybe, he shuddered, coffins. At his words, Togan and Mathes immediately drew their swords and took a ready position. Haggor unlimbered his axe and also stepped up, peering into the darkness with his dwarven eyes. Tobias was pushed to the back, with the four dangerous men in front of him. For all their vigilance though, Tobias made the most chilling and insightful observation when he leaned down and picked up the inexplicable left-over lantern.

"Where's the merchant?" he hissed.

Jak felt ice embrace his spine as the other two men snapped quick glances backwards, both spitting curses when they realized that Isstar had disappeared. Even from the middle of the line, he had vanished without a sound or a trace. Haggor looked about wildly, bewildered. Every ounce of attention was drawn forward, however, when there came a slow grinding sound, as of stone on stone. A creaking voice, bringing memories of dead wood and dust and stiff leather, whispered so loudly that none could mistake it.

"My servants have returned. My time has come again."

A faint blue light began to suffuse the far end of the chamber, giving hints of a seated figure chained to its throne. Before it were four coffins, as Jak had feared. These were open. A skeletal hand gripped the edge of one, and it was pulling a body upright.

Jak swallowed a mouth as dry as the Alerian desert, and fingered the fletching of his arrow.



To be continued.

[Quentin Boone]

Kroom receives:

971 EXP
132 GP


Tobias Stalt receives:

1038 EXP
120 GP


Congratulations!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!