The Cold Hand of Mercy (Semi-Solo)

[Astrid Whitepeak]

Closed to Good For Nothing Captain

“Come on… come on! We have to go now!” The harshly whispered words carried across the barren clearing, sweeping over the frosted ground and past the brush on the far side where Astrid crouched in wait with her bow lying across her knees, an arrow nocked and ready. The fresh snow crunched under the interlopers’ feet, loud in the otherwise still evening air, and she listened intently to how shallow and ragged their breathing had become as she stalked them through the forest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” a second voice said, repeating the words in a mantra, though whether it was a response or a prayer Astrid could not say. It was too little, too late either way. A man and a woman. A family? They were tired, broken and afraid. Nothing less than they deserve, the filthy heretics. The words sounded forced and hollow, even in her head.

Slowly leaning out from behind her cover, Astrid watched as the two hooded figures, the leader clearly taller and larger than the other, stumbled their way through the snow and long-since browned weeds. It was obvious that the two were townsfolk with little experience in the less tamed regions of Salvar and they made no efforts to obscure their tracks or otherwise hide their clumsy passage. A twinge of… something… shot through Astrid as she watched them. This isn’t even a challenge; neither of these two could put up a fight right now. She grimaced and felt her hand clench tight against the leather-wrapped grip of her bow. Now was not the time for mercy or second-guessing; these two were known heretics who were believed to be practicing witches and for them there could be no quarter. To hesitate could mean not only her death, but the corruption of another town to the spread of heresy, and that could not be permitted. Suffer not a witch to live.

As the two reached the end of the clearing where she was waiting, Astrid inhaled deeply, stood, and drew the string back to her ear in one fluid motion. Ethereal Sway, guide my hand, let my shot fly true and ward my people from evil. The world seemed to slow as she heard the leading heretic give a terrified squeal and fall backwards into a snowdrift. She loosed the string and watched as the arrow struck home in the man’s chest. Before he had slumped over Astrid had pulled another arrow from her quiver and was tracking the other heretic as she turned and tried to flee across the field with a scream. There can be no quarter. The second shot was no more difficult than the first and hit the woman between the shoulder-blades with a wet thwock, knocking her to the ground. Astrid strode into the open and over to the man and crouched down to checked his corpse. Sure enough under the folds of his robe she found a pack containing a tome of what looked like writings on rituals and small, wax-sealed vials of a viscous red liquid amongst some rations and travel supplies. A breath she did not realize she had been holding slipped from her lips in a sigh; he was guilty of witchcraft.

A weak gurgling noise made Astrid jerk upright and look towards the woman she had shot in the back. The heretic was gasping pathetically in the snow, her hands like claws as she attempted to drag herself out of the clearing. Judging by the way the witch was not moving her legs, however, and the slick trail of red she was leaving behind, either blood loss or the cold would kill her soon enough. Even in the midst of these detached observations, Astrid could feel her pulse racing and her mouth go dry; it was only a matter of luck that the woman had not invoked a spell, or had a weapon of some kind. She stood up, her breath coming faster and faster as she stared at the woman desperately trying to save herself. Stop, just stop… why won’t you die? Just let it end… why won’t you die? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Astrid felt her body move as though she were a marionette on strings, jerky and forced. Her fingers slipped twice on the hilt of her short sword before she was finally able to unsheathe the blade, and she walked over to the heretic now lying still in the snow, wheezing softly. Astrid’s hand gripped tighter around the hilt of the sword, but that did nothing to stop her shaking. All she could do was stand over the woman, watching as her lifeblood spilled slowly onto the brilliantly white snow until the moment passed and silence hung over the clearing like a shroud once more; the woman would never move again.

“You did well, child; their disgusting misdeeds will never lead another astray.” Astrid’s gaze lingered on the spreading puddle for a moment longer before being dragged towards the speaker. The woman who walked out from behind the trees on the same side the heretics had crossed from was nondescript in every sense of the word: average height, a plain face, neither fat nor gaunt, in clothes that would fit in anywhere in the kingdom. Erika was a perfect candidate for the Hunt. In fact, the only thing that stood out about the Hunter as far as Astrid could tell were her eyes, which were as cold and sharp as the winter wind.

As she resheathed her blade, Astrid responded, “thank you, madam Seeker. I’m glad we were successful.” The woman gave a sharp nod, her piercing, weighing eyes never leaving Astrid’s, and then turned on her heel and started walking off without a word. As Astrid began to follow Erika, the thought occurred to her that the Hunter had not seemed at all tired as she walked up to her. In all likelihood, she realized, the woman had been watching her executions from the cover of the trees, waiting to make sure that she could complete the task. Astrid had no doubt that the woman would have no qualms about killing her had she been unable to perform. Though she would never give voice to the thought, Astrid wondered not for the first time whether there was anything Erika wouldn’t do if ordered. Trotting to catch up, she held her peace and navigated the pines in silence with the veteran.

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Some time later, when Astrid and the Hunter finally left the last of the trees behind, they found a group of the local lord’s men-at-arms waiting with torches held aloft and horses in tow. They were hard men in their own rights, but Astrid noticed their anxious pacing and the way their hands hovered near the hilts of their weapons. At the sight of the Hunter, a collective sigh passed through the group, though the tension still ran high and more than one nervous glance came her way; few men felt comfortable with the Witch Hunters, even if they understood how important the task was. Astrid nodded to them in thanks and sighed as she swung up into the saddle of her borrowed mount, eager to be on her way back to town. They would need to report to the lord and the ranking clerics, but that would not take too much time, and soon she could rest in front of a warm fire. She could feel the tightness in her thighs that she had been able to ignore during the chase and the pain in her back from crouching under cover. Even her hands hurt from clenching against the stave of her bow so tightly and from exposure to the elements. It wasn’t only her muscles that ached, however; her eyes were glassed over as she stared without seeing across the desolate tundra, focused on a patch of red painted snow that she had left behind hours ago. That deep, rich crimson never seemed to be any less sharp than the first time she saw it. A gust of wind whistled past, whipping her cloak from around her and breaking her reverie. She shivered in the falling twilight only partly because of the cold, and offered up a prayer for the souls of those corrupted by heresy. Exhausted as she was, she knew when she finally fell onto her pallet sleep would not come easy; it never did after a hunt was finished.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

Iron-shod hooves rang out on the cobblestone street as the group of some twenty-odd soldiers passed through the otherwise quiet town. The flickering torches they carried provided a decent amount of light, but made buildings cast menacing shadows across the way, and inky darkness quickly swallowed the space they had just vacated. Just like our work, Astrid mused wearily, it feels like a never ending crusade; you put down one witch and hear stories of three more. Ignoring the morose thought, Astrid turned her attention back to her traveling companions, though it was hard to imagine a less accurate word to describe them. Since she and Erika had met up with them, the men-at-arms had been silent, not even shooting back and forth the usual soldier’s jibes and crass jokes, and they certainly sang none of the bawdy marching songs she learned during her time in the warband. When one of the men so much as coughed or sneezed, he would grimace tightly and his comrades would cast disparaging glares his way. Do they really worry that much about us? If they are loyal men of faith, what do they need to fear from us? At the thought, Astrid sent her own glares their way, only to feel a pang of sorrow when the soldiers’ eyes widened and they ducked their heads. She turned back to the road and tightened her hands on the reins, listening to the steady click-clack of hooves like the drums at an execution. “In all things order prevails; just as men have their stations in life and the seasons invariably follow one after another, so too does righteousness always prevail over wickedness. Though all seems dark and lost, the winds of winter flay you, and the wolf harries your steps, know that the sun also rises.” She recited the scripture in her head, seeking comfort in the certainty of the words, but still found her mind wandering to the fear she saw in their eyes. It would be a long night.

Suddenly, the column came to a halt and Astrid jerked her head around. While she had been wandering in her mind, they had reached their destination in the courtyard of the lord’s castle. Fool! That sort of mindlessness is how you get yourself killed! She had been here once before, when the lord’s steward had apprised them of the situation with the heretic coven, and as with that time she found herself thinking that the castle looked poorly maintained. She was certainly no stonecutter or mason, but even her untrained eyes could see the cracks in the stone and the way the gate did not hang quite right on its hinges. A lasting product of the civil war, perhaps; few places yet had the coin to pay for expensive repairs to infrastructure, and no small number of roads had fallen back into the wilderness. If a lord could not even afford to maintain his home, it boded poorly for the peasantry under his watch. She hoped, at least, that the local clerics were helping ease their burdens. Astrid realized that she did not hear the sound of men dismounting and caring for their horses, and looked around once more. Sure enough, the men-at-arms had split off into a huddle and were staring intently at Astrid and Erika as though waiting for something. Erika was staring back, a tight-lipped frown on her face, but allowed the pause to stretch out before finally saying something. “Go, get some food and rest. Warm yourselves. You’ve done well tonight.” The words were kind, but Erika spoke them with a tone colder than the winter’s breath.

As the men rushed to obey the order, Erika turned and looked at Astrid with something approaching warmth in her eyes. “Truly, child, you did well today too. I know it is difficult and we don’t take a life lightly, but it is our divinely ordained task to mete out justice that others cannot. Why don’t you take the rest of the night for yourself? Go into town and get a drink or two. I’ll take care of meeting with the steward and cleric.” Astrid blinked in surprise, and felt pride well up in her chest; Erika was far and away the most stern of the Hunters Astrid had worked with yet, and even the slightest bit of approval was high praise indeed.

She grinned back at the veteran Hunter and put a fist to her heart in salute. “Thank you, madam Seeker! With your leave I think I’ll do just that.” Erika returned the smile -- another surprise -- and waved her hand in Astrid’s general direction before turning a stony expression towards the keep. I’m glad I’m on her side… Astrid thought with a grin as she imagined the self-important steward sweating under those cold eyes. She hummed a hymn quietly under her breath as she dismounted and set about stabling her horse eagerly. Perhaps something could yet be salvaged from the evening.

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After stowing her pack, bow and quiver in the small room she and Erika shared near the castle chapel, Astrid walked back down the way she had came. She soon found herself in front of a moderately sized and well maintained tavern with a sign above the door bearing the image of a stylized woman with a hand held up, palm facing outward. “Denebrial’s Blessing” the text beneath the picture read, and Astrid smiled softly. It was a good name, and she hoped a good sign for her evening. As she opened the door, the smell of pipe tobacco and woodsmoke wafted out and several of the inn’s patrons turned to look in her direction, no doubt wishing she would hurry and shut the door. As with the building itself, the common room of Denebrial’s Blessing looked to be clean and orderly, and while a thin haze of smoke from the central hearth hung lightly in the air, several mirrored lamps in the corners of the room ensured that there was adequate light. It will do, she decided, and made her way carefully across the room towards an open table between the bar and the fire pit, avoiding outstretched legs and hanging cloaks as she went. It did not take Astrid long to notice one of the young serving women working behind the bar and the appraising glances she had been sending her way since she walked into the room. Astrid gave the woman a warm smile and was pleased to note the flush that spread across her cheeks as she returned the grin. Yes, I think this will do just fine.

Before Astrid could do more than settle into her chair, much less think about what to order for her dinner, however, a shriek and the sound of dishes falling to the floor pierced the din, quickly followed by raucous laughter. Her hand had darted to the hilt of her short sword before returning to the tabletop, and her gaze settled on a group of young men, probably no older than her, sitting near the bar. All of them were wearing very fine-cut clothing, had daggers with gilded scabbards on their hips and she saw the metallic shine of gold rings flashing on their fingers. They were also all clearly intoxicated, but one had a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he made pinching motions after another serving woman who was quickly fleeing back to the kitchens with the remains of a meal on her platter. Astrid scoffed in disgust. Entitled noble boys slumming it up with the common folk in a tavern, harassing the staff. Everything about that infuriated her. If that was all that had happened, she might have been able to keep her anger in check, to ignore the men and their disgusting perversions. Alas, it seemed the Sway had decided that Astrid was not to have a peaceful evening. With all the social graces of someone deep in his cups, the lordling bawled “Yeah, you bet I served with good King Iorlan, may he rest in peace! It was past time we put the Church in its place and showed that pompous old windbag Lev Testhan who rules Salvar!” The anger that had been boiling steadily in Astrid froze over in a cold rage as she listened intently to his drunken monologue. “I still think we should have finished the job when we had the chance; we were too kind to those traitors. I’m a king’s man through and through, don’t let anyone tell you different.” It was too much. She decided that she would have to act.

Whiiir whiir whiir… clink… Whiir whiir whiir… clink. The small copper symbol, an open eye centered in a disc the size of Astrid’s palm caught the light as she spun it on the pitted and scratched wood of her table. Whiir whiir whiir… clink. She kept her eyes focused on the young noble and listened as first the people sitting closest to her, and then others in ever larger circles, like ripples from a stone thrown in a pond, fell deathly silent. Soon the only voice in the room was the drunken young man, whose story was still going strong. “So then, so then… listen, guys, guys… so then I told that old priest to shove his book up his ass and to send Denebrial to my chambers if she could make things rise again so quickly!” He threw back his head and roared with laughter, but his companions had gone ashen, their eyes focused on Astrid’s table and the spinning coin as though it were a coiled viper. She snatched the token up from the table with a quick motion and pocketed it before standing up. Astrid could feel the weight of the tavern-goers’ eyes on her as she slowly clapped her hands, finally drawing the fool’s attention to her.

“Truly, my lord, a story fit for a bard. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me more about your thoughts on the clergy and the blessed Saints? You seem to have… strong opinions on the matter.” She raised an eyebrow and gave the man a cold smile, but in his state he paid the crushing atmosphere no mind. His eyes raked up and down Astrid’s body, lingering pointedly for a time on her legs and chest, and he gave her a wolfish smile. Astrid felt bile rise in her throat and kept her hand tight at her side to prevent it from shooting for her blade.

“I would be happy to! Why don’t you come on over here and sit on my lap and I’ll tell you all about it?” The man patted his thigh and grinned.

She smiled sweetly back at him and replied, “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come up to the castle with me, my lord? I have a friend who is traveling with me and we are so, so very lonely; we could use the company of a man such as yourself and would be grateful for some… entertainment tonight.” She whispered the last in a sultry tone, and mimicked his lecherous gaze as she pulled her All Seeing Eye from her pocket again.

The young man’s teeth audibly clicked shut on whatever lewd response he had been about to give, and he looked around in sudden realization of his predicament. His friends were very pointedly not looking at him, and Astrid watched in grim satisfaction as he whipped his head back and forth, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. No one was coming to his aid. They all knew what that symbol meant and knew that only a fool with a death-wish would dare to counterfeit that copper disk, let alone wave it around in public. Of course, as much as she enjoyed watching him squirm, Astrid knew that her threats were the farthest this would go; the peace was too new and the Church was still too weak to risk an incident by actually harming the blue-blooded bastard, no matter how much he deserved it. No matter, if what she did here tonight put the fear of the Ethereal Sway back into the little lordling, that would be enough for now. It would have to be. He slumped over in his chair and mumbled, “my apologies, Hunter… it is the drink talking, honest. I’m a faithful man, loyal to the Church, I swear. My friends will vouch for me.” If looks could kill, the panicked glares his friends sent his way would not have left much of a body behind.

Astrid slipped the token back into her pocket and nodded. “I believe you, my lord. After all, only someone utterly shitfaced would dare to insinuate… what was it? That you would take advantage of our beloved blessed Denebrial?” The lordling nodded his head rapidly, trying to babble out more apologies that Astrid did not want to hear. Instead, she turned to take her seat once more before she did something foolish in her anger while he and his friends bolted up from theirs and beat a hasty retreat to the door.

As the door slammed shut on their heels, Astrid looked around at the other patrons of the inn, and everywhere her glance touched people flinched and looked away. She felt the same anger and dismay welling up inside of her that she felt when the soldiers had been cowed by her and Erika’s mere presence. Why can you not understand? That man is a traitor and a blasphemer who deserves nothing less than a long fall on a short rope. I am fighting for your salvation! The sharpest blow came when Astrid looked to the bar and found that the young woman with the bright eyes and easy smile was still there, but the look she gave Astrid was one of pure terror. To her credit she managed to keep a smile on her face and meet Astrid’s gaze, but it was a twisted facsimile of the warm and inviting grin she had sported before. Her mouth was tight, her eyes darted to the sides periodically. Judging by the color of her face Astrid was willing to bet the girl would sick-up or faint if she attempted to start a conversation. With a sigh, Astrid settled deeper into her chair and stared into the fires of the central hearth as conversations quietly and fitfully began to start up again around her. A long night indeed. “In all things order prevails; just as men have their stations in life and the seasons invariably follow one after another, so too does righteousness always prevail over wickedness. Though all seems dark and lost, the winds of winter flay you, and the wolf harries your steps, know that the sun also rises.” …You would understand, wouldn’t you, Yekaterina? Of course there was no answer, only the flickering of the flames.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

“Blessed Denebrial, Twice Martyred, hear my prayer and guide me down the paths of righteousness. Holy Alexei, Gentle Healer, teach me mercy and compassion for those ensnared in sin.” The early morning sunlight created a cascade of brilliant colors as it shone through the chapel’s lone stained-glass window, surrounding Astrid in pools of vibrant reds and blues and violets as she knelt on the cool stone floor, forehead pressed to the ground. Her knees ached, but she was only dimly aware of the pain; her mind was occupied with her prayers, the wash of incense and thoughts of the icons of the saints depicted in the window. “Viktor Evenhand, grant me the wisdom to dispense justice swiftly and fairly. Sophya, Obedient Mage, illuminate the minds of those with the Gift that they may know their place.” This early in the morning Astrid was yet the only one visiting the chapel and that was just how she liked it; away from the rush of the world she could feel at one with the Sway and let her fears and pains and wants be washed away in their light. “Ethereal Sway, guide my hand, let me ward my people from evil.” Lifting her head from the floor and straightening up, Astrid reached over and picked up the old, well-read leather-bound book sitting next to her. The light gilding on the cover had long since started to peel and chip, leaving the title nigh illegible, but Astrid would know this tome anywhere: her personal copy of The Ethereal Texts. She smiled softly as she traced her fingers lovingly over the cover before hugging the book to her chest. “Lena Truesight, help me to find that which is lost.” With the last, she finished her morning prayers, extinguished the candles and incense, and left the chapel with deep bow towards the Saints.

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Because they had completed their hunt already, Erika had granted Astrid the day off and announced that they would leave in the morning to return to Knife’s Edge. The news, both about having a free day and their impending trip to the capital, came as a pleasant surprise to Astrid; it had been a long time since she had visited the city, and, more importantly, her family who lived there. She was also eager to see Saint Denebrial’s Cathedral again as the last time she had seen it the building had been severely damaged by the civil war and it would do her heart good to see one of the great sites of the Church once again in all its splendor, not to mention the opportunity to meet other members of her Order. It would take time to reach the capital, however; they were in the northern reaches of Salvar and would have to make the trip on foot as they could not borrow the lord’s horses as they had in pursuing the witches. Additionally, they would no doubt be called upon to investigate rumors and accusations along the way, though those often turned out to be the product of superstition, jealousy, resentment and just simple misunderstanding. Still, even with those delays, they would soon be in Knife’s Edge, and that thought put a spring in Astrid’s step.

As she walked down the town’s main cobblestone street, Astrid stretched her arms languidly over her head. Even the weather seemed exceptionally pleasant today to match her mood, with only the lightest of breezes, a bright blue sky and warm sunlight shining down. She let her cloak hang loosely from her shoulders as she walked and enjoyed the somewhat unseasonable warmth. She glanced around at the various storefronts lining the road and was pleased to note that most of them seemed to be open for business and well supplied. There was a small smithy-farrier, a seamstress, a potter and weaver among others such as the hawker extolling his meat pies. She had feared that, as she had seen in many small towns across the kingdom, local industries here would have suffered especially hard from the conflict. If, perhaps things were not at their best here and a few of the buildings looked to be boarded up, at least this town did not seem like it would dry up and blow away at the first gust of wind. She stopped to look at a trapper’s stall and examined the furs he had on display as a wave of nostalgia swept over her. Her father had taught her to hunt when she was young, and she looked over the hides and pelts with admiration; these were quality products. She ran her fingers longingly over a particularly fine white wolf pelt before giving the merchant an apologetic grin and walking on. She might have been able to afford it, but she wanted to save her coin for Knife’s Edge where she would find greater selection and finer wares.

A group of children were playing a game nearby in the street, kicking a rough leather ball around between them. She smiled and waved at them as she walked by, but was met with only wary stares. Though it was a bit disheartening, Astrid could hardly blame them; these were dark days and children were amongst the first to suffer when things went poorly. She remembered her parents’ lectures on the dangers strangers could pose quite well. Astrid felt a tug on her belt and whipped her hand behind her without looking. The other children yelped and ran off down a nearby alley, but she had one, a young boy probably no older than seven or eight, by the arm he had been reaching towards her purse. She gave the child a stern look and tightened her grip on his wrist. “Theft is not only a crime, but also a grave sin, boy. You would do well to turn from this wickedness before you lose yourself in it” she hissed at him. “You do not want to know what the guards do to thieves they catch.”

Although she was still upset, Astrid felt some of her resolve melt as she saw the tears welling up in his eyes. She noticed how poorly his oft-patched clothes seemed to fit him, and was shocked to see that what she had taken for ragged shoes were actually soot and dirt blackened feet. His face was smeared with dirt, the hand she grabbed looked rough with calluses, and his cheeks were gaunt and lacked the usual rosy-brightness of a child’s. Despite the tears, his expression remained hollow and broken and his eyes still flickered to Astrid’s coin pouch. To be in such need that he would risk damnation… She pursed her lips in thought and glanced over at the other towards the alley where the other children were hiding behind some barrels. They were in much the same state as he was, and looked distraught about his capture. Astrid released his arm and crouched down to be at eye level with him as he backed away from her quickly. She reached back slowly and fished several coins from her pouch. Holding one up in front of the urchin so that he could see it clearly, she watched as his eyes lit up. “This is for you, and I have one for each of your friends too. Buy yourselves some food and warm clothes if you can. The Ethereal Sway bless and keep you, child.” He darted forward, his eyes still wary and snatched the coin from her hand. She smiled at him, and when he saw that she did not intend to take it back or call the watch, the boy waved the other children over for theirs as well.

As the group of kids scampered off down the alleyway with happy shouts, Astrid stood up from her crouch and twisted her torso to loosen the kinks from her back. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps the children were pawns to a local pickpocket ring, or perhaps her charity would go to feed a father’s addiction or a mother’s habit. Perhaps it would all be for nothing. But, then again, perhaps it would not. Perhaps she had offered their families a much needed reprieve, or had bought the children more time. Regardless, as much as those children might have needed the coin, Astrid realized that she had needed to give it. Tears of her own pooled in the corners of her eyes and she choked back a quiet sob, her thoughts going back to the woman she had left lying in the snow. There has to be more to my work than being a cold hand of mercy for witches. I am not just a killer or an enforcer, no matter how virtuous such work is. Perhaps this was a chance, a reminder from the Sway of that. Perhaps moments like these are my salvation. Astrid nodded to herself, wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, and began to hum a nameless tune with a sniffle as she set off down the street. There was yet more work to be done today before her trip tomorrow.



Change: -5 gold, charity.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

Astrid stumbled out the front door of The Troll’s Den, perhaps the most aptly named tavern she had yet to see. The entire establishment smelled of rank sweat, cheap ale and vomit, something which she could only imagine was a close approximation of the odor of its namesake. Likewise, the building itself was almost derelict, with patchwork repairs evident to the untrained eye, and the bar furniture seemed to be a thrown together mix of every misfit and reject from a carpentry school workshop. Even the owner fit in perfectly with the image; he was a mountain of a man with an unkempt beard, sporting a dirty apron, an overused bar rag and a mouth as filthy as the rest of his business. Still, if the building was not nearly as clean as Denebrial’s Blessing, and if the patrons were certainly far seedier, at least the individuals who frequented The Troll’s Den did not cringe away from her as though she were the eponymous troll, nor did they stop talking or worse, leave when she entered the room. If she had to endure the barkeeps perverted eyes on her body, at least she was able to order a drink without the man spilling half of it on the floor from nerves. At least she did not feel as though she were completely alone in a room of fifty people.

Besides, even cheap ale was still ale and it certainly did the job. The Church frowned upon drunkenness, and judging by how she was reacting to her most recent drink, she would no doubt be making several kinds of penances for her actions tonight when the morning came around. But she needed to get away from her worries, to outrun the fearful eyes that haunted her thoughts. When the sun had set earlier that evening, her good mood had gone with it and she was once more left thinking about things better left locked away in the darker corners of her mind, things like the war, this most recent hunt, and the people she had left behind. She had sought out alcohol as a salve for her pains, and at least for now it seemed to be working. Pleasantly buzzed as she was, she was eager to make her way back to her lodgings and sleep the drink off. At least it might keep the nightmares at bay tonight. Two watchmen walked by, giving her a hard stare as though expecting her to cause trouble. No doubt they had watched her leaving the tavern and knew the reputation the place had. But Astrid was lost in her thoughts and wanted to problems anyway, so she gave them a quick nod and wave and continued on her way back towards the keep,

As she was walking by an alleyway just past the edge of light cast by the watchmen’s torches, however, she heard footsteps fast approaching from behind her and felt a hand reach out and tap her on the shoulder. She clumsily turned to see who it was and found herself facing several cloaked figures with their hoods drawn up. “Remember me?” The stench of alcohol wafted into her face even as Astrid recognized the voice as that of the young lord she had confronted in the tavern the night before. Before she could react, Astrid felt a strong hand grip the hair on the side of her head and forcefully slam her head into the nearby brick wall. She tried to stay focused as grey spots flashed before her eyes, to reach for her weapons, but the blow had given her a sense of vertigo and left her feeling as though she were about to vomit. As she turned to run, a fist rammed into her gut and knocked the wind from her and sent her crashing to the ground. She was on the ground for only a moment before she screamed in agony as someone reached down and grabbed her hair again, dragging her into the darkened alleyway.

Astrid thrashed, trying desperately to escape from her captor, but the blow to her head had left her dazed and confused. A detached part of her mind wondered why the watch was not running to her aid; they were not so far away that they could not have heard her scream, especially in a quiet town such as this. When the hand released her hair and dropped her, she tried to get her bearings and find some way to escape, but received a heavy kick to her shoulder that sent her sprawling. “Not so high and mighty now, are you, you uppity little Sway bitch?” The boot shot forward again, this time connecting with Astrid’s ribs as she tried to rise, knocking her to the ground again, prying a ragged cry from her lips. “Traitors. You’ll. Get. What. You. Deserve!” The man punctuated each word with yet another kick to her side, and finally shoved his boot into her back to keep her firmly against the muddy ground. She twisted her head to look up and saw the manic grin across his face and the tangled blonde hair plastered to his forehead. Panting from the exertion, he let out a humorless laugh. “That’s better. You really should learn your place and know to respect your betters.”

A second voice, one Astrid didn’t recognize, whispered, “We need to go. Now. The patrol will be heading this way again in a minute; a few gold coins only buys so much coincidence.” Suddenly, the pressure was gone from her back, and she felt a glob of spit hit her in the face.

“Consider yourself lucky, girl; I had other plans for you tonight.” She heard a clinking noise and saw a small, copper coin bounce on the cobblestone in front of her. “Thanks for the good time.” And with that, he was gone.

----------

Each breath felt like fire pouring into her lungs, and every step like a flogger was being taken to her back. She pressed a palm to her ribcage gingerly, trying to determine if any had been broken during her beating. It was hard to tell, but she did not believe so, and she had to think that if she hurt this badly and was not dead yet, she would probably live. Probably. The guardsmen at the castle gates had looked aghast at her injuries and offered to help her back to her chambers, but Astrid waved them away. After all, the lordling had bought off some of their comrades, what was to say he hadn’t paid them off as well? Besides, as much as she hurt, she felt like she needed to feel this, to suffer. That she had drank so much that she allowed several people to get that close unnoticed spoke of nothing short of idiocy. She limped down the hallway, thankfully empty of even the servants at this hour of the night back to the room she and Erika shared. Perhaps she would be able to contrive a story about a mugging, or a bar fight to explain her state. It would be difficult to lie to the Hunter, but at least it would be better than reliving the experience she had this evening. As she neared the door, Astrid let out a sigh; she was bone weary and ready to fall into the darkened room and sleep deeply. When she slowly pushed open the door, however, she was surprised to see that the room was still illuminated.

“So. He found you, I take it?” Astrid turned slowly, careful not to twist her burning torso too far. Erika was sitting on the small bed in the corner of the room, an open book on her lap, staring at the doorway.

“I’m sorry, madam Seeker?” She asked, uncertain that she had heard Erika correctly, and the booze was certainly not helping her think on her feet. Erika looked Astrid up and down pointedly, focusing momentarily on the hand Astrid held pressed to her ribs and on the enormous bruise covering her face before meeting her eyes again.

“I said, the good young lord Isaac decided to take his frustrations out on you, yes?” Astrid opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get a word out, Erika was speaking again. “Of course, normally we would not allow an incident such as this to happen; even a lord whose pride was injured must learn to bow to the might of the Church, and he should surely be hanged for his crime. However, your little… show… at Denebrial’s Blessing was extravagant and drew eyes we did not need to us. Just today in town I heard a rumor that one hundred Witch Hunters had descended upon the castle and were about to burn the lord at the stake. If I heard that here, who knows what rumors are flying around the countryside right now? How many dissidents and diabolists who we might have brought to justice are now hiding in safety? How many mages now know to keep their eyes out for us? How many people have you condemned to die, how many souls are damned by your stupidity?!” Although she had started speaking in her usual calm tone, by the time she finished Erika was shouting, her eye twitching with rage. Astrid cringed away from the veteran Hunter, but the moment was passed and Erika was once again cool and collected. She closed the book, and rose from the bed. “Consider this a lesson, and imagine what might have happened if, instead of young Isaac, a heretic decided to take a knife to you. Or worse.” With that parting shot, she left Astrid alone in their room.

Limping over to the bed, Astrid gingerly crawled in and pulled the wool blanket over herself before curling into a ball and letting her tears flow freely until sleep took her. Her last thoughts were of the happier, peaceful days of her youth.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

"Troll's den is right," Victor groaned, propping himself against the wall of the rickety building. He let out another small burst of vomit, before wiping away that which hung to his mouth. "That couldn't have been liquor. . . It had to be Troll piss. . ."

Steeling his stomach, the red-eyed man left the pool of vomit in the alley. His indifferent gaze, like the eyes of someone who had just woke up, led the way. His jet-black hair fell just above his eyes, but did not block his vision. Victor picked his nose as he walked, lost in thought.

The drifter wandered down the street, wondering if he should find accommodations, or pass through.

"How much was it, again?" he overheard two guards talking.

"I think it was 20 pieces," the second guard said, counting the coins in his hand.

"that'll buy him 20 minutes," the first guard laughed."

"Still, that bitch looked like she had it coming. As a rule, I don't like the church, but pissing off a lord's son, all alone. . . she must be a moron."

"Well hopefully he's getting his fun, she didn't look like much. . . but I guess, she doesn't have to. . ." and quiet laughter filled the air of the quiet street. Before hurried footsteps ran ahead. Concern filled Victor's eyes and his hand gripped 'the Bastard,' a remnant of the Salvaric civil war.

Apparently stirred by his approach, two hooded figures bolted from the alley. Victor hugged the wall, sticking to the shadow, letting them get ahead before peaking into the alley. A women lay face-down in mud, hardly stirring. "Miss! are you okay?!" the red-eyed man lifted the girl from the ground, propping her back up against the wall. The pained look on her face was grim, but it didn't look like she was conscious. Victor stirred, his eyes locking on to the copper coin poking out of the woman's pocket. He scowled, briefly, old feelings stirring in his gut and his heart.

"No one deserves this," he sighed, "not for pissing off a noble. . ."

----------

When the woman opened her eyes, pain was her only company. She hobbled from the alleyway, ignorant to the silent interloper.

Two men retreated towards their lofty homes in the darkness. The laughter of one man's triumph echoed in the night. "Did you see her face!?" he nearly squealed, "it was soooooo satisfying! Ugh! those damned guards! they robbed me of the rest of my victory! I guess I will just have to call a girl to take care of this 'rising problem,' if you know what I mean!" another shrill laugh burst from Isaac's lips.

"Isaac. . . I think that was a little excessive. . ." his accomplice sighed nervously, "what if someone else saw us?"

"You worry too much Eliezer," the noble laughed, "if anyone saw, they'd just keep quiet, none of these country-bumpkins wants this kind of attention. And if they did, they would come to me first, for money; a problem we could deal with simply, if it arises. The church would give them nothing but problems."

"I suppose," Eliezer nodded, anxiously looking around.

"You don't say," a calm voice sailed in, putting both criminals on alert.

"Who's there?!" Eliezer was the first to yell.

"Just your friendly neighborhood blackmailer," Victor stepped out from the shadow of an alley, not far ahead of the pair.

"Blackmailer, huh?" Isaac stepped forward, a scowl appearing on his face.

"Yeah, I guess you could call me that." Victor scratched his head, "what's the going rate for beating a defenseless girl? and trying to rape her. . ."


"You heard all that?" Isaac asked, one hand going for his coin-purse, and another behind his back to a hidden blade.

"Let's say I did. . ." Victor began, walking towards the pair, " do you want to know what I hate more than the church of the Ethereal Sway?"

"Ah! a fellow church hater!" Isaac said to Eliezer, "it would appear we're in luck!" But the accomplice did not relax, he could see something in the stranger's red eyes. A ferocity not unlike a wild beast.

"It's men who mistreat women. . ." Victor growled, moving faster than the two men could react. A swift kick found it's home in Isaac's crotch, sending the men to his knees, tears and vomit beginning to pour from him. Eliezer was only a little luckier. Victor blurred around the falling Isaac, and turned his anger towards the accomplice. With a quick sweep of his legs, Eliezer was falling to the ground. The fall was sped up by Victor's hand, which crashed the man into the ground as it wrapped around his throat.

The expression looked almost demonic in the dark moonlight.

"You're getting off easy. . ." the drifter hissed. With a swift punch, he knocked Eliezer's consciousness out of his body. Behind him, Isaac stood, tears welled in his eyes and blade clasped in his shacking hand.

"I'll kill you!!" the nobleman shrieked, before charging his obvious better.

Victor deftly dodged his sloppy swings before stepping in. Victor's knee knocked the wind from Isaacs body, and the drifter grabbed the knife hand. It did not take much pressure for Isaac to drop his blade. Victor grabbed the man by his throat, still holding his wrist, and pinned him to the wall.

"I was just going to just let you off with broken balls," Victor hissed, "but now I'm going to vent of this bad-liquor-induced rage out on you."

The sound of punches landing on the nobleman's face echoed through the streets. Victor left the man's bones intact, but spared no mercy bruising the bastard's face. Guards rounded the corner, alerted by concerned citizens to a fight. When they saw the nobleman who was so good with bribes being assaulted, they moved in immediately. Victor thought to fight, but he'd been in enough trouble with the law recently. The bindings were cold around his wrists, but he barely noticed.

Victor could do little but smile at the satisfaction from beating a corrupt official.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

Astrid pulled the woolen blanket over her head and gave a pathetic whimper. The sunlight, usually a welcome sight to the early riser, lanced through the room’s small window with all the fury of a vengeful god and pierced her eyelids mercilessly. But even her staunch bulwark the blanket could only do so much, and the sounds of boots tromping down the hallway and of the cleric chanting morning observance ensured that she would get no more sleep this morning, no matter how much she needed it. Unwilling to admit defeat just yet, Astrid rolled over, and immediately regretted her mistake as she took a sharp intake of breath. It had been almost easy to forget the beating she had received the night before between the pounding in her head and the nausea in her gut, but as she twisted under the covers the pain in her side flared up and the memories came crashing back. The exact details of the night were a little fuzzy, but she could remember the tavern, and the guards, and the beating and… and the threats of what might have happened. Underneath her covers she reached a hand up and gently touched the side of her face, feeling the swelling under her fingertips. “Consider yourself lucky, girl; I had other plans for you tonight.” Unable to control herself any longer, Astrid ducked out from under the blanket, leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited… into a waiting bucket. If rolling over had been painful, emptying the contents of her stomach numbered among the more excruciating experiences in Astrid’s recent memory. She moaned loudly as she leaned back and pressed a hand to her aching side.

“Ah, good morning, Astrid. You missed Morning Prayer. And breakfast, though I can’t imagine you’re terribly interested in that at the moment.” Grateful as she was for the bucket, which Astrid belatedly realized Erika must have placed there for her, she still shot a baleful bleary-eyed stare towards the veteran Hunter. Erika was utterly unfazed, however, and sat placidly at the desk writing something with a quill. A very loud quill, one that she was skrtch-ing far too much for Astrid’s taste. Astrid tried her best to ignore the incessant scratching as she spit in an attempt to clean the rest of last night’s liquid meal from her mouth, and then looked back up at her mentor.

“Good morning, madam Seeker. Forgive me my indiscretions; I’ll make penance.” Her voice sounded hoarse and weak, even to her hypersensitive ears and she coughed painfully several times to clear her throat. Erika nodded without looking up from her writing, clearly engrossed in it.

“Yes, you will. However, you will not be completing it with me. I received a message from my superiors while you were asleep; it seems that the ramifications of your other indiscretions are already being felt and several of us are being called away to deal with a minor problem out west. I trust you will report to the cleric for penance by this evening at the latest?”

“Of course, madam Seeker, but… am I not to go with you?” Astrid asked, a twinge of fear in her voice. A “minor problem” needs several veteran Hunters to be dealt with? Erika sighed and set the quill down, before rubbing the bridge of her nose. She looked tired, Astrid realized, as though she had not slept all night. Was she watching over me while I slept? The thought was oddly comforting, though that was something Astrid never thought to call Erika.

“No, Astrid, you are not. For starters, this is a problem that you helped to create and I would rather not have to deal with the implications of that while you are with me on the Hunt. Furthermore, look at yourself; you’re hardly in a state to travel, let alone to move as quickly as we need to in order to put this down. No, I am afraid you will be staying here for a time to rest, recover, and contemplate your actions. Now, get some sleep if you can, and then get to work. I will see you in a few weeks, I hope. If something comes up I will send a courier.”

As Erika shut the pulled the door shut behind her slowly, so as to not make much noise, Astrid realized something: Erika had called her by her first name for the first time; always before now it had been “child.” She laid back in bed and stared over at the desk, wondering if that were a good thing or a bad. A soft, metallic shine caught her eye, and she tried to make it out. After a moment, it dawned upon her that the glint was from a small copper coin. “Thanks for the good time.” She rolled back over, trying her best to ignore the pain in her side and sought the blackness of sleep for a bit longer.

----------

Astrid wiped the sweat from her brow, and frowned at the black streak left on her arm. If someone had tried to tell her before today, Astrid would not have believed that this small of a chapel could become this filthy. Maybe it’s never been cleaned before at all, she thought as she hefted the boar-bristled brush and once more attacked the soot caked onto the wall behind the altar. She had to give credit to the cleric, she supposed; it was a very pragmatic penance, though she admitted to a certain amount of cynicism when the corpulent man had piously told her that honest work cleanses the soul. She snorted softly. If that’s true, his soul must be as black as this grime. Honestly, the work was not that difficult except for her only being able to use one arm due to her injury, and it did give her time to think, both about what had happened and her own culpability in the affair. Her pride and arrogance, her gluttony for the drink, her anger with the lord… well, perhaps the anger at least was justified; he was a blasphemer and a would-be rapist. Her hand clenched on the handle of the brush, and she could hear her teeth grinding. Her would be rapist. Yes, she decided, the anger was definitely justified.

As she was scrubbing the wall, pretending that it was Isaac’s eyes she was taking the coarse brush to, she overheard several maids walking by in the hall. Normally she would not have paid attention, but one of them had a profoundly obnoxious voice, and not just because of her hangover. “Well I heard that one of those ladies staying down the hall, you know, the guests of the cleric, she was attacked last night!” Astrid’s ears perked up, and she set the brush down for a moment to listen.

A second voice, far less nasally and shrill Astrid was pleased to note, responded. “I heard! You remember Ileana, my friend’s sister who works at The Troll’s Den? She says that girl was in there drinking and gave a lord the wrong idea! I can’t say I think she deserved it, but it isn’t right to lead a man on like that.” Astrid clenched her hand into a fist, feeling her knuckles pop under the pressure. Leading him on? Gave him the wrong idea? She would set those two straight, mark her word. But right as she was turning to confront them, the maid with the voice like nails on a chalkboard started talking again.

“Well, maybe, but did you hear? Another man chased that lord down and beat him to a bloody pulp! Left his face a right mess! It would’ve been awfully romantic if he weren’t just a seedy bum. No doubt he was sniffing after her tail too if she likes to lead ‘em on!” Astrid was wrong, her voice was not the most profoundly obnoxious thing she had ever heard; the laugh the woman made was, somehow, even more painful to listen to. “It is a good thing the guards locked him up in the dungeon; I wouldn’t want a man who can do that to another person on the streets at night, even if he was just a dirty drifter passing through. Shame about the lord… sounds like he might have been single!” The two kept on with their inane gossiping, but Astrid’s mind was already elsewhere. She returned to her scrubbing, wondering who the man she quite possibly owed her life to was, and why a drifter would even care to involve himself. She decided that she should make a trip down to the dungeons and meet her savior after she finished her work.

----------

“Right, Hunter, here we are.” The middle-aged gaoler set the torch he had carried with the two of them into a sconce on the wall and grunted as he reached under the impressive overhang of his gut to fish a set of heavy iron keys from his belt. The room was damp, cool and dark, with the only light besides the torch coming from around the corner at the top of the stairs. “I’ll open the door and leave a chair and this here light for you, then wait outside. The prisoner’s shackled to the far wall, so as long as you stay on this half of the cell he won’t be able to reach you.” He trundled over to the heavy, iron-banded door, clearly favoring his left leg before turning the key in the lock with a loud click. At the loud noise in the otherwise quiet hall, Astrid flinched and tightened her palm around the small coin she held there.

Astrid gave the man a nod and a small smile of appreciation as she stepped to cross the threshold, but he reached out, grabbed her arm and gave her a concerned look. “Lass, you be careful, you hear? I know you Hunters can take care of yourself, and no Sway loving, Church going man would put his foot wrong with you, but this man is dangerous. I’ve made a living of keeping these cells since I took a sword in the war, so I know when a man isn’t quite right. My boys told me he was grinning like a fiend when they pulled him off that lord the other night. Isn’t anybody what deserves that kind of beating out of the blue.” The jailor’s eyes flickered over to the ugly contusion on her face before returning to her eyes. “Just… give a shout if you need anything, right?” Astrid nodded once more as she lifted the torch, touched by the man’s gruff concern, and headed into the cell. She wasn’t sure what the man could do, even with his truncheon, if the prisoner managed to escape and attack her, but his kindness was a comfort.

If the dungeon itself had been dark, the cell was a black void; there were no candles or windows in the wall, and only a small gap in the door for passing food and water. The smell in the room was particularly bad, like vomit, sweat, piss and despair. She held the torch aloft and looked into the corner of the room where she saw a figure slumped over on a straw pallet with an arm shackled to the wall by a heavy iron chain. Besides that pallet, the only other furniture in the room was a simple wooden bucket in the corner. While she was busy examining the room, she heard the sound of something being dragged along the floor behind her, and she saw the gaoler pushing a simple wooden chair into the room while throwing a scowl towards the prisoner. When he noticed Astrid looking at him, he muttered something about bringing her the chair and bowed his way out the door. Touching concern indeed.

Astrid grabbed the chair herself and dragged it around so that she could sit facing the prisoner. She took a moment to examine him and take in his appearance. The first thing she noticed was just how filthy the man was; flecks of vomit were caked on the front of his coat and stained the corner of his sleeve, and he looked like he had not bathed for some time. Understandably, she thought, as the watch no doubt was not providing bath water for its charges, but even so she felt a bit of revulsion at his state. The next thing she noticed was his size. He was not a small man by any means, and she estimated him to have a good six inches and maybe even a hundred pounds on her. She felt no small bit of anxiety well up inside of her. Astrid’s hand itched to feel the comforting coolness of the hilt of her sword, but she settled for clamping it down on that coin again. She was not a weak, untrained girl from the city whose arms were soft and whose legs were slow; she tracked her way across tundra and city alike, wielded a bow with skill and exercised daily to keep herself sharp, but even so it was obvious that this man would be able to beat her handily in a stand-up brawl. The chain holding him, a heavy iron contraption, still looked a bit too thin for Astrid’s taste.

She supposed he might be considered handsome, though it was hard to say in his current state. She had never cared to give men much of her eye, but she could understand that he was a tall, fit, strong man with that tousled black hair and unshaven look that drove all too many girls to sighs and mooning. He was dirty, true, but he did not have the look of a drug addict or the broken body of a man who loved to fight for fighting’s sake. She could not see into his mouth, so she could not say if he was missing teeth, but somehow she doubted it; he was unkempt, but not completely lacking for self-care. She could understand why the maids and guards thought he was a bum and that he was deranged, but something told her that if he got a bath and washed his clothes, their tune would change. He was not just a random drifter.

She did not know if the prisoner was awake; he had been slumped over since she walked into the room, and had not reacted to the sound of the chair or the change in lighting. Although it somewhat felt like she was breaking a solemn moment, Astrid decided that she should probably begin speaking with the man if she hoped to get some answers. “Blessings of the Sway upon you, sir, may they shelter you in their hands. I understand you ran into some trouble with the law last night.” She hesitated before continuing, “I also understand that I may owe you my life, and… and I would like to help you if I am able.” She glanced around, feeling a bit foolish talking to a man she didn't even know was awake, but decided to settle into her chair and wait. At least for a few more minutes.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

SIDE STORY: The Binding of Isaac

The cold autumn sleet drizzled down on the slow-moving column making its way across the lightly forested terrain, chilling man and horse alike to the bone. There was little to be done, however; if they made good time here they might be back to Norwatch by this time tomorrow, especially if the rain did not continue and turn the tundra ahead into a freezing mire. If they set up camp now to wait out the rain, however, they ran the risk of riding through a snowstorm. None of this, of course, was what Isaac wanted to hear. It was a lonely trip home, with only the ten or so plebian soldiers to keep him company, and the rain only made it worse. Oh, they were a fine lot, he supposed, but at the end of the day they were commoners and were simply different. Even the captain was still just a jumped-up peasant when it came down to it. He was sad when Eliezer had decided to return to his father’s estates, though Isaac could hardly blame him; the events of that night several days ago had certainly shaken him too. He clenched his teeth as he remembered the smile on the face of the drifter who had ambushed Eliezer and he after their fun. I hope the bastard rots in that dungeon for the rest of his life. How dare he assault me! I hope they flay the flesh from his back!

As they rounded a bend in the path they ran into a stretch of road bounded on both sides by thick copses and a scattering of pines. They were not that far out from the last town, but this far north the peasants made little effort to keep the roadsides clear; there was simply not enough need for it to motivate the lazy cretins. Normally, this bottleneck would not be an issue, but an old woman was attempting to pull along a stubborn donkey down the middle of the road, making it impossible for the column to pass her by. Of course! Why wouldn’t there be problems now? This whole trip has been an absolute disaster… Isaac gave a weary sigh, but decided to be magnanimous. He raised a hand and called for the column to halt. The woman must have been deaf, as she did not look up either at the sound of approaching horses or at Isaac’s voice; she merely continued to tug at her donkey’s rope bridle until the beast finally began to walk slowly after her. The smug smile slid from Isaac’s face as his moment was stolen from him and the delay dragged on. Just how slowly could someone walk?

Isaac was wet, he was cold, and his face still hurt from the fight he had been in. In short, he was miserable and his temper was very, very short. He frowned and raised his brow at the captain who nodded in understanding and gestured to one of his guardsmen. The man heeled his mount and slowly trotted forward while shouting, “Ho! Make way for Lord Isaac. Clear the road!” The hunch-backed crone did not look up and continued to lead her heavily laden donkey down the middle of the road. “Clear the road!” No response. The guardsmen shouted louder, “I said, make way for Lord Isaac you old hag!” Still the old woman did not react, keeping her sedate pace. The soldier, himself in no better mood than his lord, hefted his spear and began to ride forward faster, intending to take the butt of his weapon to the peasant. Isaac smiled, his eyes bright in anticipation.

Suddenly, from the thick scrub on both sides of the path, a series of sharp twangs rang out and all hell broke loose around Isaac. The guardsmen who had been about to force the old woman from the road took a quarrel to the neck and flailed out of his saddle as a spray of his blood painted the road red. Isaac twisted in his saddle, searching the roadside for the assailants and seeing nothing as his hand went to the sword on his hip and he drew the blade. He was perhaps not the most seasoned soldier, but he told that Sway bitch true; he had served with honor in the war and would be damned if some ragtag group of marauders took him now. “To me! Men, to me!” he shouted at the soldiers, but before he could get another word out he heard another series of twangs and another volley shot forth from the brush and struck several more men and Isaac’s horse. His mount gave a panicked squeal and bucked, throwing Isaac to the ground before it fell dead on top of him.

Isaac cowered against the ground, the body of his horse crushing his leg painfully against the packed dirt road. All around him he heard the chaotic sounds of men in battle, trying to meet the foes they could not see; cries of “Rally to Isaac!” turned to screams and were silenced just as quickly, and horses panicked and fled in all directions. Soon the sound of hooves pounding down the road and the hoarse cries of men dying were all that he could hear, and then quite suddenly, it was eerily quiet. Isaac looked over his shoulder and saw his sword lying in the dirt. He did not hear anyone moving, and even if he would be at an extreme disadvantage at least he could defend himself if he had the blade. He stretched his arm out, and thought that if he strained just a little more he might be able to catch the hilt with his finger and pull the sword to him.

A heavy foot slammed down on his reaching hand and he screamed in agony as he felt the small bones in his palm crack under the weight. The boot twisted sideways sharply and he cried out again. He looked up through his tear-filled vision and saw the ragged cloak of the old woman who had been blocking the road resting on the shoulders of a perfectly healthy middle-aged woman. Isaac was absolutely certain that he had never seen the woman who stood over him, crossbow in hand, in his life. Though, he decided, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have been able to recognize her if he had; there was simply nothing that truly stood out about her. No, he thought, her eyes. I would never forget those eyes. The aforementioned eyes shined with a malevolent light as she stared down at him with a perfectly cool expression. She leaned down, reached out and ran a gloved hand down the side of his face before saying quietly, “You have sinned gravely, my child. Even a lord whose pride is injured must learn to bow to the might of the Church.”

She looked over to someone Isaac could not see and said, “Grab a rope from their supplies, then tie his hands and feet and hang him from that tree. Recover the bolts and plant some cheap arrows; make it look like bandits. Kill the rest however you like, but make it quick.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “I keep my promises.”

Isaac heard the sound of clinking chainmail and something metal thumping against it. “Yes, my lady Seeker. Your will be done.”

Isaac attempted to twist away from the woman, but her foot held his mangled hand firmly. He screamed to whoever might be listening, “No, no! I can pay! Whatever this whore is giving you I’ll double it! Triple! My father is a lord and will pay handsomely for my release! Don’t do this!” The last thing Isaac saw was the boot that had broken his hand filling his vision, and then the void took him.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The trip to the dungeon was swift; apparently nobles were important or something. Victor was dragged through the yard, his clean-ish clothes utterly ruined by the filth that began raining down from the higher levels of the stronghold. The guards laughed and stepped back, letting rotten fruit, molded bread, and assorted slimes and greases hit his body. Most of it missed, but the smell left behind was not something the drifter cared for.

"Your aim could do with some work," Victor sighed.

"Der's plenty more where dat came from," one guard spit, "Lord Isaac pays us well! e'll wont ya nice an dirty."

"Why? is he planning on raping me too?" the drifter joked, provoking the hilt of a blade to take his consciousness. From there the drifter was carried, non-too-gently, to his cell. Shackled to the wall and left near a make-shift cot made from straw.

Victor stirred, climbing unto his bed. "I guess I've found lodging for the night. . ." Victor let out a heavey sigh, "I knew I hated Sway towns for a reason. . . foul booze, foul people. . . But I guess no good deed goes unpunished everywhere."

----------

Victor kept his eyes closed, waiting for the shuffling behind him to subside. The gaoler, oaf that he was made the most noise; the familiar heavy steps of a man who overestimated himself. The scrapping of the chair was equally annoying, working like a hammer on the hangover Victor had been nursing. He welcomed the silence, save the guard's muttered complaints about the lack of acknowledgement for his concern.

You moved a chair, friend. You didn't build it from scratch and polish it. . . Victor mused to himself.

It wasn't until the church fearing words began, that Victor took an interest in his guest.

"You can keep your blessings," Victor's hoarse voice came out, eliciting a throat clearing cough; followed by a clear, almost charming, voice, "and your sway should focus on sheltering those who want their aid first. . ."

The black-haired prisoner rose, the chain limiting his movements but not restricting them as much as other's he'd been bound by. He looked himself up and went to work clearing the scrapes of vomit and dirt off his clothes.

"Anyway," Victor said, yet to look upon his visitor, "if you've heard the things I have, you'd know I would never save someone. I'm just a filthy drifter. . . I guess it doesn't help that the guards here seem to have a hazing process for 'criminals,'" Victor displayed the irony of his meaning in the brief bending motion of his index and middle fingers.

Finally Victor's gaze rested on his guest. Her eyes were open wide, like the very visage of the drifter startled and scared her. If his gaze had been harsh, it softened. He recognized her mousey brown hair; the kind that lacked care and attention. Her pale skin, like the skin of someone who doesn't see much sunlight; like someone who stares into the face of darkness. He recognized the shape of her form; the body of someone who had decided long ago that fancy clothes and luxurious affairs were not something she cared for. She looked fit, well trained, accustomed to a hard life. Victor recognized the smell of his own; the smell of a survivor. The smell of a killer.

But there was something else. Something in her eyes, like diamond in the rough. As though she had not lost all of herself to that darkness that lies in a human's soul. He could see that there was conflict in her gaze. Perhaps that conflict came from her unresolved opinion of Victor; perhaps it was a conflict of something deeper. But the drifter could find little motivation to ask. It wasn't his problem. Just by looking at her, the drifter noticed all the tell-tale signs of drinking. And a one-sided fight. There could be no doubts.

"You're that witch-hunter," Victor scowled, which the darkness did well to hide. Indifference found its way to his expression once again, and the half-shut gaze moved away from the girl.

Slightly shaken, the girl tried to steady her voice before she responded quietly.

“Yes, I am at that. An acolyte, but I am a member of the Order of the All Seeing Eye. Which makes me ask: why did you do it? I…”she paused, taking a moment to swallow and touch the swollen bruise on her face, “I won’t ask if part of you entertained the idea of leaving them to their business, but I would like to know… why?” If you aren't a believer… you are my enemy. Aren't you?

"I don't know much about your order. . . Or why you guys do the things you do." Victor sighed, before clarifying, "Can't say I care, either. But there's nothing that sickens me more than a woman being attacked by cowards. . . And no, I entertained nothing of the sort. I don't believe a man has a choice in a case like that."

Victor let his red-eyed lock with the girl's green eyes. He kept the indifferent expression locked on his face until a sneeze broke the silence. Victor tried to catch the spray but his arm was stopped by the chain. His head aimed down, and his knee jerked up, crashing into his face. A weak stream of blood slithered from his nose as the imprisoned drifter cursed and muttered to himself under his breath. He went to work, turning his back the acolyte. Victor pulled and tugged on the chain with annoyance, trying to find a comfort zone to his liking. He went on ignoring the girl, only adding to the enigma that he'd created.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

“You’re that Witch Hunter… You’re that Witch Hunter… You’re that Witch Hunter…”

The statement was a simple one, but it was laden with deep and powerful undercurrents, and Astrid heard it echoing in her mind like waves rushing the shore. She had felt many things in the past when people had found out about her profession; pride when a village elder thanked her for her assistance, camaraderie when she met another member of the Order, sorrow when the barmaid had been terrified of her, anger when the guardsmen would not meet her eyes, and others. One emotion she had not felt, however, was shame. She had no reason to; her work was righteous and necessary, the swift and unwavering execution of justice. If the Hunt frightened the common folk, or put the fear of the Sway into soldiers… well, there was little Astrid could do except think that it would be much worse for them if she and those like her did not do their work. All of which, however, only made what she was experiencing right now that much more confusing and upsetting. She should not feel ashamed, but something in the way the prisoner said those words and the way he looked at her made her feel as though she were being weighed and judged.

The unexpected feeling did nothing to make her sympathetic to the man’s attitude, either. If anything, her surprise was bleeding into agitation, and his passing commentary on the Church was getting under her skin. Every now and again she had heard someone reject a blessing for various reasons, and she could certainly understand that this man was probably not in the most receptive of moods at the moment, but even so she could feel a spike of anger at his comment. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him off for his opinions on Church priorities, when suddenly the man sneezed and his knee smacking into his nose with surprising force. He muttered a torrent of invectives that any soldier in the warband would have been proud to use as well as several that Astrid didn’t recognize, which was saying something. It was oddly humanizing; she had been ready to yell at the man, but now she wanted to both snicker and ask if he was OK.

As it was, she had not said anything since he had explained his motives in chasing down Isaac. The prisoner was like a tavern puzzle; each time she thought she had the hooks, loops and swirls figured out, they tied themselves together in different ways. He is at the very least irreverent, but saved me even knowing what I am. He feigns indifference, but rushed to aid a stranger in need. He’s here in this prison, a drifter, a bum, but he’s strong and witty. He’s turned his back to me (both metaphorically and literally), but hasn’t asked me to leave nor has he said that he did not want my help. Astrid gnawed on her lower lip, watching as the man tested the limits of his freedom, standing here for a moment and then moving there. I… don’t know what to do. Where does the right lie in this?

She stood up without another word, turned on her heel and walked out the door, leaving the prisoner alone in his cell.

----------

“I’m sorry, Hunter, my ears aren’t what they used to be… could you repeat yourself?” The jailer was sitting at a crude table near the stairway leading up from the dungeon, his midday meal all but forgotten in front of him.

Astrid sighed, knowing damn well that the man had heard her, but nevertheless she straightened her posture and repeated herself with the same calm and certain voice. “I wish to take the prisoner into my custody.”

“The uh… the man in the cell. The one you just talked to? The one who near as killed a lord to hear the watch talk?” The look the gaoler gave her was nothing short of insulting. Who else would I be talking about, you old goat? I know what he did, I just… need to know who he is.

“One and the same,” Astrid deadpanned. His insistence on dragging this out was getting to be quite annoying. An idea came to her, and she reached back to grab her purse. She was by no means rich, but life as a Hunter also left little time to actually spend one’s earnings so she had a tidy sum save up. She had hoped to spend her coin in Knife’s Edge, but with Erika gone and her injury it seemed unlikely that she would head that way any time soon. “Does your lord allow prisoners to post bail?” The words were spoken softly, and she gave a slight tilt of her head as she looked at the man.

He licked his lips, his eyes practically sparkling with greed as they locked on the purse she hefted. “N-n-now, I am sure that my lord would permit the prisoner to post bail. Especially if he were remanded to your custody, Hunter. I’m sure of it… no need to bother him.” He cocked his head and looked up at Astrid out of the corner of his eye, as though waiting for her to condemn his corruption. Not today, old man, but your day will come. Still, she decided, it would be good to give him a bit more reassurance.

Astrid nodded and smiled at the man, trying to look as guileless as possible. “And surely the Church would be better able to handle this madman, no? I’m sure your people would sleep easy knowing that he was no longer their problem. One never can tell with lunatics; some seem to be born that way, but others get that way from curses and dark rituals. Didn’t you say he looked somewhat fiendish?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Yes… I think you have a point there, Hunter. Positively evil, that one.” Grunting, he lifted himself from his chair with a slight creak, and jerked his head towards a corner of the room as he said, “Why don’t we step over here and complete the release?”

----------

The heavy door swung into the cell and Astrid walked into the small room once more. Almost instantly that same tension and uncertainty from before came back. Her eyes scanned the room, though she did not know what she thought to find; the prisoner was, as expected, still in his corner and the chair and torch were where she had left them respectively. Still, it was a comfort to know that the only bogeymen in the room were in her mind. She looked at the prisoner again, and found herself hoping that that was the case, anyway. Sway and all the Saints grant that I am not making a terrible mistake. Taking a deep breath and pausing to gather her resolve, Astrid addressed the man.

“You are to be released within the hour, sir. Officially you are being remanded to my watch, but if you wish to walk, you may; I won’t make you stay, and if you chose to leave I won’t try to stop you. I don’t even know your name. I owe you a debt which I don’t know if I can repay, but I hope your freedom counts towards what I owe. But… if you’re willing, and do not have any pressing engagements elsewhere… I could use the company and would… appreciate getting a chance to know more about you. I’ll wait in the bailey until sundown; if you are not there, I’ll assume you’ve left town.”

As she left the cell hopefully for the last time, Astrid nodded to the jailer and the two guardsmen he had called down to help in case the prisoner became “unruly.” She had explained to him in no uncertain terms that the man was to be released unharmed, but she had her doubts that the watch would be entirely gentle once she was gone. Still, there was little she could do unless she chose to stay and watch the entire proceedings, and she wanted to give the prisoner as much freedom as possible to make his choice. She mounted the stairs and climbed out of the dungeons, shielding her eyes from the sudden brightness as the early afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows. Her ribs hurt, her face was sore, but she could not help but feel as though things were going in the right direction. She would go to her room, fetch her copy of The Ethereal Texts and then she would make her way to the bailey and wait, as promised. She rolled the copper coin between her fingers as she walked, and made plans in the back of her mind.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The ringing of chains filled the dark cell while Victor sat quietly. The oaf guards fumbled with the locks, reluctantly while another stood as sentry at the door. Muttering to each other about the bossy church girl, forgetting her place and abusing authority. Victor noticed the gaoler left out the bribe he'd received, no doubt he did not want to share with his collogues. Body odors filled every inhale the prisoner took, making his nose cringe, along with the rest of his face. No sooner was he released from the wall, did the two men bind him again. His arms were once more shackled, with a long chain stretching out from the middle to the hands of the gaoler. His departure from the dank cell was a relief, though he still squinted when light hit his eyes.

Small windows were set in the wall, nearly twice his height. The bars, although sturdy, let in torrents of light. Illuminated by the sun, the dust danced in the air as the men walked, like a parade for Victor's release. He could hear moaning from another cell, no doubt another victim of a harsh system, imprisoned for a laughable deed. . . or not. After all, who was he to judge.

Victor was no stranger to being handled with force by guards, but these three seemed particularly committed to making the red-eyed man's last few minutes with them especially unpleasant. Their every step was a medley of shoves, elbows and tugs. Twice Victor tripped and was met with a hilted blow to his stomach. Each time the man let out an annoyed groan, before he was thrown forward; the guards pulling at his leash. Scaling the steps from the basement proved more of a challenge for the guards than their prisoner as Victor decided his legs had no more strength in them. On the first great pull, he fell, taking all three men down with him. Threats and curses the likes of which even Victor was surprised to hear flew from the men. It must have taken more willpower than Victor thought they had from the guards to refrain from assaulting him again. I guess they fear the church more than they hate me. . . Not sure I'm happy or disappointed. . .

After more rough handling and pointed insults, the red-eyed man stood under the blue sky once more. Spots of clouds sailed through the heavens, as the sun stood watch over the land. Victor pointed his face up, hoping the bright rays would warm his skin. It was then that he realized, the dirt and muck had seeped so deep, that he could not even feel the tenderness of the bright celestial giant's caress.

"I really need a bath. . ." he sighed.

The trip through town was not something Victor had been excited about. The depth of scorn and hate he felt from the stares of the townsfolk was even worse than Victor had felt in the war. Doors shut in his face, windows closed each time he walked in front of a house. His only companions were the footsteps he made as his worn boots stepped on cobble. Murmurs and whispers flew as the man walked through the streets. 'Monster,' 'beast,' 'pig.' He had heard it all before. His indifference was no more prevalent anywhere than the look on his face. The streets nearest the stronghold, where many of the richer folk lived reflected light like mirrors. Clean roads and generally well-kept houses gave the impression that everything was right with the world. But. . .

The farther he got from the stronghold, the more the tune changed. In the more common districts, Victor begun to hear words of admiration, even praise of his actions. He could hear gossip of corrupt guards and lords. Mistreatment of women and those without means of defending themselves. The desperation in the people seeped through the air like a fog, almost draining the town of its color. It was on the looks of the people and the state of their homes. The war hit hard in all manners of life, but some kept the gold in their pockets and the fat on their bellies; while others barely survived. Were barely able to keep their homes standing and their shops open. Would that force could help, would that his strength could better their live, Victor often wondered if he could really make a difference. But the man stopped thinking of himself as a hero or a soldier a long time ago. He knew he could not help these people even if he wanted to. Those with power would always abuse it. They would always trot over the weak and unfortunate to better their own. All Victor could do was pick his nose and hope he was still welcome in where he'd rented a room.

----------

A creak and a slam rallied the caretakers of the inn. A couple ceased their bickering and turned their eyes to the dirty man who stood at the door. Two round tables sat symmetrically on either side of the door. Surrounded by worn chairs, and cluttered with well used cutlery, each seemed lonely and abandoned. A thin layer of dust had settled atop the surfaces, almost begging to be used. Large, dirtied windows looked down on the tables, barely able to filter in light, keeping the room dim, and gray. Faint noises came from around a forlorn staircase, which led to a second floor. From behind a long sturdy oak desk, which stretched the length of the back wall, sat a large man.

Although there was a certain roundness to him, he could not be called fit. There were bag under his eyes, deep-set and showered with wrinkles. His thinning hair held on for dear life atop the peak of his head, but signs of balding had forlornly begun. Patches covered his clothes like badges of honor, implying he could not let them die.

His wife was short, but wiry. Strength welled in her eyes like a hungry wolf. Her old dress trailed along the floor, tattered at the bottom from tireless use. Unlike the face of the husband, her face showed signs of life, as though kept young by spite and anger.

"I told ya already!" the man began, "no coin, no room!"

"Mortimer!" his wife exclaimed, "isn't that. . ."

"You guys don't have a bath I could use. . . do you?" Victor asked, moving some hair from his face, as fragments of dirt fell from his head.

"Mr. Valentine?!" Mortimer yelled, at once filled with relief and apprehension.

"We heard ya were arrested!" the woman explained, standing and moving to great their guest.

"Yeah. . ." Victor acknowledged, "some things happened, and they let me go."

"Clair, help him to the bath," Mortimer ordered, moving to a door behind his desk.

"I told ya not to order me you fat pig!" Clair yelled, "excuse the husband, he's not the charmer ya are."

Victor smiled, letting the short woman take his coat. "We'll get yer clothes cleaned while ya get yourself cleaned up."

"I would have thought you guys would think twice before letting a 'criminal' stay here."

"Criminal!? is that what ya hear?!" the woman yelled in surprise.

"Can't be sure what I hear, is what the story is," Victor explained.

"Ya saved that girl," the woman said softly, "those up in their hoity towers might not know it, but we here at the bottom know what happened. There are always eyes in the streets."

Victor chuckled at that. "I guess I underestimated the streets."

"Well see ya don't make that mistake again!" Clair laughed, slapping Victor on the back and escorting him to the door behind the long oak desk. Just as they neared, Mortimer emerged, holding a bucket and wash cloth.

"The bath's been warmed," the innkeeper nodded, "take as long as ya like. We might not be fan's of the church, or them ritzy nobles, but heroes like ya are always welcome."

"I'm no hero," Victor sighed, "but I knew I made the right choice staying here."

With a smile he walked through the threshold and admired the modest bath.

----------

Victor sat, slightly hunched on a stool, near his bathtub. The water had long since cooled and was infested with grease, dirt and grime. Every time he looked back at it, a sense of disbelief washed over the now clean man. The bucket, given to him by Mortimer was filled once more with water, and Victor lifted it above his head. Water washed over his hair, neck and back, cleaning anything he may have missed and relieving some tension. He stood, naked in the small room, water still dripping from his hair and shoulders.

Although not a normal thing, the man looked over his body, letting his hand run across his new bruises and scrapes. He knew many would fade in time, but his hand kept gliding, like a controlled wave, over his body. He touched the circular scar in the center of his chest, where the radical church sect had tortured him (to death). He remembered the feeling of losing his life, before it was nearly forced back into him by their magic. His hand continued to move, touched more scars, recalling more tales of bloodshed and loss. A sense of vengeance tugged at his heart, stirring something inside him.

From someplace deep in his gut, with the passion of a barbarian, Victor let out a heartfelt belch.

"Guess it was just gas. . . " the red-eyed man chuckled, taking a towel from a nearby hanger and began drying his chest.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

“And Alexei said unto the masses, ‘bring me your broken, your weary, your desolate, your despairing. Bring me your lame, your deaf and your blind. Let the man beset by demons come to me, and the woman tormented by fiends. I will give you rest. I will mend what ails you.’”

Astrid looked up from her book, marking her place with her finger as she stared into the clear blue of the autumn sky. That had always been one of her favorite passages from Scripture; Holy Alexei standing before the crowds, not as a conqueror or a mighty king, but as a common man himself, giving solace to those in need. She had long thought that that was how she would be perceived in her work, that she would be welcomed and appreciated for her sacrifices; she was no mage with the gift to mend broken bones and rid the body of plague like Gentle Alexei, but she was a physician of sorts, the sharp scalpel of the Church excising the malign flesh of heresy and witchcraft. Of course, she did not need praise and affirmations, and such thoughts were dangerously close to the sins of pride and arrogance, to say nothing of comparing herself to one of the holy Saints. That, at least, was what she told herself to comfort the pain she felt from suspicious and fearful stares, to cope with the fact that she was a necessary but unloved element of salvation.

The bells in the town’s church, a small house of worship by city standards but still the largest building in the town, rang out, marking the hour. Five past sun’s height. She would wait for another hour or two, but she admitted to a certain amount of despair that the prisoner would show. Not a prisoner anymore, she amended, we changed that, remember? Astrid frowned and drew in her brows in thought. Was it the right choice? I don’t even know the man’s name, and for all I know he was lying about his motivations. Besides, what am I even planning to do? She shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, all too aware that she had no answer. Oh, she wanted to ask him a few questions to try and settle the gnawing curiosity that had plagued her since she first heard about how he had saved her, but other than that she did not know, and that haunted her. The copper coin in her pocket felt heavy as she turned her attention from the sky back to the bailey.

She watched several new recruits and veteran guardsmen drilling in the yard, standing in precise lines and reacting in synch to the commands of the drill sergeant who paced in front of them. “Swing! Thrust! Block! Do not let your arm wobble like that, Pyotr; do you want to be run through like a stuck pig?! Swing! Thrust! Block!” The young men and women obeyed with zeal, responding as though they were extensions of the sergeant’s will, moving as one. Order. Order and discipline were essential for a military, for a household, for a nation. For life itself. All things had their right places; the goat which ate the grass was in turn food for the wolf which died and fed the grass, the serf produced the grain which fed the lord who in turn protected the land. That, she decided, was what had been bothering her so much about the drifter she had freed from the dungeons: he seemed to have no place, no rules, no order.

She thought back on how he had looked in the prison, and felt all the more correct in her judgment; he could have been, should have been, something more than that. Much more. He was no bum, no madman attacking men in the street without rhyme or reason. So why? Why does he choose that life for himself? Anger seethed under the surface as she mulled the thought over. It wouldn’t matter what he did, though she could see him performing any number of tasks well with his physique; he could enlist as a soldier and with his sharp mind quickly rise through the ranks, or he could be a smith producing fine weapons or tools. He could be a carpenter, or a mason, or… or anything! Anything besides a wanderer without ties, without a profession, without a purpose. Without order.

She unclenched a fist she had not realized she was squeezing, and snorted in exasperation. Working yourself into a frenzy over this will do no good and you know it. Astrid ached to join the soldiers in their drills, to heft a blade and go through the motions one after the other. She needed the certainty of the command, the clarity of authority. But with her ribs nearly staved in she would not be working the forms any time soon, and with Erika gone, she was ostensibly free from the chain of command. The local clerics were nominally her superiors and they might have a task for her, but as far as she knew Erika was the only member of her Order in the immediate area, and since she left Astrid had been for all intents and purposes alone, free. The thought set her heart racing and made her head light. It was terrifying.

“An’ then the bastard just collapsed! Right there on the stairs! Damn near knocked me and Mikhail back down to the landing. I’ll tell ya, Church girl’s orders or not, I was ready to beat ‘im a second time, the little shit. Not too late to go track him down again.” Two guardsmen were lounging against the courtyard wall in front of Astrid, affecting self-important postures with their hands on their belts as they looked down their noses at the other people in the yard.

“I dunno Karl, do you really wanna piss her off though? Boss said she’s one of them Sniffers…” The second soldier sounded a little uncomfortable and lowered his voice a bit, but neither looked back over their shoulders. That was probably for the best, as it saved them catching a furious stare from Astrid as she glared daggers at their backs. “Sniffer” was one of the more disparaging terms applied to Hunters, and the implication of being the dogs of the Church was not lost on the members of her Order.

“Her? Naw, the boss is full of it; she can’t be more than twenty-something! I’ll bet she’s one of them initiates workin’ with the cleric in town trying to do charity or somesuch. Heh. You think she’s made her vows yet?” He elbowed his friend in the side and chuckled at his own wit.

The more prudent man gave his friend a look. “Karl, did you see her face? Someone fucked her up good the other day, and there aint no way some initiate is going around getting in fistfights around town!”

Karl held up is hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not saying someone didn’t. All I’m saying is that some girls like it rough. You know what they say about Church girls, right?” Both men snorted with laughter at that.

Astrid turned her attention back to the book on her lap, but unsurprisingly her heart was not in it. The usually comforting wisdom of the Sway, extolling the virtues of order, obedience and self-sacrifice read like incitements of her recent behavior and of her character. Hymns of gratitude sounded false in her mind. Prayers of peace only made her want to strangle the two men even more. Astrid clicked her tongue in frustration and looked around the bailey once again, ignoring the two watchmen. Another hour or two at most, and then she would leave.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The coarse fabric scratched at his skin, as it dried the water from Victor's chest. Patches of red flared from where it was used, like thousands of tiny knives cutting his skin. Once the water dampened the cloth, it became softer, more pleasant to the touch.

He closed the door to the bath, only a towel around his waist to cover himself, water still dripping from his head. The two caretakers were nowhere in sight, leaving the man alone, in the lonely inn. With nothing to hold him back, he took the washcloth from his waist and continued to dry himself, moving to his hair. He wet footsteps were his only company, until the scratching sound of the towel was broken by a sudden gasp. . . And a kick. And a crash.

Victor lay on the ground, dust all around him, having knocked over one of the two tables. He groaned as he stood, the towel in the middle of the floor.

"Have you no shame!?" a shrill voice cried.

A young woman stood at the foot of the staircase, a hand covering her eyes. Long red hair got caught beneath her fingers, and stretched below her waist. Victor rubbed his stomach, where her well-kept leather boot connected.

"Have I no shame?" Victor asked, try to stand and making no effort to cover himself, "have you no shame?! You just kicked, for all intents and purposes, a blind man! What the hell is wrong with you?! What? have you never seen a naked man before?!"

"Why are you naked?! this is a public inn! there are other people here! have some decency! besides, there's very little 'man,' to see. . ." the girl's cold stair made Victor wither.

"Hey!. . . That's not fair. . . I've got a good modest size. . . Shut up!" the red-eyed man yelled, standing and moving for the towel.

"Don't come near me you fiend!" the girl yelled, unsheathing her blade and taking a step forward.

"Hey, I don't think my blade can take on something like that," Victor laughed nervously, stepping sideways around the towel, still in the center of the room.

"You won't have my honor!" the girl growled, letting her sword dip down.

"Look, I just want," Victor began, but was cut off by a howl, and the girl's charge. He dived down behind the desk, narrowly avoiding a vertical slash.

"I just-" he began, popping his head above the desk and ducking down just as fast, while a horizontal slash barely missed. "I ju-" he tried again, and failed as quickly. "Oh to hell with this," Victor growled while crouching, and with a heave, he lifted the large, heavy desk and flipped it unto the girl. Another shrill yell was cut off by a heavy thud, and the red-eyed man walked over to his towel. He had to pull it from under the desk, which took a moment.

Before he could tie it around his waist, there came a creak, and a slam. And yet another yell, followed by a chuckle.

"What the hell was that?!" Victor shouted at Clair, who stood in front of the door.

"You were naked!" she feigned embarrassment, "you should know better than to run around so unabashed before a lady like me."

"No! the chuckle! what the hell was that chuckle!? And what happened to your accent!?" Victor ignored her explanation.

"Oh nothing dear," she waved her hand up and down, "size isn't everything."

"What the fuck!?" Victor cursed, wrapping the towel around his waist, "where in Haidia are my clothes!?"

"First, would you please help get the desk back," Clair's eyes narrowed, the expression on her face like that of a stone-cold killer, ready to rip Victor limb from limb. The man made to argue, but when their eyes met, his eyes darted to the floor and he quietly started his task.

----------

"So I suppose it isn't entirely his fault," Clair finished, "so please forgive him Safire."

Two large, sapphire eyes stared from under red hair. The girl was nursing a sprained wrist which took the brunt of the damage from the desk. A look of disgust, shifted to annoyance, and then to something near apologetic. Victor was still putting feet through his dark boots, when he caught the changes in her face. His coat fell from the side of the chair, but did not reach the floor. The comfort of clean clothes, and a new linen shirt was unlike any the tired man had felt in days. The three of them sat at the round table Victor put back.

"I'm sorry if I over-reacted. . ." she sighed, making no real attempt at amends.

"I just wanted the towel, and you tried to kill me with a sword. . ." Victor stared through squinted eyes, "that's a little more than an over-reaction! that's attempted murder!"

"Oh hush now, Mr. Valentine," Clair chimed in, "no one got hurt, and ya have your clothes back. And that new shirt; not a cleric in all the lands could've saved that thing you were wearing before. Safire dear, will you be going?"

"That's right miss Clair," her tone changed drastically from the way she addressed Victor. Her voice was soft and chipper, like a young girl speaking with a mother, "I really appreciate everything you've done for me. . ."

"T'was nothing dear," Clair smiled, "ya run along now, before it gets too dark."

Safire stood to, turning her back to Victor and shook Clair's hand. "Thanks for the show," Safire whispered, as she bent down to kiss Victor on the cheek, "I think we're even now," she said aloud.

What's that supposed to mean. . .

A creak, and a slam followed Safire's departure, as the two people watched. Victor sighed, and explained to Clair that he was leaving as well, before heading up to his room.

Clair moved back to the desk, opening a large leather ledger. She scribbled a note, next to the name Safire Mendax. The housewife went about her chores as usual, waiting for her husband to return. The pair began cleaning, fixing a small dinner; what little they could afford. Mortimer went into the bath, working hard to clean the small room after Victor's short stay. Clair began preparing for the next day, as the sun readied to fall. The day had been drawing to an end, and it was time to count the profits of the day. Not many people stayed at an inn, while in this town. Most could not wait to leave. But the couple made a living somehow.

". . . No no no," Clair said with a smile, after counting her coins. She returned all the scattered pieces to one pile and methodically counted, a piece at a time. A cold sweat rolled down the side of her face as she repeated, "no. no no no." Frantically, she moved all the piece into a disorganized pile and counted a third time.

Mortimer was started in the small room by a soul piercing shriek, causing him to slip in a puddle. Water soaked the back of his shirt, and trousers while the caretaker cursed his banshee of a wife. He rose, muttering to himself and moved to leave the room when another terrible cry shook him to his very core causing him to slip once again. This time he fell forward, drowning the front of his shirt on bathwater.

"Just what in the darkest, coldest, vilest pit in Haidia is going on here!?" the man roared, as he opened the door. No answer came to his question. Only the image of two forms, standing at the doorway. A murderous aura seemed to envelope them, as they stared out into the street. People could be heard, running in fear and fleeing into their homes.

"Clair?" Mortimer asked, almost unsure, "Mr. Valentine?"

"She took it. . ." a whisper answered.

"Who. . .?" Mortimer asked, sinking behind the desk for cover, "Who took what?"

"She took. . . the money. . ." another whisper came.

Victor ran out into the street; hate pushing his body faster and farther than any motivator he'd felt in a long time. His path down the worn-out streets was met with panic and chaos, as people darted to avoid him. It was only when he saw the wagon, almost at the outpost, far in the distance, that he realized. His heart knew what his eyes could not see. He could not see the red hair under a red cloak. The playful blue eyes, flirting with the wagon driver. A sinister, snake-like hand, taking a pouch of gold from the wagon drivers cloak. But his soul knew the truth.

"Safire!!" Victor roared with all the rage his body could muster, "YOU CUNT!!!"

His booming voice carried far, but not a thing in all of Althanas could get his gold back. Broken and defeated, Victor began his trek back up the road. Heavy sighs and a setting sun kept him company. Having cleaned his body and clothes, the man was almost unrecognizable. Even as he walked through the cleaner districts, he felt no hateful eyes. He remembered the girl's promise. The bailey. Sundown. Victor laughed to himself, wondering if the church-lover would keep her word. He had been released sure enough, but it was almost too good to be true.

"But I guess neither side loves us very much right now. . ." Victor sighed to himself as he neared the end of his trip. The sun, as well, neared the end of its. The orange hue of the sky tittered between yellows and red, and purples. Clouds rose on the horizon, possibly pointing to dark times ahead. But Victor could never read the sky. He was simply happy to see a place of freedom. "No one wants soldiers in a time of peace. . ."

He passed the threshold of the large iron gate which led to the bailey. Seeing the young girl standing in the middle of the grounds did not shake the indifferent expression on his now clean face. His half open eyes met with hers, and Victor tried to study the surprise he saw in them.

"It occurs to me," the red-eyed man began, "we haven't been properly introduced. Victor Valentine," a slight smile broke through on his features as he extended his hand. "Thank you for getting me out of jail."

[Astrid Whitepeak]

The sun was setting in the west, painting the sky over the castle wall in brilliant tones of orange, violet and red. Only a slim sliver of the radiant disc actually remained visible over the crenellations which cast a long, jagged shadow through the courtyard. On another day, Astrid might have enjoyed sitting in the open air, taking in the sight as she relaxed; she loved this time between the afternoon and twilight, when all the world seemed to slow to watch the panoply of the sun. Hers was a harsh nation, born in blood and fire in an unforgiving land of ice and snow, but it was not without a natural beauty in its frigid tundra, dark forests and lonely mountains. Today, though, the vibrant descent only ticked away the minutes remaining before she left the bailey in defeat. I don’t know what I expected… If I were in his shoes I probably would have ran when I had the chance too.

Astrid gently closed her copy of the scriptures and slid the book into her pack. I won’t let this upset me. I will not! She rose from the bench, stretching weary muscles and groaning in relief, but made no move to leave just yet; her leg had started to fall asleep against the hard surface, and it would not do for a Hunter to fall flat on her face in the courtyard. It had been a long couple of hours between her own impatience and doubts, and listening to the two buffoons in front of her voice their asinine opinions about seemingly every possible topic under the sun, and she would be damned if she played the fool to them. Astrid now knew far more about the “Sway-be-damned, shit-eating suck ups and snitches” who littered the ranks of the guard and about which maids were the best in the sack than she ever cared to know. She adjusted her sword belt around her waist, feeling the comforting weight in the scabbard dragging at her right hip. It might be a little while before she was back to her usual form, but even so she could not help but feel a little safer, a little stronger, with her weapons once again in reach. A dangerous belief, she mused, one that has caused more fights than it has prevented and no doubt killed more than one overeager would-be swordsmaster. It was a sobering thought.

Astrid grabbed her pack from off the bench and slipped the strap over her shoulder before she strode forward with her back perfectly straight with an air of confidence she did not entirely feel. One of her hands gripped the wrist of the other behind her back to keep them both from fidgeting as she marched; that certainly would have spoiled the effect. She would go to the mess for dinner, report to the chapel for Night Prayer, and return to her quarters for the evening to plan what she would do next as she waited for word from her superiors. But first I want to take care of this. When Astrid reached their post, she stopped and turned her head to look at each of the guardsmen, pausing to meet each one’s eyes for a long second. They stopped their prattling about the unfairness of the most recent schedule and stared at her with eyes as wide as saucers. “Gentlemen,” she said in her best imitation of Erika, before she kept walking.

“How… How long has she been there?” The more vocal of the two, the one who had doubted that she was a Hunter asked his companion in a shaky whisper. His friend tried to shush him, but the opening was already there.

Astrid pivoted on her heel and stared the two men down. “Long enough. Karl, was it? You were right; I do like it rough, though I have to imagine that you would be less than pleased to be under my ministrations. Walk in the light of the Sway, child.” And with that she turned just as sharply once more, and marched off towards the gate. A giddy smile broke out across her face as she imagined the looks they must be sharing right then, but she dared not look back over her shoulder; it would spoil the effect. Sometimes you are a child, you know that? She didn't care; it was worth it.

As she rounded the corner and approached the gate, she was shocked to see a lone figure trudging up the hill. At first Astrid wondered if it was a messenger coming in, or a petitioner come to speak to the lord, but the person was not moving with the haste of a man carrying a missive, nor did he seem nervous or in awe of the castle like a peasant new to town. In fact, as he got closer, there was no mistaking that utterly blasé carriage, and certainly no missing those scarlet eyes and ragged mop of jet-black hair; the one-time prisoner had returned. It was hardly surprising that she had not recognized him, given that his clothes had clearly been laundered and he was no longer covered in a thick layer of grime. He actually looked half-way presentable. An amused corner of Astrid’s mind wondered if it took the entire time he was gone to wash all the dirt and muck from his body; she would not have been surprised if he had to change the bath water. At least twice! A less amused part muttered in agitation, Took your sweet time, didn’t you? Just like a man to try to make a grand entrance at the last second.

As she was standing there like a fool with a poleaxed expression on her face in the middle of the yard, the man approached and studied her in return with that irritating expression of his, his eyes only half-opened as though he could not even be bothered to acknowledge the rest of the world. But she noted with no small amount of hope that he smiled for the first time at her as he drawled, "It occurs to me we haven't been properly introduced. Victor Valentine. Thank you for getting me out of jail," and offered his hand.

So, Victor Valentine was it? “A noble name…” she said aloud, absentmindedly. Viktor Evenhand, the Sainted Lord, had been a mighty warlord and a staunch supporter of the early Church, one who fought with the Incarnate Sway when they drove the demons from Salvar. Though most of the records from that time were lost, leaving only scraps of myths and fragments of legends, according to the traditions of the Church he was a righteous man with an unshakable zeal for justice and a deep and abiding faith in the Sway. As such, he was often seen as the patron saint of the nobility, of arbiters, and of any who sought a fair resolution. The man who stood before her with a profoundly indifferent set to his features, Astrid decided, did not strike her as one carrying on that illustrious legacy of piety. She half expected him to stuff a finger up his nose right in front of her! However, she did have to grant that the man had acted completely against self-interest and in favor of justice when he had dealt with Isaac. A very vigilante kind of justice, she thought, but what am I if not a sanctioned version of him? Hunting down those who would harm my people? The thought was a bothersome one, and she shoved it to the back of her mind until she had the time to ponder it more fully.

Realizing she was being rude, Astrid put out her own hand and shook his, noting the rough layer of calluses on his fingers and palms. A fighter, most likely. She could imagine the man doing manual labor, but with the way he wandered to and fro like a leaf carried by the whims of the wind she doubted he stayed in any place long enough to hold a steady job. Besides, a drifter would always arouse suspicion when he blew in and would need to defend himself. “Astrid. Astrid Whitepeak. And you’re welcome, Mr. Valentine; it was the least I could do.” She paused, standing there awkwardly for a moment before withdrawing her hand and gesturing behind her with a jerk of her head. “Walk with me?”

As she walked through the bailey, Astrid’s eyes zoned out and she returned to that dank cell under the keep. “In the dungeon, you said that you did not believe a man had a choice when it came to saving women from… what was about to happen. To me.” She paused, and rounded on Victor. “Why though? What am I to you? Any number of men would say the same thing, would echo those sentiments exactly, but even though there had to have been others who heard my screaming, only one came to my aid: You. So, again, why? What makes saving a woman you don’t even know worth risking the wrath of the nobility, worth a hangman’s noose?” Her voice took on an edge as she pressed with her questions, gaining an intensity she had not expected.

Almost instantly Astrid’s expression crumpled, and her voice softened. She pressed a hand against her eyes wearily, trying to rub some of the day’s strain away. “I’m sorry, you did not deserve that. I-I admit that I’m at a loss for what to do with you. You seem like a good man, and certainly you risked your life in more ways than one to save mine, but you are… not the sort of person I am used to being around.” That’s putting it mildly, she thought wryly as she dropped her hand and glanced back at Victor. “Like I told you, I’m a Hunter; I am bound by the doctrines of the Church to pursue heretics and witches whose very existence is anathema to the Sway, and I believe in my mission completely.” She wished her tone was a little more solid as she said that, but there was no going back now. “You… you clearly have different views, and I am having a difficult time reconciling that with your selfless behavior.” There, it was out in the open; her uncertainty, her doubt, the chink in her armor.

She sighed, and continued “You’re a drifter, right? A wanderer without ties, a vagabond? My superior was called out west, leaving me hanging in the wind; we had been planning to return to Knife’s Edge, but now I am just… sitting here. I have no orders, no commanding officer, no direction and no little discomfort at the situation.” Astrid was rambling, and she knew it, but she was still uncertain that she trusted this man fully. Regardless, she drew a deep breath and decided to take the plunge. “I have family in Knife’s Edge, and would be able to return to my Order there. I had planned to maybe go in a few days, but I do not want to walk the length of the Kingdom alone, especially not in my state” She gestured to her ribs, though she doubted the man needed a reminder. “Would you… would you consider traveling in the same direction with me? At least for a time.” Astrid said the last quickly and mentally winced at how pathetic she sounded. Why don’t you just beg while you’re at it? “You’ve saved me once, and I got you out of jail; I figure that gives us at least some reason to trust one another.” Astrid didn’t add that, at the moment, she trusted the man more than most anyone else in the town. “Just… let me know? Like I said, I’ll probably be here for a few more days if you need some time to think it over.”

She watched the man out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his reaction to her words. If there were moments when Fortune rolled the dice of fate, this was surely one of them.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

(OOC: It has been a long time since this was posted, and I’ve decided that I’m going to go ahead and wrap up the thread with one last post. Apologies to GFNC for the double-post and submission. If you want to continue with Astrid, I'm still perfectly fine with that and we can retcon it.)

Astrid leaned against the stone wall in front of the keep’s gate, staring down the hill towards the road that led from town. The citizens called it the Summer Road, and, supposedly, if one followed its twists and turns and ignored the points where it fell off into little more than a hunting trail, it would take a traveler all the way to Knife’s Edge. She wasn’t entirely sure if she believed them, even if it was an auspicious name and a nice hope; a road of the scope they boasted would take years – decades, even! – to build and would be the pride of Salvar. Astrid shook her head in wonder. It was hard to even fathom; a single path from north to south, ignoring tundra and forest alike? That would be something to behold. Still, this close to town the road was at least cobbled and decently maintained, so the first leg of her long trek would be quick. After that though… after that things would slow to a crawl. She sighed. It would be a long time before she made it to Knife’s Edge.

The bell in the church steeple tolled, calling the faithful to Morning Prayer, but Astrid had no time to stop for service today; she had risen hours before dawn to pack her things, few as they were, and to make her quick goodbyes to the various servants and clerics she had met over the past few days. The sun and seasons waited for no woman. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, offering up a quick prayer and apology to the Sway. Surely they would understand if she made her supplication here rather than in the building of the church or back in the chapel; the Sway were everywhere, after all, and for all their beauty and art, the structures were only necessary for moral humans who could never fully grasp the awesome reality of the divine. As always she finished with her petition to the Sainted Hunter: “Blessed, Lena Truesight, help me to find that which is lost.” Perhaps one of these days her prayer would be answered, but she was not holding her breath; the Sway and their earthly representatives worked in mysterious ways, and maybe it was simply not meant for her to find her friend. Still, heavenly aid or not, she ached to know what had happened to Yekaterina, to hold her in her arms again.

The guardsman at the gate inclined his head as well, and muttered, “Sway preserve us and saints teach us to walk the paths of righteousness.” His benediction was simple, but common amongst the soldiers of the realm. Astrid smiled to the man, pleased that he had taken the moment for an act of faith on a no doubt slow shift, and offered him a blessing of her own.

“The Evenhand keep you safe, soldier.” Astrid earnestly hoped the Holy Judge did just that; for all her misgivings about the Watch here, she did not wish them ill. Life was hard enough on the frontier, and sometimes a few coins passed under the table made the difference between long nights of hunger and an empty belly. Well, she amended, I don’t wish him bad fortune, anyway. Some of the others though… She shoved the thought aside; ill thoughts brought only ill to the cursed and the curser alike, and as much as she wanted to see the men who had turned a blind eye to her assault brought to justice, there was nothing she could do now. The Sway would be their judges, and she hoped they received their just rewards. If perhaps she had some ideas about how that conversation would go, well, she was only human.

He nodded and did not return the smile, but replied, “And Denebrial guide you home, Hunter.” It was an interesting response, to be sure; on the one hand, the blessing was often given to the souls of the dead, but it did occasionally find its way into other, less somber areas of life like long voyages. Astrid turned from the man with a contemplative cast to her features. She did not think the man was implying that she would soon be joining the Twice Martyred, and she was headed home, in a way. Home. In her head, Loshad would always be home, even if the village had been reduced to burning rubble years ago. She could still remember the layout of the place, its buildings and its people, and that meant that Loshad still existed somewhere, but she supposed in a way Knife’s Edge was her home now as well. Her families, both those of blood and vows, waited for her there. She felt a momentary glimmer of happiness at the thought of catching up with her parents, aunts and uncles, sitting in front of their hearth and telling them stories about her adventures across the Kingdom. She would have to keep certain things secret, of course, and she definitely would not be telling them about the Hunt, but there was still plenty to share of the cities she had seen and the people she had met.

Her thoughts took a dark turn in the labyrinthine twists of her mind, and wandered back to the witches she had hunted in the forest that frigid night. It seemed so long ago now, though in truth it had only been a matter of days and she could yet remember all the fine details, much though she might wish she couldn’t. She had been so certain, felt so vindicated in their deaths, but now all she could think about was the woman lying in the snow as she bled out. What was that like? Astrid had been cut and stabbed and beaten several times in her short life, but she had never truly been in mortal jeopardy. Had the heretic been afraid? Angry? Was she even aware at all at the end? A part of her desperately wanted to know the answers, and a part of her was terrified of what they would be. Most worrying of all, she couldn’t help but wonder if the witch forgave her, wherever she was now. Astrid was certain that such a query was not one a Hunter should be pondering; the woman had been a maleficar after all, and had fled from justice. To care what she had thought in her last moments was to try to sink into the depths of a depraved mind. Still, after having spent some time in the company of Victor, having been saved by him, she could not banish the lingering uncertainty. If Victor was a blasphemer with a heart of gold – well, perhaps that was being a little generous; at least he did not have a black heart – then could not that woman have been one too? Astrid shifted from foot to foot and squeezed the copper coin until it hurt. “Doubt,” Erika had told her once while they were on the road, “is a disease of the soul that rots at your will to see thing through to their end.” Perhaps that was true, but Astrid had begun to question whether or not some doubt – a small sliver at most! – would not be healthy.

Astrid stared up unseeingly at the wisps of cloud drifting through the autumn sky. As her thoughts left the woman in the snow, she idly pondered whether they thought themselves free, or if they knew that they were entirely at the mercy of the fickle wind. She shook her head in consternation at her childish musings. Clouds did not think, she knew, but she was all too aware that it wasn’t really the clouds she was talking about either. She took another moment to watch their ethereal forms slip through the air before turning her attention back to the road once more. She hitched her pack and wiggled her toes in her boots. It would be a long journey, but she was going home. Under her breath Astrid murmured, “Next stop, Knife’s Edge.” A grin broke across her features like the sun emerging from behind the hills, and she started off down the road. She could hardly wait.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

Wow, at least we won't be short for conversation. . . the red eyed man thought to himself as he chuckled. "Why are you still so curious as to my intentions? I assure you, they were not sinister in nature." Victor scratched his head.


Astrid kept pace with Victor, but quirked a brow at the man and gave him a flat look. “Yes, why would I question the intentions of a near complete stranger, a known vagrant with violent tendencies and a flagrant disregard for the natural order of things?” She let the seriousness slip from her face and gave him a small smile as she finished; she was not really seriously worried about him as a threat – not very much, anyway – and she didn’t want to alienate her only friend before they even started on their journey. Astrid paused suddenly, stopping cold in the middle of the bailey. My only friend… I suppose he is now. She felt a tightness in her chest at the thought, but ignored the feeling and trotted to catch up with him. Now was not the time to be waxing morose.

"Well, fair enough. . . I just can't stand men who mistreat women. . ." Victor smiled, as the two continued to walk from the courtyard to the main road. "It's as simple as that. . ."

Astrid nodded as the two walked on in companionable silence. Maybe it really was as simple as that. She certainly hoped so.

The sun was setting over the harsh lands outside the city, and Victor knew the young harlot who absconded with the coin he hid in his room was long gone. Expert tracker or not, this girl would be hard pressed to follow in the dark and the company of beasts. Perhaps waiting a day would be best.

"I wanted to leave as soon as possible, but I think we can leave in the morrow. No sense getting lost in the dark." The pair passed at the unkempt gate, whose rusted teeth teetered nervously overhead. "Although I don't know how safe we'd be, staying another night in a town where the guard and nobility. . . what's the word?. . . Hate us."

Astrid laughed out loud at that, the sound cutting through the slowly falling stillness of the evening. A watchman leaning against a nearby fence with a vacant expression on his face gave a start at the sound and stared guardedly at the pair as they walked past, but Astrid ignored him as she blinked in abashed surprise; she hadn’t actually expected to enjoy Victor’s company, but his humor was beginning to grow on her. Sometimes the only things you could do were laugh or cry, and she was sick of tears.

The crowds in the normally busy streets had abandoned their chores. Although chatter could be heard floating in like clouds of indistinct noise, the people had all but vanished. Victor walked with Astrid, hoping that the girl would not be a total dead-weight. But as his red eyes watched her move, it was obvious she could handle herself. Her movements were calculated and measured. She walked guarding her weak points but seemed ready to, at a moment's notice, spring into action. She was certainly pleasant to look at, he might even call her beautiful in the light of the setting sun. Most of all he admired her eyes. Victor sensed a certain kinship in them. He could see loss in them, pain, and a dark spot only war could leave. But there was softness there too. As though a battle were taking place in her soul, like she could not decide whom to become. Whether to follow the cold path of vengeance and become everything a witch-hunter was known to be; or pick a harder path. One of forgiveness.

"I guess it's up to you," Victor whispered.

"What is?" Astrid replied, possibly grateful to end the silence.

"Where we go from here," he replied quickly, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.

Astrid shrugged, shifting the pack on her shoulders, and she looked off into the distance pensively. “Like I said, eventually I should probably head towards Knife’s Edge, but in the meantime I don’t really have any immediate goals. I… I suppose I would like to see if we can find any rumors about Ka-… an old friend of mine if we can, but we can do that along the way.” A frown slid across her face as she unconsciously rolled the coin between her fingers. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

“Well. . . there is this she-devil that absconded with some of my money. . . and I would love nothing more in this world than to hunt her down and. . .” Victor chuckled, restraining himself from diving into a slew of vulgar obscenity that would surely put off his new companion. “Give her a stern talking to on the error of her ways. . . But I also know someone in Knife’s Edge I owe a visit. And as luck would have it, there’s a good chance that bi-” Victor once more stopped short of profanity, “that itchy-b, ran off in just that direction. So it seems all roads lead to Knife’s Edge.”


The pair continued, on the old cobbled road. The sky was once more clouded by dark messengers of the night. As the clouds rolled along, the sun took shelter over the horizon. Working, to its last moment to bring light to those who needed it. But the birds had nested, and the people took to their homes. Only those brave, or foolhardy enough to venture into the forests and plains of Salvar benefited from its light.

The town gate stood before them, a stone sentinel between the civil life inside it's gates and the harsh reality of the untamed wilderness. Victor loved the feeling of standing before gates like that. The kind that, in no subtle way, told all who pass that ‘death awaits the ill-prepared.’ But Victor was no stranger to the wild; no stranger to the dark and hard life beyond civilization. The war had taught him the truth of it. That civilization, for all its clean streets and laws, was just one bad day away from the chaos of the wild.

“Not for nothing, but I’m something of a Jack-of-all-trades,” the man filled the silence between them. “And I’ll help you find ‘Ka,’ or my name’s not Victor Valentine.”

[Mordelain]

Thread Title: The Cold Hand of Mercy (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26794-The-Cold-Hand-of-Mercy-(Semi-Solo))
Judgment Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Astrid Whitespeak, Good for Nothing Captain



Plot: 20/30

Story- 7/10

This was a deeply involving delve into Salvar’s broken king and witchcraft politic. Whilst by your own admission it cut short (for whatever reason), you ended it and left it a natural end-stop. You used exposition in the opening posts to set the scene and give the read just enough to go on as a backstory. Do not fall too hard for the romanticised notions of doing well in dark worlds. Victor embodies this more so than Astrid does. Astrid, even though you’re a ‘good’ character in context, consider that good might be a little more grey in a broken kingdom than it might in traditional high fantasy settings. Do not be afraid to muddy your shawl, so to speak, for the greater good.

Setting- 7/10

A near heavenly setting, Astrid painted. Captain provided the motion, Whitespeaker the music. The score was 9-10 because of the disparity between concentrations. Some posts were intense and sensual. Others, lacklustre. You need to consider a pattern, to get the balance right. Avoid leaving the reader wanting in some parts of the writing and overwhelmed in others.

The simplest advice a reader can give to a writer is this: do not forget there are five traditional senses. We need not just to see and hear, but taste, touch, and smell the things your characters taste, touch and smell. It need be a focus of writing, but once or twice, make is part of the vomit (carrots, swede, and potato broth anyone?)

Pacing- 6/10

An offbeat tempo formed (perhaps unintentionally), between your respective writing. Astrid tends to write one or two dialogue lines, and then description. Whilst post length is not exclusively part of the rubric, consider how it can affect a reader’s transition between scenes, and/or their perceptions of the setting (where people are, how many people there are, who they are).

I always recommend major scene transitions, for writing on a forum at least, come with a new post altogether. This gives the reader simple a clear direction that tense or time has changed. Whilst Astrid’s

---

Are acceptable, consider breaking it down into more readable chunks. You will not lose any of the polish, intrigue, and skill you both display.



Character: 26/30

Communication- 8/10

A tour de force of neurotic whittling and cocksure statements. I cannot offer any advice because the quality of dialogue and the read between the lines inner thoughts are excellent. You missed a ten because of the interaction between communication and clarity/pacing. Try to retain one another’s persona and ‘gist’ when bunnying, and flatten out the concentrations of dialogue and setting to bring the thread out of excellent and into godly cohesion. A strong character score all the same both!

The score fell short of the higher band based on the NPC’s in the thread. Do not abandon them in favour of strengthening your character’s place in a story. The supporting cast need every bit of love and attention as the leads, and by peppering the same level of character and personality into barkeeps, bitches, and broads; you are only going to bolster the writing further.

Action- 8/10

Outstanding from the first filling of the vomit pale, to the onomatopoeia and metaphors dynamic (I especially liked “although chatter could be heard floating in like clouds of indistinct noise, the people had all but vanished.”) You get that action is about supporting the story, and not dominating it.

Astrid, I would like to see you describe less about Astrid herself, and more about the interaction between the world and her. Captain, I would recommend quite the reverse. Write more Victor, about either the world’s perceptions and reactions to him or how he thinks, feels (in greater depth), and reacts. This comes back to the recommendation to write closer together and work to blend, not bludgeon your techniques together. Collaborative writing is never as easy as it first appears, but give it a go.

Persona- 10/10

Both of your writing, everything about it rings true with the description and history in your character profiles. I did not leave the thread doubting who they were. I did not once question why they doing what they were doing, or saying what they were saying. It might sound cliché, but I felt strongly about Astrid (care), and Victor (disgust). That tells me you write them as extensions of yourselves, or ideas about yourself. The rubric rewards believability here, above all else, and on that note I believe it is rude of me to recommend ways to improve what has already become second nature. Excellent!



Prose: 21/30

Mechanics- 7/10


Before Astrid could do more than settle into her chair, much less think about what to order for her dinner, however, a shriek and the sound of dishes falling to the floor pierced the din, quickly followed by raucous laughter.

The above is one example of the flowing, but difficult ‘run-ons’ employed by Astrid in her writing. Whilst we can get down to the nitty gritty of grammatical finesse, I’d like to both state it’s mechanically challenging, but also a joy to read it executed so well. Had sentence structure not leaned into this challenging on the lungs style we would be looking at 8-9. Word points to a comma after dishes, which begins to resolve the issue. Having displayed that you can write like this, Astrid, and well, perhaps consider meeting the reader/mechanics handbook halfway by simplifying some, not all of the structure.


"that'll buy him 20 minutes," the first guard laughed."

Captain, the above is an example from post 5 not of mechanical error per say, but typo. I have seen a tour de force level of writing from you previously, so I know the mechanical knowledge is there. Please try to avoid this type of error especially, because word processor should pick this up. If you are writing posts on phones, or other mobile devices, then more vigilance than necessary is required!

One or two minor misspells occurred. Perhaps most importantly, Astrid spelling Denebriel as Denebrial. That said, the errors were rare when you consider the length of the thread and the complex rules governing interwoven dialogue and text. Great foundations can only build stronger buildings.


"I really need a bath. . ." he sighed.

There are two conventions, depending on which form of English you engage with (either is correct). Either you put a comma after the ellipsis/text, and a small case H in the he, or you do not put a comma. It does not matter which you wish to use, but switching between the two in a single piece of text will detract from the mechanics. Pick one, and ensure it is all consistent! You do it both ways in different posts, and almost not at all in post 13.

Clarity- 6/10

The events, chronologically, were clear and easy to follow as the thread progressed. Characters actions, simple, direct, and woven into the lurid and luxurious descriptive powers you both possess. Where clarity fell short, however, was in the heavy back and forth of dialogue. Astrid, you lean towards a more descriptive style, one or two lines of text knitted together with inner-thought and extensive (but vivid and enjoyable) description. Captain, you lean towards a dialogue heavy style, more talk, less tattle.

When writing together, it is important to remain distinctive and apart as writers but you also need to find a middle ground so that your writing hoists not its own petard. In this instance, I would consider collaborating on posts: literally writing for each other, until you begin to write collectively, and seamlessly. This would have lessened the loss of focus between posts 12, 13, and 14, where the addition of Victor’s exchange lost my place in the setting.

Technique- 8/10

Metaphors thick and lyrical text song like, I feel I have little to tutor here. The grim dark, dirty faith aspects of Salvar directed in the wiki are all present and you both have distinct, appropriate styles for your characters. Astrid’s use of repetition reinforces the character’s mental trial and self-doubt. Victor’s obnoxious confidence comes across in his simply described but well-timed actions. Opening with the vomiting brings him right into the foreground as an unshaven ass-hat and you continue this throughout with a peppering of simplistic profanity, punch-drunk code switching, and a wonderful little one-liner at the thread's close:


“And I’ll help you find ‘Ka,’ or my name’s not Victor Valentine.”

To achieve a higher score in this instance, I would blend styles, as directed above. Perhaps also try to be more subtle with the methods. Hammer blow writing, internal diction, and profanity are fine when used correctly (as they have been), but sometimes you do not need to slap the reader around the face to grab his attention. Draw on Astrid’s paranoid description (the sort that gets under your skin and makes you feel the snow, snivelling, and snot). Use Captain’s vagabond verse. Then again, there is such strength here; you have little need to worry.



Wildcard: 7/10

It has been quite some time since Salvar embodied so well not in setting but in spirit. Your mutual encouragement and enjoyment of the setting is clear, I look forward to reading more drunken, and deicide based adventures in the future. There are just one or two small recommendations above I crave to see, and I hope this has been both helpful and encouraging to you as writers. A refreshing, unique change!



Final Score: 74/100

[Mordelain]

Astrid Whitespeaker receives 1250 experience and 150 gold.

Good for Nothing Captain receives 2000 experience and 150 gold.

Congratulations!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!