Warpath
09-20-14, 11:15 PM
Everything had to be perfect.
Flint prided himself on his ability to scheme. There were a dozen collapsed or failed baronies that could attest to his attention to minutiae, his effortless talent for timing, his cold calculation. With sufficient time and resources he could unlock the secrets in a man's heart, just by observing him from a distance. He saw the pieces, the movers, all parts in a play, pawns on a chessboard.
No plan had ever seemed so important as this one, though. It troubled his sleep, and occupied his waking mind. He brooded, and kept extensive notes, all obfuscated and double-coded in notebooks he hid even from Luned. Everything had to be perfect.
Now was the culmination of these plans, and he drummed his fingertips rhythmically against the base of his palm while he waited, imagining the pieces falling into place one by one.
He'd left anonymous messages like a trail of rose petals, each suggesting mysterious but friendly origin. They'd guide her, these messages and hints, like the briefest sniff of baked goods wafting from an open kitchen window. The implications had to be crafted with the utmost care. She had to be tempted forward, and she had to be made to undermine her own natural caginess.
The masterstroke was the moment she'd realize that his trail had carried her to the steps of the Citadel. That she would be immediately suspicious was unavoidable, but the previous clues would overcome her doubts - adding up to a possibility so tempting that she herself would cast aside her own qualms.
Her abilities were a cause for concern, especially given Flint's disinclination toward magic. The monks patiently endured his illimitable questions, though, and in the end he'd been assured that she would not detect his presence until the last moment. It all came together, coalesced into the here and now.
He saw it all from her point of view, even as he watched her emerge. She came from the vaunted hallway of the Citadel, passing through a simple doorway. She'd be momentarily confused to find herself back on the familiar streets of Radasanth. It was midmorning by the sky, the air moist and cool, but not unpleasantly so. Certain streets would still be full of misty fog, but this one was clear and bright. There were unattended carts all along the sides of the road, and stalls laden with fruit and trinkets and jewelry and folded linens. Up the way here a bit was the cooper, and if she turned left a long alley would take her to the nearest counting house to the library. Two streets up she could take a right and follow that road all the way out to the smith's quarter. This time of day, though, she'd have to go back the other way to find Otto - toward the garrison.
Of course, she immediately realized it wasn't Otto who had lured her here. He saw her shoulders tense as the door closed behind her, as she sensed his presence. And now she was beginning to realize that she could hear the shouts and cries of city life in the distance...but the streets were deserted, the surrounding windows black and empty. She wasn't in Radasanth anymore. This was just an eerie, empty facsimile. She knew immediately that there was no life here because she could sense no death.
He was the lone exception, and she turned around to glare at him.
It was a ceremonial moment for him, religious. He wore nothing above the waist but black war paint and his gauntlets, and a chain of blackened dragon's teeth around his neck. His boot-falls were metallic, weighty drumbeats on the cobblestone, accented with the creak of leather and the rattle of the thick chain he wore as a pseudo-belt, holding a folded red-and-brown banner around his hips over armored leather pants. He wasn't just heavier than Resolve anymore, now he was significantly taller. His beard was longer but neater, organized into four neat braids that ended with drave fangs.
"Flint," Resolve said, "what the fu..."
"Your obstinate pouting has become a source of irritation to my woman," Flint said imperiously. Every word had been carefully chosen and rehearsed, but it still took a very real effort not to smirk as he said them. If she wanted to imagine him as the pea-brained villain - if that's what stirred her blood - he could play the part.
His vambraces let out a series of whirs, melodic chirps, and clicks as they withdrew the needles from the veins of his forearms. He felt thin rivulets of blood rolling down toward his wrists, but he refused to express the pain. A heartbeat later, the armor loosened around his forearms enough for him to slip them off, and they clattered on the street one after the other. His heart trembled in his chest for an instant, but he focused on maintaining equilibrium and it slowed, steadied.
"If I must pummel an understanding of my superiority into you, so be it. You will not find Luned's skirts to hide behind, here."
He forced grimness into his features, struggled against the smile, and waited for the anger to light up her face - he loved making her angry, and any moment now...
But then she smiled.
And Flint realized he'd miscalculated somewhere.
Flint prided himself on his ability to scheme. There were a dozen collapsed or failed baronies that could attest to his attention to minutiae, his effortless talent for timing, his cold calculation. With sufficient time and resources he could unlock the secrets in a man's heart, just by observing him from a distance. He saw the pieces, the movers, all parts in a play, pawns on a chessboard.
No plan had ever seemed so important as this one, though. It troubled his sleep, and occupied his waking mind. He brooded, and kept extensive notes, all obfuscated and double-coded in notebooks he hid even from Luned. Everything had to be perfect.
Now was the culmination of these plans, and he drummed his fingertips rhythmically against the base of his palm while he waited, imagining the pieces falling into place one by one.
He'd left anonymous messages like a trail of rose petals, each suggesting mysterious but friendly origin. They'd guide her, these messages and hints, like the briefest sniff of baked goods wafting from an open kitchen window. The implications had to be crafted with the utmost care. She had to be tempted forward, and she had to be made to undermine her own natural caginess.
The masterstroke was the moment she'd realize that his trail had carried her to the steps of the Citadel. That she would be immediately suspicious was unavoidable, but the previous clues would overcome her doubts - adding up to a possibility so tempting that she herself would cast aside her own qualms.
Her abilities were a cause for concern, especially given Flint's disinclination toward magic. The monks patiently endured his illimitable questions, though, and in the end he'd been assured that she would not detect his presence until the last moment. It all came together, coalesced into the here and now.
He saw it all from her point of view, even as he watched her emerge. She came from the vaunted hallway of the Citadel, passing through a simple doorway. She'd be momentarily confused to find herself back on the familiar streets of Radasanth. It was midmorning by the sky, the air moist and cool, but not unpleasantly so. Certain streets would still be full of misty fog, but this one was clear and bright. There were unattended carts all along the sides of the road, and stalls laden with fruit and trinkets and jewelry and folded linens. Up the way here a bit was the cooper, and if she turned left a long alley would take her to the nearest counting house to the library. Two streets up she could take a right and follow that road all the way out to the smith's quarter. This time of day, though, she'd have to go back the other way to find Otto - toward the garrison.
Of course, she immediately realized it wasn't Otto who had lured her here. He saw her shoulders tense as the door closed behind her, as she sensed his presence. And now she was beginning to realize that she could hear the shouts and cries of city life in the distance...but the streets were deserted, the surrounding windows black and empty. She wasn't in Radasanth anymore. This was just an eerie, empty facsimile. She knew immediately that there was no life here because she could sense no death.
He was the lone exception, and she turned around to glare at him.
It was a ceremonial moment for him, religious. He wore nothing above the waist but black war paint and his gauntlets, and a chain of blackened dragon's teeth around his neck. His boot-falls were metallic, weighty drumbeats on the cobblestone, accented with the creak of leather and the rattle of the thick chain he wore as a pseudo-belt, holding a folded red-and-brown banner around his hips over armored leather pants. He wasn't just heavier than Resolve anymore, now he was significantly taller. His beard was longer but neater, organized into four neat braids that ended with drave fangs.
"Flint," Resolve said, "what the fu..."
"Your obstinate pouting has become a source of irritation to my woman," Flint said imperiously. Every word had been carefully chosen and rehearsed, but it still took a very real effort not to smirk as he said them. If she wanted to imagine him as the pea-brained villain - if that's what stirred her blood - he could play the part.
His vambraces let out a series of whirs, melodic chirps, and clicks as they withdrew the needles from the veins of his forearms. He felt thin rivulets of blood rolling down toward his wrists, but he refused to express the pain. A heartbeat later, the armor loosened around his forearms enough for him to slip them off, and they clattered on the street one after the other. His heart trembled in his chest for an instant, but he focused on maintaining equilibrium and it slowed, steadied.
"If I must pummel an understanding of my superiority into you, so be it. You will not find Luned's skirts to hide behind, here."
He forced grimness into his features, struggled against the smile, and waited for the anger to light up her face - he loved making her angry, and any moment now...
But then she smiled.
And Flint realized he'd miscalculated somewhere.