Where it All Began (Solo)

[Tobias Stalt]

Mid-morning mist had settled like a blanket over the harbor. Sunlight bled through cracks in the gray, black, and bleak sky, and where one of those rays touched the water, the hull of a fishing boat cut through the fog. It seemed no different from any other day in Tirel. The telltale murmur of commerce became audible as the ship found its berth, and as the crew went about tying knots and securing their vessel, their lone passenger disembarked.

"I thank you for the use of your ship, Captain Alves," a deep, harsh monotone said above the tedium of the port. "It would have made a very uncomfortable swim." In its entirety, the ship's crew broke into a fit of laughter. With a smile, the young man peeled his hood away to reveal a head of chestnut hair and soft, golden eyes. "I will miss all of your company," he assured them.

"And thank you, ser, for lining our pockets." The mischievous smirk of an aged, dark haired man inspired a throaty laugh from Tobias. "For what it's worth, lad, you were almost worth the trouble it cost us having you along." In the seconds it took those words to register, Tobias found sobriety once more. His face became a somber mask that mirrored his grim reality.

"You should set sail come nightfall," Tobias told Alves in confidence, once he had stepped away from the crew. "Word will spread once I've been spotted on land in Salvar. They'll lose interest in you and yours." He reached in his pack and produced a handful of coins, which he pressed into the man's hand. Alves accepted the payment, looking over either shoulder in turn. "I'm a man of my word. This is the last of what I owe."

Alves, slate gray eyes moving thoughtfully over coin, bit his wrinkled lip. "Son, this is a world unkind to honest men," he told the young vagabond, "your kindness does you credit, but be careful who you trust." Tobias could only smile at an irony that scratched at the surface of all his problems. "Take care of yourself, Stalt."

"And you, Geoff Alves." With a stiff wave, the youth turned and slipped his hood back overhead. The fog that swallowed the harbor threatened to do the same with Tobias as Alves watched him walk away. The captain folded his arms and watched a man who had grown into the son he never had walk out of his life forever. "That boy just might be the stuff of legends," he mused.

"Cap! Customs workers coming round!" Alves turned at the outcry from one of the deckhands, then nodded and went to greet the Salvic agent with a warm smile. His boat was of a foreign design, perhaps, but its routine was as droll as any Fisherman's in Tirel. Taking in hand the gold he'd just received as payment, Alves offered their docking fee to the officer.

May the gods own luck keep you, lad.

[Tobias Stalt]

Marching from the waterside brought a measure of clarity to Tobias, as the fog did not follow him inland. The glance he spared back denoted a certain fondness for the abandoned cover, but it did not linger. Red clay walls and shingled roofs lined both sides of him in a long line. The buildings were quaint, but they stretched out ahead of him further than he could see. "Fourth largest city in Salvar," he reminded himself beneath his breath. Only the fourth, thus picked for the sheer unlikelihood of his arrival within its walls.

Tobias could have arrived in Pestovo, and would have many months earlier, if not for the enormity of it. There would be eyes, ears, and knives around every corner. Not that this is guaranteed to be any safer, he reminded himself. Tirel had humbler origins than much of Salvar, and hosted a slew of anomalies that had made it an ideal place for a hurried landfall.

Unlike the vastly human and superstitious folk common to Salvar, much of Tirel was home to Elves; their skin tone, unlike in their homelands of Raiaera and Alerar, did not separate them. Instead, these elves lived in relative peace, seemingly unmolested by the Sway. Tobias observed their interaction in mute appreciation as he slipped by unnoticed. The time he'd spent in both Alerar and Raiaera had taught him just how meaningful such small things truly were.

On high, a crow cried out. Tobias glanced up and broke stride for only a moment, watching the dark feathered avian circle overhead. Beneath his hood, the man's eyes narrowed. "An ill omen," he muttered. Tobias had heard of magics that centered around beast control, and the ability to see from the eyes of a wild creature. Somehow, he doubted a mage would be so utterly lacking in finesse as to make his thrall known. His paranoia had the better of him, however.

Quick footsteps carried Tobias between buildings and into shadow. When the crow did not follow, Tobias heaved a sigh of relief. He felt as though a burden had been lifted. He felt other eyes on him, but was put at ease when he saw a pair of elven eyes scrutinizing his behavior. With a smile and wave, Tobias deflected the attention, though he noted a certain scowl on the man's face.

He leaned back and rested against a rough clay wall and let the racing in his heart subside. A gentle breeze kissed his face and Tobias let his eyes slide shut and shoulders sag. "How long has it been since I felt a good pillow under my head...?" Undoubtedly, there would be an Inn nearby; Tobias felt inclined to seek it out, yet he was hesitant. A lack of danger to this point did not mean there was none to be found. He grunted his discontent.

Several minutes ticked by before he exited the alleyway. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath his feet as the sun smiled down and caressed him with warmth. After the long journey on a damp fishing boat, Tobias was glad for the heat. If there were an agent of the Crimson Hand in Tirel, he would not attack in broad daylight.

[Tobias Stalt]

Rising high and pouring its heat steadily over the market, sunlight banished the last vestiges of fog from the port city. Sometime after the fishermen had finished their early duties and returned with the day's catch, the bustle of shop owners and merchants setting up their wares breathed life into the formerly silent streets. Tobias stepped into the chaos and found himself at home.

Once upon a time, he had been a merchant's son, and the market had been his playpen. A whole world had been laid out before him with endless possibilities. There was a time when all of this could have been his. Tobias wore a somber smile as each step took him past a fond memory, only to see it gone with the next.

Savory meats and rich cheeses brought back the distinct flavor of mongers from the far reaches to the east, and he recalled a time when his father had brought a spread to the table so divine that it could never have been repeated. Lavish things came in and out of their home, though the experiences lasted him a lifetime. "Ah, but I was a fool," he grunted in retrospect. A trader peddling spices plucked a sprig of Jasmine and grated it down into a poultice, and Tobias caught the distinct breath of Lavender from the grinding table. His father had sold such perfumes, on the chance days when he had acquired them.

Tobias produced a handful of coins near one of the wine merchants and handed it over in exchange for a handle of Raiaeran Gold, a taste that was luxurious in both cost and nature. It was a rare occasion when he found the opportunity to drink, so the next time that he did, he would do it in style. The merchant clapped merrily as he accepted the payment, and Tobias tucked the bottle away in his belongings. He watched for the moment before it disappeared as the reddish purple liquid danced inside the glass that confined it. Not here, he reminded himself, it's not safe here.

Criers peddling wares over the murmuring market drowned anything but loud speech. The jingle of coin and laughter from old friends made it impossible to hear anything soft. Tobias found his eyes flitting from side to side, searching for something he just knew was bound to be there. The price of treachery, he reflected, is to never know peace again. He felt his shoulder bounce harmlessly off of a fat man, who turned and smiled his lack of offense. Tobias returned his smile cautiously.

So many faces in a crowd, Tobias felt sweat bead on his brow as he slipped between bodies and willed his breathing quiet. Not a kind one to be found. Thoughts of old friends and times now passed slipped into his mind like poison, threatening to steal away his clarity. Each moment that past awakened a new and treacherous thought, reminding him of the struggles that had carried him to Tirel.

All of this began and ended with Ulroke. From the moment he fled Althanas to this less than glorious return, he had been plagued by assassination attempts. Some subtle, but many attempts had cost the lives of men and women he had barely known. Too much innocent blood was on Lye's hands, and that was why Tobias had to come back. The madness had to end, whether with him, or with his mortal enemy. Tobias' rage was a cold fire burning low, waiting to be fed.

A shoulder pressed against his for a half second in the crowd again, and this time Tobias glanced up. The man was tall and muscular, but his eyes were marked with permanent, dark bags. His sunken gaze found the gold of Tobias' and a wretched smile crept across his lips. "Fuck," Tobias mouthed. Assassins in general were subtle, and at times did not even look the part. He knew immediately this man may not have been following him, but by some failing on his own part, Tobias had been found.

"Ah," the man rumbled in a low baritone, "it must be my lucky day." He straightened a bit and turned his neck, releasing a crackling set of blood curdling pops. Several heads turned, and a few faces contorted in disgust. Tobias glanced around for an avenue of escape. Every path led through a sea of potential corpses.

"That makes one of us," Tobi muttered.

[Tobias Stalt]

Like wind between reeds, the patrons of Tirel's market flowed between Tobias and the glowering older man. Mere seconds fleeted since their inopportune meeting, and already the outlawed Tactician was hard at work, seeking a means of escape. The undeniable glint of metal flashed in Tobias' vision, and the rogue bolted.

"Damn," the assassin cursed as Tobias flowed into the crowd, breaking between bodies as he fought to put distance between the assailant and himself. A panicked screech echoed through the already chaotic marketplace, and the murderous man furrowed his brow in contemplation.

With a quick tug at an intricately woven tablecloth, Tobias toppled the neatly displayed dishes and various assortment of pottery that sat atop it. The woman standing behind it stood, mouth agape. "Sorry!" he managed to call back, but he doubt she heard his apology under the tide of her own outburst. The table still teetered, now an afterthought to his steady run.

Have to get... away from the crowd... Tobias told himself as he twisted round a corner and raced up a set of stone stairs. He could see the rooftops. Almost there...

A meaty 'thud' interrupted the vagabond's thoughts as he ran headlong into a rigid obstacle. Tobias crumbled to the floor, nursing his spinning head. "The hell-?" his voice wavered as Tobias glanced up to see a young man, probably not much older than he, standing limp and staring down at him. The youth's eyes were bloodshot, his features quivering as though held aloft by unseen strings.

"Running away isn't nice," came a guttural, curdling voice that couldn't have belonged to the boy it emanated from. Tobias found the way to his feet again and shook off the impact. For once, a witty retort escaped the ex-soldier. This marked the first time he had seen the foulness of such twisted, evil magic. "Now... stay still while I cut your throat!"

Tobias barely got out of the way as a cut welled up on the boy's hand. He saw horror in the puppet's glazed over eyes as pain surprised him, but the master retained control. A line of crimson ripped through the air between them, slicing clean past Tobias and splattering against the dirt behind him. The body crumbled, bleeding out the remnants of what flowed in its veins.

"Gods below," Tobias cursed as he backed away, still watching the other boy spasm in his death throes. "That's not normal."

[Tobias Stalt]

Flecks of crimson stained the cracked steps in an erratic line. Tobias cautiously followed the trail to its end, where the writhing youth struggled in vain to breathe as his own blood betrayed him. The manic look in those frosty eyes would stay with Tobias for a long time. "Easy, mate," he said, "we have to stop the bleeding."

"C... c... can't... stop..." the boy chattered, his words and body both abnormally cold. Tobias felt for his pulse on the arm that had not spontaneously split open and spewed vicious blood at him. His own face was a mask of apathy even as the realization tore at him. Already, one life was well on his way to the next world because of him. "It hurts..."

Tobias chewed his lip thoughtfully. The fit of shivering has worsened, and the arterial spray gushing from what had been a cut, then rent itself into a horrific line all the way up the youth's forearm. A pool of deep red steadily grew at Tobias' feet. "Fuck," Tobias spat, his eyes screwing shut. He knew what had to be done, and he did not like it. "Fuck magic."

Calm, the quiet killer, found its way to his hand. Since the day it was forged, the weapon had been destined to undo the fouled magics of the world. Tobias had chanced across the blade at market in his travels, sold by a merchant who preached the importance of understanding spellcraft in order to undo it. He stared for a moment longer between the pale blade and the suffering boy before he resolved to set the pitiful youth free.

With a wretched squish and a bone chilling rip, the boy's chest wept blood.

A gasp of surprise and pain took the victim, who shivered one last time before offering Tobias a twisted smile. The words "thank you" formed on his lips, but no sound came from him. The magic that stirred in his veins was dispelled, violently, and the boy ceased to struggle.

With Calm dripping in his right hand, Tobias stood rigid. "What gives you the right?" Tobias asked without turning. The throaty laugh that came from behind him stoked the flames of hatred in his chest. "Who told you that boy had to die?"

"What the master bids, the master gets," came the cryptic reply. Tobias had not expected anything else. At best, the Crimson Hand was filled with zealots and aspirants eager to bloody their hands in service to a cause. A cause they either knew nothing about, or they devoted themselves to it entirely. It was little better than a cult, and Stalt had always hated religion.

The puppetmaster held his hands outstretched toward Tobias, who raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You're mine now," the taller man laughed. He bowed his head in a concerted effort, uttering a string of disjointed and incoherent sounds beneath his breath. Sweat poured from his forehead and arms as the sun beat down and glistened off his tanned skin. All the while, Tobias took slow steps toward the man.

When his eyes opened, the assassin blinked. "You're not... what? My magic-"

"Has no power over me," Tobias confirmed. He was several steps from the man, now. "There's no one else here for you to harm," he told the cold, hardened killer. "Just you and me."

"Shit!" The muscular man cursed, whipping his blade out from the folds of his tunic. Tobias narrowly escaped the cut, letting out a low grunt. Sunlight glistened on the dark rivers of blood scattered all around their feet, flowing downhill toward the sea. "You're more trouble than you're worth," the murderer hissed.

"Lye didn't mention that?" Tobias mocked. Overhead, a Raven perched. It's call rippled shrill through the world as it's beady eyes scrutinized the scene.

[Tobias Stalt]

His mind raced as blades danced. It had been a bold assertion, claiming that the man's magic held no power over him. Even now, Tobias was riddled with doubt and disbelief as his mind twisted off small segments of his calm disposition and scattered them to the wind. How is that possible?

He smirked with satisfaction as a red line was drawn on his opponent's wrist. Tobias took a step back as blood splashed to the cobbles and a grunt escaped his attacker. "Wha... what the hell...?" The man stared in horror at his wrist, haunted by an unseen specter. "I can't feel... my hand? What manner of trickery...?"

Another gasp of painful effort rose from the man, but to no avil. Blood poured from the wound slowly but steadily, unbidden. Dark eyes fell on Tobias like a guillotine. The assassin took his knife firmly in hand, then did something Tobias had not expected.

With a loud gasp, metal met soft tissue and tore through. The knife was longed in the man's shoulder. Tobias observed a small but dangerously placed wound, inches from an artery. Crimson pumped from the hole in time with the rapid beat of his heart. The ground grew more tainted with every step.

"You lot," Tobias spoke, referencing the Crimson Hand. "You destroy everything. Even yourselves."

Lifeblood seeping from the gash twisted and writhed as though invisible hands had taken hold of it. Malleable and stretching like rope, the fluid danced in front of its master. "You have no eye for art, Stalt." Bringing two open palms toward the sky, the balding man with salt and pepper hair offered inane prayers to whatever pagan god he believed granted him power. The blood cracked toward Tobias like a whip.

"Gods," Tobias cursed as his eyes flew wide. The blood scratched at his cloak and tore a gash in the fabric. Had he reacted an instant sooner, it would have slashed his jugular. "Blood for blood isn't just a turn of phrase anymore," he huffed. Beneath his feet, squishing sounds rippled upward from the viscous puddle.

From behind them, Tobias heard a panicked scream. "Shit," he paled as the killer's eyes turned toward the girl. "Run!" Tobias called back over his shoulder. He watched her body seize up and snarled. "Leave off her, dammit," he commanded, though the assassin seemed less than interested in compliance.

"She's seen too much," the murderer shrugged, phlegmatic.

In a fit of shakes, the brown haired girl with fair skin and blue eyes stared helplessly toward Tobias. "Leave the fuck off!" he screamed, and Tobias charged. The girl dropped to the ground in a heap as he did so, and the agent of Lye snapped his gaze toward Tobias, riveted. A wide grin split his lips, displaying his wicked canines.

"This," the elder man intoned, "is why you don't let compassion rule you." His hands thrust out toward Tobias, and the rogue immediately felt the pangs of regret sink in.

[Kroom]

Goddammit. The door banged behind him, and by the muffled swearing it must've landed on some eager bastard's nose or something. With the taste of black beer still in his mouth, Jak stared about the square and tried to make sense of the milling crowd. The confusion was emanating from one corner, where there was a space clearing. His green eyes narrowed, picking out the combatants. The beer turned to piss in his mouth and his trousers, and the smith hissed.

Hear a scream, step out from a decent pint, and find some pit-spawn mage being all... mage-y ...and fighting Tobias Stalt. It figured. The bastard had always had his head in the clouds, finding ways to bring the heavy crap of life into moments where it simply didn't belong. Couldn't even make it to a tavern for a beer with an old friend; no, he had to get attacked by some cult wizard and throw a brawl down in the middle of a market square. For a moment, Jak found himself so pettily annoyed that he considered going back to his pint.

Another scream brought him back to reality. With a growl, he pushed through the fleeing plebeians, drawing the curved fighting knife from his belt. Naturally he wasn't wearing his armor, because the gods found this sort of thing funny. The two men were tangled in a knife fight, and - oh fuck - the mage was using his power on civvies.

"Bastard," Jak swore, the curse ripped from his chest. This, this was why he hated mages and their ilk. Give a man the power to throw around some light and parlor tricks, and suddenly there were demons in every shadow, meaning in every spare word, and whatever the mage wanted to do was justified because he wanted it or because of some horseshit 'higher purpose.' Jak didn't buy any of it. It was all horseshit, and for being full of horseshit, Jak was going to kill the damn mage causing trouble on market day.

There were too many people between him and the mage to try for a knife throw, and even then he ran a chance of hitting Tobias. It'd have to be close work.

Maybe it spoke to Jak's courage, his sense of moral rectitude, that he never questioned for a moment whether or not he was going to attack. Other mercenaries, hell, even other people would have stood back and weighed their odds of survival. They would ask questions like "Can I win? Do I care? Am I likely to get involved if I do nothing?" Those sorts of people would have quickly realized that this fight was personal, between Tobias and the mage, and unlikely to touch their lives if they stayed far enough away. Those sorts of people would have gone back inside, and survived, but not Jak. The smith kept moving forward, knife low. Maybe it did speak to his moral fiber, though more likely it was a sign of world-class stupidity; but... Tobias was his friend. They'd tried to kill each other a few times, sure, but what friends haven't?

When he was a few yards away, clearing most of the civvies, Jak dropped into a dead sprint and charged, blade aiming for the mage's kidney - even as Tobias matched him from the other side. Neither seemed to see Jak. That was for the best.

Jak tucked his head and bulled his shoulder into the mage's waist, knocking him out of Tobias' path. He heard a crunching of bone and a gasp. The impact lifted both men and sent them tumbling forward head over heels, with knives flashing. Jak felt cuts open across his chest and face, quick and hot as fire, and he hissed, stabbing viciously for his target: the inner side, just below the ribs, where the lungs were vulnerable. His reward was an agonized grunt and a swift knee to his groin, lifting the burly smith clean off and disengaging the two. As he came to his feet with tears in his eyes, Jak tossed the bone-hilted knife to his left hand, drew his short sword, and snarled.

"Come on, then!" he shouted, spitting blood at the mage as he staggered back and clutched at the welling stain in his side. "Fuck with me!"

[Tobias Stalt]

Black lines were drawn on Tobias' arm where the enchanted ichor had ripped at him. He let out a grunt when the lacerations split open and his own vitae spilled free. "Bastard," he growled, and he fought against the tight grip that the tendril had wrapped around his wrist. Though whatever dark affliction had grasped the man's blood could not intrude on Tobias, its grip seemed just fine.

More screams tore through the side street, and loud yells boomed from concerned citizens. Soon, there was a crowd larger than the one Tobias had initially sought to avoid, lined up on the fringes of the cobblestones. The wretched, metallic and acrid taste of blade fostered in the air, and hands pinched down on disapproving noses. "Stay back!" Tobias called out, ragged breaths fighting every word. "He'll glamour your blood!"

A shocked gasp whispered through the crowd. Magic? Terrified eyes turned in every direction, as though Denebriel would come marching with head held high to put an end to this insanity. The All Seeing Eye seemed to cast a shadow over these events, though, as no evidence of the Ethereal Sway appeared. Mothers made signs of devotion to the faith, sent prayers of deliverance toward the heavens.

They were answered not by Divine Intervention, but Jak Roth Rute plunging his blades deep into the craven spellcaster's back. The blood chaining Tobias relinquished its hold on him and sloshed to the ground, robbed of its ill-gotten sentience. "Took you long enough," the rogue muttered as his friend brought the assassin down.

"What's that?" Jak called over his shoulder. "I couldn't hear you over the sound of my saving yer arse!" A quick jab to the back of the head sent the brute's skull to bounce off stone. Rute took a cautious step back, sure to keep his wits about him. This caster didn't need to touch him to weave his sinister web.

"Sorry I was late," Tobias returned casually, "I met this girl-"

"Like hell you did," Jak spat back, "we both know, you'd still be railin' 'er. Gods know, yer bloody hand needs the break."

Tobias snorted a laugh. "You wrong me," he feigned offense.

Though his large frame seemed limitless in its durability, the assassin continued to weep blood from every newly opened orifice. His body sagged beneath the pain and pressure that plagued him. Bloodied lips twisted into a sinister smile, and the Hand slipped a small vial of dark fluid between two fingers.

"Eh?" Tobias watched the man fight to his feet, but when the vial appeared, his attitude changed. "Is he planning to kill himself?"

"No," Jak replied, "I don't think that's it..."

The thick, milky black liquid slid easily enough down the man's throat. He swallowed with a garbled gulp and his eyes welled up with tears. "So you still have friends, eh Stalt?" the killer mused. "After all those men died defending you."

Tobias frowned. This was wrong. Women uttered prayers more loudly now, a crier had run off into the market, presumably to fetch the authorities. The more people who gathered, the more danger this sorcerer posed. "Get ready," he steeled Jak for what came next.

[Kroom]

Jak snarled and clashed his blades together, about to advance against the mage, but the tall man waved a warning finger with a grin, and the responding sanguine snake lashing at the smith warned him back.

"I didn't say you could move yet," the mage hissed, coughing slightly. "How many more, Tobias? Who else?" The coughing intensified, the mage choking through his hysteria. "How many more ghosts to join the train walking in your shadow before you let it end?! A dozen? A score? A hundred?!" Jak's eyes narrowed, staring at this pit-spawn gloating in his filthy power. Tobias was shaken, obviously guilt-stricken, yet there was still fight in his eyes. Even if it was soaked in despair. The Crimson Hand turned slitted eyes onto the smith with a smirk. "Or perhaps, just one." A bloody rope lashed out for Jak's throat.

The next morning, next week, next month even, Jak still wouldn't be able to explain how he did it. His mind filled with an image of hammer striking hot steel, sparks flying from the anvil, smoke and fire filling the air. Jak was the hammer. The mage was the steel. His green eyes grew wide, and his lungs filled like a bellows. This would not be his end, nor Tobias', nor any other's. Jak would not allow it. This alley would not be his grave, nor the mage's blood magic the axe that took his head. Not here, and not today. His foot slid forward as his gaze hardened on the mage, focus narrowing until his world only contained that piece of pit-spawn. For a moment, he could see the uncertainty flicker in the pit-spawn's eyes - an impurity in the steel. All the smith needed. One word dropped like a hammer.

"No."

Tobias watched as the bloody tendril splashed against the stone cobbles impotently, and the mage staggered, crumpling into himself as a retching spasm racked him. Spitting up blood and swearing, the mage shook his head, as if trying to clear it. Jak, weapons lowered, stepped forward. The mage correspondingly slid to the ground, backing against the alley wall and looking up in bewildered fury. One hand clutching at his wounds, the other feebly waved a knife as his illness increased. He vomited blood across his shoes, managing to choke out a strangled question:

"How- what- ?" But Jak cut him off like iron shears.

"You'll kill no more today, and never again, and you'll add no more to his 'train of ghosts.'" Tobias stepped forward, and a swift kick knocked the knife out of the assassin's hand. As the Crimson Hand gaped, perhaps even about to beg for mercy, the former soldier unceremoniously ended the battle with a quick thrust to his throat. The tip of his blade squeaked in the wooden wall behind.

Jak suddenly felt light, even calm, the release of the kill cooling his head. Reflexively, he leaned down to begin cleaning his blades on the dead man's clothing. He stopped when he realized just how saturated those clothes were, a humorless smirk twisting his lips. He glanced at Tobias.

"Alive there, friend?"

[Tobias Stalt]

"I think so," Tobias responded quietly as thoughts of imminent danger raced through his mind. If Jan had not wavered from their intended rendezvous, he might likely be dead. "Are there more? Were you followed?" His voice was ragged and jilted with horror, and the sounds of a collective voice extending its concern barely stole the vagabond's attention.

"Tob," Jak admonished, "if there 'ad been more, we'd still be fighting, lad. Calm down."

Rute's words did little the quell the storm that raged behind Tobi's eyes. The lad shook with the violence of a small dog shaken with fright. A single hand on his shoulder sent a wave of terror through him. "Bloody hell!" he cried out. He bounded like a gazelle from the touch, twisted round, and stared at a small girl with her eyes wide.

"Are you ok, mister?" she inquired sweetly. Tobias growled his disdain, but Jak pressed his shoulder. The Smith shook his head to dissuade his friend from answering. Not now, and possibly never again. He would not be completely 'ok'.

"I'm fine," he huffed, not bothering to glance in the child's direction. "Come on, then, we've a meeting to be late for and drinks to attend." The small girl's mother frowned at Tobias' casual dismissal of her child's concern, but made no attempt to voice as much. Jak offered the woman a sad smile in consolation. "If we're lucky, no more unexpected guests."

"There are always unexpected guests," Jak corrected. "Some pay, some don'. 's the ones who don't come wi' deep pockets ya watch out fer." Tobias had to laugh at that. How deep, then, had Isstar Maloch's pockets been, once upon a time? Jak seemed to read his mind, as he commented- "mos' of the time. There are, of course, megalomaniacs who bend the rules a bit."

Tobias let out an appreciative laugh. It was not much, but the jest about their misfortune brought back memories of a simpler time. "To the good life," Tobias suggested as he reached for his aleskin and offered it to his business partner.

"Aye lad," Jak returned earnestly, "wherever it may be." The taller man uncorked the skin with his teeth and spat the useless stopper aside. With a tilt of his head, Jak filled his gullet with Tobi's booze. When he slammed it down, he gasped for a breath of air. "Cheers," he rasped, and he pressed the container to Tobias' chest. "It's bad luck, you know," he chimed in a moment later, "to toast and not drink."

Tobias took a small sip and winked. "Luck can't get much worse, I fear."

[Kroom]

He had made it back to his original seat - mercifully unoccupied in his absence from the crowded tavern - and sat down to a fresh tankard before the flush of battle quelled. The first bob of his gullet was paired lovingly with a throb from his ribs. Jak winced, remembering the assassin's slashes across his chest, and promptly had his attention redirected to a bloom of agony across his face. He was wounded, inconveniently enough. No wonder the barkeeper was staring, and the metallic tang to his ale was no longer an unquestioned mystery. The smith dug for a coin from his belt and waved it to the thin man filling a tankard.

"Call a cutter, eh?"
"Seems like you've had enough cutting done on you, mate." Jak grinned wryly at the bartender's joke, and immediately regretted it as fire lanced across his face again. He took a deep draft and turned to Tobias.

"Still pretty enough for y'?" Tobias grimaced and drank from his own tankard.
"Only when I'm blind." Jak snorted. Once again, the pain bloomed. This was getting wearisome. "Rute, why'd you call me here? It was you as wanted this, after all."
"Yeah." The smith stared straight ahead and offered no more words, taking another long pull at the black beer. Tobias was patient enough to wait while he drank. His patience was not, however, infinite.
"...and? So?" He wanted his explanation.

Jak had served some time on merchant ships before, and he'd weathered a storm on almost every voyage. That had been in his late adolescence, traveling with Teiran Half-Elf. He remembered the feel of salt spray and the chill in the air, the clenching in the stomach that came when the crew stared into the oncoming storm; a sense of impending and inevitable dread, tempered with excitement for the coming challenge. The apprehension of a young man armored in the invincibility of confident youth.

He felt a similar clenching now as his mouth opened, but without much of the confidence. The storm he was calling down was quite different.

"The tomb, Tob. There's business unfinished at that tomb. Business I... I need to finish." Jak couldn't look at his friend. "I've got bodies to burn. And I think you oughta come with me." His head swam, and he realized that the warmth in his pants came from the blood dripping from his chest wound. It amused him. "See that cutter anywhere?"

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias grunted; he knew that one day, this would come up. He hoped it would be much later in their lives, after many years had passed and the wounds had become faded scars. The memories of Togan and Mathes were still mostly fresh in his memory; the hate he still felt for Isstar Maloch, even after he'd painted the cavern floor with the man's foul blood, still tasted sour on his tongue. "I don't want to," he said weakly. The last vestiges of Tobias' childhood and relative innocence gripped that place firmly, and they rested there like a tombstone weighed them down. He wanted nothing to do with that part of his life.

He could feel the pain in Jak's words, despite the cool, calm demeanor that the Smith had expertly hammered for himself. The memories had been shared between them, so the sentiment was not only his own. Of course Jak would want him to go back, too.

"I don't like it, Jak," he admitted softly, in a voice unlike anything the hardened veteran he had become ever spoke with. The weathered face of his friend wrinkled in a kind smile, understanding. "But I know you know that."

"No one likes as what hurts, Tob," Rute told his young friend, "Da used to say tha' when I burnt me hands, it was part of the lesson."

"What did you say to your dad?' Tobias asked in a much firmer voice. He remembered the few conversations that remained fresh in his mind between he and his father, and lamented that he had not capitalized on the man's wisdom. His amber eyes wavered as Jak took another swig.

"I didn't say anything," Jak replied, "I learned my lesson. Concentrate on what's to be done, and be done with it."

Tobias gave a weak nod. "Fine," he responded with a sigh. "We can leave at sun up." He groaned and emptied another tankard. "I'll give Chandra one last visit before the morrow."

"Let the lass rest, Stalt," Jak jested, "gods know, you need to get yours."

"Hell with you, Rute," Tobias hissed, "if I'm to die in the wilds of Salvar, I'm going to damn well spend my last night in civilization inside a woman."

"Spoken like a true fuckin' gentleman," the Smith barked a laugh.

"Hang you, you insufferable sellsword," Tobias called as he stepped out the dank, dark hovel that stank of old booze, "I'll see you at dawn, and not a moment sooner!"

[Kroom]

The sky was just as dingy as he remembered. A thin veil of gray cloud filtered watery sunlight to the dirt. Jak curled his toes, feeling mud squelch beneath his moccasins. His horse whinnied, flicking against the damp.

"...well." Jak spat and glanced at Tobias. The ex-soldier grunted.
"Gods, but I didn't miss this hellspawned place."
"Yeah."

The hollow was untouched. The door-stone still lay where Jak had rolled it. Sharp eyes could still see the remains of their fire pit. Even that damned merchant's cart still sat to one side. Jak had a sudden impulse to kick it.

Mathes' remains still lay a few yards from the tomb's mouth. Carrion had picked it clean long since. Standing over it, Jak felt... nothing. A stony dryness in his chest. The un-ache of a wound healed but remembered.

"Damn holy men didn't even burn his corpse." Mathes' longsword still lay in a bony hand; rusted but sound. Jak nudged it with his toe. "You want it? Always was a good one for him." Tobias stared at the smith.

"Are you sure -"
"We always take kit from our own dead. Carry 'em with us."
"'We?'"
"Men like us."

Leaving Tobias to retrieve his new weapon, Jak turned and walked back to the horses. He unlimbered the heavy axe from the pack mount and walked to the cart. He remembered how it had slowed them down, gotten bogged in ruts, and been a general nuisance. He'd hated it. A smith's iron muscles were good at smashing things. The axe swung and splinters began to fly. "Be damned if I'll not see him sent off right."

[Tobias Stalt]

He accepted the weathered blade in a firm hand. It felt odd, the thought that this blade had once fought to defend his life. Once, when he was weaker, he watched Mathes work with that weapon and believed he'd never rival the man in skill. Now, the weight of the blade felt foreign and light, much less dense than the blade he was accustomed to in spite of its greater length.

Tobias loosed the sheath from his old comrade's barren bones and rested the blade on the hip opposite Blackheart. He looked almost like Jak, now, a walking armory. Two blades on either hip, and two more nestled across the small of his back. The weight of his old friend's death felt oddly comfortable at his waist. Tobias' lips twisted into a frown at the thought.

He gathered wood as Jak split it free of the wagon. "Aye," he spurred the Smith on, "let's give him a proper sending." Stalt sauntered over to the carcass of their former fire pit and dumped his load in a pile that would be ideal for fire. The wind was weak for the moment, which offered them a brief respite to stoke the flames. On the face of a mountain overlooking the Salvic wilderness, Tobias glanced out and whistled appreciatively.

"I do give it one thing," he said, "it's sure a beautifully deadly land."

[Kroom]

A pang in his chest gave Jak reason to pause in his chopping, and he looked up at Tobias' remark. Narrowed green eyes surveyed his homeland, and for the first time in a long time, really looked at it to see it, and not just to see what it might hide. Living here taught you to always look past the seeming, past the beauty, and watch for the bared fangs, the eyes gleaming beyond the firelight.

Mountains bitten by frosted chisels, rising god-like above a rolling plain covered in purple heather and scrub. Boulders jutted up, warts on the sleeping earth's skin. Far, far to the west, a glimmer spoke of roaring waves, tossing their foamed heads to clash in wild sport. A tall army of pine mustered to the east, ranks with lofty spears and green banners. Furrowed brows of cloud loomed on that horizon, flying to judge the proud mountains with their cacophonous wrath. As far as the eye could see, right to the edge of the ever-growing domain of clouded shadow, the whole land was bejeweled in a pale wine of sunlight. The crisp air tasted of earth and frost, spiced with evergreen.

It was just as Tobias had said: a deadly beautiful land.

Jak was lost in that wild vision, quietly staring as he leaned on his axe.

"I guess," he muttered distractedly, still staring.

[Philomel]

Name of Thread: Where it All Began (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?28408-Where-it-All-Began-%28Solo%29/page2)
Type of Judgement: No Judgement
Participants: Tobias Stalt and Kroom

Rewards:

Tobias Stalt (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?17202-Tobias-Stalt) receives:
1100 EXP
110 GP

Kroom (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?17189-Kroom)receives:
440 EXP
55 GP

[Hysteria]

xp and gold added.