In which our protagonists discover the meaning of awkward.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Closed to Sulla.

There was an unnatural spring in my step as I made my way down the road.

At least, that's how it appeared to me. To the common passerby, it just looked like I was walking just a little bit faster than usual and slouching a bit less. One or two very attentive folks with the best senses of perception could've probably have made out a very thin smile on my face.

But to me, I was on top of the world.

I had been given a wealth of new powers by a Forgotten One that I was only beginning to explore, I had an army of spies, mercenaries, and researchers at my command, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I actually had a purpose in life.

Do you know how good that makes me feel? After going so long living under the boot heels of monsters and assassins?

Let me tell you, it is incredible.

I was on my way this afternoon to a weapons shop where I normally picked up traveling gear, as I prepared for a couple missions I had lined up. I special-ordered some knives and knuckledusters (despite being a living, breathing, plague-ridden, acid-oozing weapon myself), and received word that they were ready for me to pick up.

You can imagine my surprise when I got to the shop and, about an hour and a half after lunchtime, there was a sign on the door that said CLOSED.

[Sulla]

The drainage pipe had been cramped and rank, but blissfully dry – the killer grinned at his own careful planning. The shop had been converted from an old butchery, and the room just beyond the tight tunnel had held host to savage slaughters in a not too distant pass. Permanent stains of dark brown rust left a path where the gruesome waters once flowed; a guided trail with a twinge of cosmic coincidence that made things all the more fun. As Sulla loosened the plank covering the hole to the room, he used a ginger touch on bated breath to soundlessly ease it to the dirt floor.

Dim light covered gray brick walls, emanating from a stone pedestal table in the center. The oil lamp atop it flickered from time to time, and the killer saw the brief silhouette of the shop’s owner as he busied himself on at a nearby shelf.

The man fiddled with a few different items, plucking them from his inventory and placing them neatly in colorful boxes. There was a care to his work - a professional intensity - that caused him to become so engrossed in it that he missed the spider-like footfalls behind him. A soon as the shopkeeper packed away an ornate blade in his hands, Sulla struck. The struggle was fierce, but brief. An arm around the throat muffled any screams the shopkeeper could muster, and his face turned from a bright red to a deep purple in only a few minutes. Sulla kept him moving, dragging the flailing man around a bit to tire him out; he kept a firm grasp of the man’s right arm and allowed the left to strike impotently against him.

At last, he felt the last shivers of life escape his target. Of course, as a professional, he allowed a few more moments to pass before he finally let the body crumple to ground in twisted heap. The owner’s eyes were wide and bulging. Had any life been left in it, Sulla could have sworn there was some glint of relief on the face.

And why wouldn’t there be? As he scanned the rest of the surroundings, he muffled a bit of a chuckle in his chest. He strode over to where the man had been working, picking things out of their parcels and glancing at the tags. ”Jonathan Viswalt, with his shined, mirrored steal – Or this…Madison Freebird?” An image popped into his mind of some flower-clad maiden with parents too wealthy for her own good. But that image faded as the name stuck itself to the tip of his tongue. Why does that sound so familiar? The killer paused a moment, resting against the shelf. In the grim light he squinted his eyes to see passed it all.

”A client? A contract? Maybe even a future mark? The thoughts filled him with a sense of unease. His uncle was a careful man, and far too clever to send Sulla out to silence some poor fool who couldn’t pay protection for the month, only to have it related to some other project.

”But still, that name…”

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I casually made my way up the wide stone step that lead to the front door of the weapon merchant's shop. I placed a gloved hand on the iron doorknob and gave it a light twist. It rattled in protest, refusing to turn even an inch. Locked.

That's odd, I thought to myself. Benjamin never closes for this long during lunch.

For a brief second, I was content with the idea of simply waiting for him to re-open the store. It was a nice enough day out, so I wouldn't mind waiting for a few extra minutes. But on the other hand; I was on a tight schedule. I had a few other things to take care of today before I left for Raiaera to take on a task set before me by the Forgotten One Podë--a few more items to grab, a couple identities to steal, a few lives to snuff out for crossing her...

Bloodshed and treachery would come in due time. I first needed the new tools of my trade.

From what I remembered of my previous visits to the shop, during business hours Ben doesn't lock his windows. A couple quick glances around to make sure nobody was watching, and then I slid into the space between the shop and the apothecary next door. The alleyway was awfully dark considering the midafternoon sun that hung overhead, but I welcomed the shadows as I placed my briar-knit hands on a windowsill. A thin length of vine slithered from my wrist and began to worm its way into the space between the frame and the window, prying the two apart so I could get the window open.

Seconds later, I found myself inside the store. Dangerously sharp swords and daggers lined the wall and shelves, with the occasional staff or quiver mounted or lying on a table scattered about. It was eerily quiet within--considering that it was peak business hours in Radasanth, I found that to be very unsettling. Benjamin was usually the type to greet his customers with open arms and a hearty "hello!"

"Where the fuck is he," I muttered to myself. I scanned the store once more, confirming that I was the only person around.

A couple of wrapped parcels on the counter near the register caught my eye. I walked over to find one of them was addressed to me. I quickly untied the twine knot that kept the package wrapped and tore it open. I was here, it was there, so why the hell not, right? Underneath the cloth wrappings were the items that I had ordered: A wonderful pair of mythril daggers, simple in design but enchanted to cut twice as well and never go dull, as well as a set of steel knuckledusters with mythril spikes that had a very different set of enchants on them. We'll just say that the nickname that Diggs suggested, "Spellpunchers", is very fitting.

I picked up the leather belt that the daggers were sheathed in and strapped it around my waist. It felt comforting to feel the weight of weapons hanging on my hips once more. The dusters slid perfectly into my pants pockets. All that was left to do was to pay Benjamin for acquiring my new toys, but... where in the seven hells was he?

"Hello?" I called out. "Is anyone here?"

[Sulla]

A creak of wood rang inside the room with the same urgency the bell above the door would. Sulla froze for a moment, quickly closing all the parcels before eying the window. He wasted no time as it groaned, grabbing the limp body of the shopkeeper and dragging it beneath a table that rested against the wall furthest from the intrusion. A tablecloth, a faded ivory, hid both he and his victim as he lay on top, starring into those faded eyes and admiring the slight trickle of spit that came from its mouth. The killer pulled down the tablecloth with a brief tug, allowing only a two inch gap between its folds and the floor.

As the window groaned, daylight, no longer muted by dusty glass, flooded into the dingy little store. Sulla could feel his pulse quicken and his muscles tense. There was a twisted perversion to it all, in such a state atop a corpse, like some sort of divine irony. Had the killer the luxury of humor, he might have let out a brief chuckle. But the slow and steady bootclad footfalls came into view, and with them the stark reality of the predicament.

The hitman’s mind raced with ideas as he tried to sort out some form of plan. He could tell the intruder was a woman, which gave him some small comfort. ”An attempt to overpower her is far more likely to succeed, though seduction always has its uses.” He leaned down to the clerk’s dead ear, and resisted with all his might the temptation to ask him his opinion. ”If she’s a thief, I can use her crimes against her,” he thought, as he pictured the route to the nearest guardhouse. “If she’s friendly with the man, I can be a nephew to this poor white haired fellow. Though too friendly, and she might know the truth of his relations – but then she’d have a key, wouldn’t she?”

So caught up in the fanciful fabric in the loom of his mind’s eye, that he almost shot up in surprise when he heard the soft rustle of metal into leather, and the fastening of a belt. No matter the circumstances before, she was certainly armed now – a matter of much concern.

”No matter her frailties or whimsies, she can fight back.” Sulla bit his bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood. A direct fight was always dangerous, and only fools went into one blind. Even sneaking up on her seemed a hopeless cause as she called out for an answer into the unknown. Growing ever desperate, the killer felt around the breast pocket of the victim’s jacket, discovering a pair of brass spectacles within. They lacked the style, and probably the enchantment, of his own. But in a pinch, they served the valuable function of being light enough to throw across the room, and heavy enough to make a sound.

Whatever happened next, Sulla wanted the intruders back to him. The drain pipe was tight enough to slow his escape, the door was locked, and the windows all too far away. With a keen eye, he lifted the cloth with his wrist and flung the glasses against the opposing wall, catching only a glimpse of the women before he rolled out, his other hand readying his trusty straight razor.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I was two steps away from the door that led to the back of the shop when I heard an object hit the floor. I'm ashamed to admit that it startled me.

"Ben?"

I turned around to see a pair of glasses laying on the floor, one of the temples opened up and sticking out. Kneeling down, I picked them up in my briar-knit hands and examined them. The frames were made of brass, the lenses not exactly perfect circles and without scratches on them. They were certainly the shopkeep's glasses; in my multiple dealings with him, he always had them sitting on his face.

Had he taken them off and set them on the table before going out to lunch?

I casually folded up the spectacles and tossed them back onto the counter where I had picked up my weapons. As metal hit wood, a chill crept down my spine.

Those glasses weren't on the counter when I picked up my daggers and knuckledusters.

I don't remember seeing those glasses on any of the counters when I broke into the store.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. What was going on around here?