To Settle the Nerves (Closed to Lye)

[Les Misérables]

Darkness lay gently over the pearl coast of Serenti. The shallow waters of sand and stone beaches shimmered in new moonlight. Shadows of rocks and boulders pockmarked the lands surrounding the city. Lanterns lit the cobbled streets while some houses in the upper class district had already let the oil burn out for the night. They refueled regularly under the roof belonging to Baron Aniel Marwena. There clerks and aides and a handful of ministers toiled endlessly over piles of parchment and the invasive smell of ink.

Phyr Sa'resh stepped onto the back porch and closed the door behind him, softly enough to keep it from creaking. He'd told them he needed peace to read the latest numbers on the city's imports and stolen away for a puff of tobacco. Just one little pipe's worth to settle the nerves. On long days that stretched into long nights like this one they tended to feel filed to points.

The one-armed dark elf reached into his pocket and produced a long-stemmed mahogany pipe. He'd taken the time to pack the tobacco while inside, and used his control over steel to strike a spark on the flintstone clutched between his spindly fingers. He used metal for many purposes these days. An iron band held back his long silver ponytail and the buttons on his grey waistcoat were all burnished steel. He'd even capped his bootlaces with tiny iron baskets so he could tie them without using his lone hand at all.

Phyr inhaled sharply and then pocketed the flint and steel, pipe clamped between his teeth as the ember brightened and heavenly sour smoke filled his lungs. The tobacco was not good that year, but then he'd never cared much for Coronian tobacco. He missed the stout Alerian brand he'd been rationed in the army. In any event, it accomplished the desired effect. Phyr felt his headache dissipate as he exhaled a long stream of smoke into the manor's back yard.

The yard encompassed perhaps a half acre of land, encircled by a high stone fence. The center was dominated by a private orchard that produced, or so Phyr had heard, the finest apples in all of Tylmerande. Not too bloody difficult, considering how few can keep trees around here. With harvest time approaching the trees hung heavy with fruit and the air with dewy sweetness. For a moment the smoke lingered over the orchard like a specter of ill will, and then it vanished on the wind.

The old elf sat down on the bench that encircled the porch and puffed away contentedly. His stature among the other aides to the Baron was rising, and soon he would sit at Marwena's right hand. From such a well informed position he'd be able to put his meager resources into some wise investments. Even with a fast turnaround he would be waiting a half year at least, but he could do this job as long as necessary. Compared to living in the high-security prison north of Salvar where he'd spent sixty years, working in Serenti was a vacation.

Thinking of prison made Phyr eager to exercise his hard-fought freedom. He stood and ashed his pipe and shuffled down the rotting old oaken steps. Making a mental note to have them replaced, he lengthened his stride and strolled out into the shadowy orchard, breathing deeply through his long crooked nose.

[Lye]

A raven, black as night, glided in the winds upon outstretched wings. It's beady eyes caught sight of movement below. With a tuck of its wings, the carrion bird dove low and fluttered to a perch among the apple trees. Unusual for the time of night and region, the raven craned its neck toward the one-armed elf with a blink and a caw.

"Phyr," it said to him. "Phyr Sa'resh" Its tone of voice low and clear seemed too well practiced.

The darkness cast by the blanket of night stirred and from it, a shape took form.

"Peaceful night, isn't it?" spoke the form as it emerged.

With a caw, the black bird took flight. Lye's silken platinum hair spilled from the darkness like an eerie omen and emerald eyes dilated in the glow of moonlight. The deep maroons of his linens and black leather slipped into view. On his back and belt hung a myriad of tools and weapons.

With a gloved hand, the assassin plucked an apple from the tree above him and took a bite from the crisp flesh. He pressed a shoulder against the tree and folded his arms over one another.

"You're quite the interesting fellow," Lye continued with small pieces of apple sputtering from his muffled speech. "Junior Officer in the Aleran Military..." He swallowed while pointing to the drow with apple in hand. "Lost that arm and a fair maiden. Tough luck." Lye took another bite.

"A proposition." He stated as he chewed. "But before that, why don't we speak as two men? I'll introduce myself. My name is Killian Fennik." The assassin swallowed, his eyes locked on Phyr's movements and tucked arm laying gloved fingers on the hilt of blades hidden from view.

[Les Misérables]

Phyr froze. For a moment he thought his eyes and ears deceived him. First a bird spoke his name, and then the shape of a man appeared from the shadows. Were it not for his own abilities with shadow manipulation, the elf might have been terrified by what he saw. Yet even with understanding came fear, a healthy fear of a man who could navigate the shadows as Sa'resh might navigate the mechanisms of a clock. The elf's hand went to his waist on impulse, but he wore not even a belt-knife that night. The buttons down the front of his jacket tugged of their own accord as he thought about using them as weapons.

Not a bloody good idea, Phyr noted as cold sweat trickled down his neck, not a good idea to provoke this one at all.

During his time in the Alerian military, and later while working as Captain of the Underwood Watch, Phyr had met elves and men who moved with the same sinuous, lethal grace as this Killian Fennik. The old elf was an expert fencer and a fine shot with any gunpowder weapon he could lay hand on. Men like Killian Fennik were weapons. Their devotion to their deadly arts showed in the simplest movements, such as plucking an apple from a tree. In any case, Fennik showed little interest in killing Phyr Sa'resh, and the old elf did not intend to give him cause.

Phyr forced himself to take a deep, calming breath, focusing on the scent of the ripening orchard.

"A fine, fair night indeed." He said. He appreciated Fennik's polite disposition. In Phyr's mind, even if one did intend to kill an elf, it made a poor excuse for bad manners. He put the pipe between his lips and chewed the stem, the grinding of his molars easing his prickly nerves.

"My name is Phyr Sa'resh," the old elf acknowledged. He gripped the bowl of the pipe in his lone hand and made a slow, sweeping gesture with the stem. Sudden movements did not seem wise at the moment. "'A pleasure to make your acquaintance this fine autumn's eve." While he stood and spoke as if at ease, Phyr's mind raced. Who was this man who called himself Killian Fennik, and how did he know of Phyr's history? He supposed the shadowy figure could be any of a dozen assassins or spies, and the information could be bought for a few coppers if one found the right source. But why? Sa'resh's curiosity swiftly outweighed his fear.

"What is this proposition of yours then lad?" Phyr asked, "I am always searching out fresh opportunities." He looked at the ink stains on his azure fingertips and tapped his teeth with the pipe's stem, dark purple lips drawn back in a nervous smile.

[Lye]

"You've kept calm," Lye stated with a tilt of his head and pursed lips. "Good nerves."

The assassin took another crisp bite.

"Or..." A pause and a gulp. "You're not intimidated by these kinds of things."

The assassin took a deep breath and over his shoulder he flung the half eaten fruit. He left the comfort of the tree trunk and approached Phyr, weapons catching faint moonlight. He walked behind the man only to stand on his opposite side.

"Walk with me," he commanded, journeying further into the serenity of the orchard.

"You sit here, late at night putting ink to paper. That dull repetitive glaze is in your eyes and back hunched from either boredom and old age." Phy's villainous guest turned to look at him as they paced. "You know the value of coin and politics, but don't exercise it to the benefit of yourself."

He halted, turning to the one-armed drow.

"I propose you forgo the lavish work of the upper class. Instead, work for me. I have men and resources. I lack an expert of your... caliber to help me maintain the drab day to day."

He watched over Phyr carefully. Eyes keen to his expression, small ticks, and signs of whatever words might have gone unspoken in the drow's mind.

"Except I can promise it will be far from drab."

[Les Misérables]

"It might be a bit of both," Phyr chuckled despite the tense situation, "this old elf has seen enough to not be too easily rattled." Wise enough to be intimidated, and wise enough not to show it. In prison, he'd seen a man forced to pluck out his eyes with his own fingers. In Underwood, he'd seen festering corpses catapulted over the town walls during the war. And he'd watched his second wife Elena murdered in cold blood. The way Phyr looked at it, he could either let past events rule his life, or mark them down as experience and move on. At more than a hundred years of age, he felt he held enough experience for five men.

The dark elf's azure eyes allowed him to navigate the snakelike roots of the apple trees until he came to a halt at the assassin's side. A mild breeze tickled the upper branches and somewhere in the orchard an owl hooted. Phyr relaxed slightly, and sweat stopped beading on the back of his neck. Even so, he did not drop his guard. A man like Killian Fennik was not dangerous because of his fighting ability, but rather his lack of predictability. Such a hardened criminal needed to be treated as a farmer handles his eggs on market day; produce even a tiny crack, and it would be Phyr's innards that spilled out like yellowy yolk.

"This work is... tedious." Phyr admitted, choosing his words carefully. He balled his fist around the stem of his pipe and knuckled the small of his back, producing a trio of faint pops. "But with time, it does promise reward."

The old elf chewed his pipe stem and tried to imagine what working for a man such as Fennik would be like. The man's tools, movements and demeanor named him a professional killer. Of course killers needed books balanced like anyone else, especially the successful ones, and Phyr did not doubt Fennik's abilities. Why then did he hesitate? He'd passed many an afternoon daydreaming about finding more interesting employment, about earning more coin than it cost to keep him alive. He'd thirsted for an offer such as this. So what kept him from saying yes?

You're afraid of getting caught, A small voice said in the back of his mind. Phyr attempted to shove away the thought but it lingered and nagged at him. Sixty years in a Salvic prison would be enough to give anyone pause, and yet as he considered the full scope of the situation, Sa'resh realized he had already decided to accept Fennik's offer. To reject it would almost certainly mean death. Assassins could not afford to have their messages repeated, and dead elves told no tales. Even so, Sa'resh did not wish to comply too readily. Showing weakness might be as lethal a mistake as turning the job down.

"I could do with a little less drabness," Phyr said conspiratorially, shooting a glance in the direction of the manor house. "But I've more than one iron in the fire here. Coin is king to an old elf like me, as I'm sure you can understand. If I work for you, how much gold would I see over the next year?" He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, gesturing with his pipe to demonstrate amounts. "Enough to fill my belly? Enough to fill my pockets?" A selfish look of longing settled in his wise eyes. "More?"

[Lye]

As Phyr spoke, Lye sized him up to meet exacting requirements. Old eyes, narrowed with wisdom but bright with promise held back years of experience and practice. His handling of such an unorthodox meeting and discussion held up to the expectations of the assassin. So much so, his thin lips began to curl at the edges to a sly grin.

"Well, Sa'resh," Lye responded, his tones whimsical. "A man like myself has no issue filling my belly or lining my pockets. Same can be said about the individuals in my employ. Therefore, if 'more' is of interest to you, the opportunity for 'more' is what I'd be providing. We have several fronts with steady cash flow, but operations on a larger scale require a keener eye on... expenses."

Divulging such details to the elf needed to be handled carefully. Too much information without compliance created a liability. Liabilities meant someone's corpse turning up in a river of in the bellies of swines. The assassin's eyes narrowed on his acquaintance. His tone lowered and flattened to convey a more serious conversation.

"As you may have assumed, we do not operate under the laws created by man, but the law of men itself. Thusly, we need someone with a mind for the systems we care not to deal with and a strong will in the face of... consequence."

The assassin stopped his pace, taking a moment to rub his rough chin with a gloved hand.

"I take it you're not afraid of consequence, or has your past struck the fear of imprisonment into you? I've heard you are quite capable with that one arm of yours."

His teeth showed in the moonlight as his lips parted into a sneer.

"I know a fellow that may be able to gift you with a second. If you have interests beyond just coin...?"

[Les Misérables]

The pipe in Phyr's fist nearly broke in two. An arm, he thought what I would do for an arm. For a moment the ghosting sensation of his right arm returned, that horrid pain where his fingertips should be that had lasted months after the appendage's removal. He'd fantasized about building himself a proper steel arm that could bend and clamp, but never even considered using magic to replace the limb.

For most of his life Phyr had felt contemptuous of the arcane arts; he believed in what he could hear and see with his own ears and eyes, what he could make with his hands. He believed in technology. Since his time spent in Underwood among mages he had learned a few magic tricks that felt natural; the ability to manipulate metal and shadows, skills that could save an elf's life. The idea of having magic used on him still turned his stomach somewhat, but for a new arm... No fear could compel Sa'resh to turn away from such a prize, not the threat of imprisonment, and not his old revilement of magic.

"You know how to motivate an elf, that you bloody well do." Phyr said. He placed his pipe in his pocket and massaged the stump of his right arm ponderously, trying to make the old ache go away. "Prison took my arm away; I've oft thought that the only reason I'd be willing to return would be if I could get it back. Your proposition is much more appealing. And I assure you, if I'm managing the money, we'll find no occasion to face consequence."

Fennik's eyes shone green as a cat's in the darkness, and seemed to peer into Phyr's very soul. The dark elf took a steadying breath and straightened his grey overcoat, the cut-off right sleeve flapping emptily.

"As it seems you have heard, I manage my share of work with only one arm. My weaker arm," Phyr added, remembering the years of practice it had taken to become habituated to using his non-dominant hand. "Give me a hope of getting my good arm back, and I'll see to it your books are balanced, your assets hidden, and your businesses will appear as legitimate as the Baron's own." He waved his hand across the orchard and toward the manor.

A hungry smile split Phyr's lips, revealing uneven, blackened teeth. He inclined his head in a slight bow, azure eyes never leaving the dangerous man in front of him.

"I do believe I am the someone you've been searching for, Killian Fennik."