The Waltz of Wicked Wiles

[Zade]

{{ Solo Quest }}

"Hey, careful there, puppet!" Zade remarked with sour visage as the red-haired wench that sat beside him on his bed plucked another grisly barb from the torn skin of his left arm. He tried his best not to look at what she was doing, knowing that it would only amplify the horrid shivers of pain he felt everytime she touched the aching gashes. The wounds weren't deep, but they were many, deforming the once-fit limb into a craterous bough of throbbing, red flesh. The Salvaran scoundrel cast a glance of aversion at the dozen black thorns that now lay harmlessly at the bottom of the copper bowl on his right. A lot of the floral pests had been broken in half, and had released their safeguarding toxins into the fragile flesh beneath his skin before he'd been able to get help in removing them. He gritted his teeth; the itch that the otherwise manageable poison caused was downright torturous.

"If you'd be so kind to stop continually tensing and relaxing your biceps, this could go over a lot more quickly!" the maid retorted with a sharpness that equalled Zade's own. It didn't take a Militia Scout to see that the job had her on edge; her round face was flushed with exasperation, but nevertheless creased with concentration. Her fingers, which aptly resembled the rest of her body - thick and short, but far from obese - lacked the dexterity required to handle the unfortunate pincer clenched between them.

"Bugger off, woman, I'm not tensing anything! They never taught you that some jobs actually require some bloody precision?" came Zade's grunted response through squeezed-together lips. He winced as the girl finally got hold of the particularly long barb an inch above his elbow. A squeak of pain erupted from his tongue as she pulled the nuisance out without too much regard for the flesh she rent by doing so. He panted a curse at her traditional black-and-white attire while he recovered with watery eyes. Still, this treatment, however painful, was completely free and relieved him of the questions that any professional healer would throw his way. That, and he didn't like his name being in their logbooks - in Zade's experience, it was best to avoid leaving traces for your enemies instead of trying to tidy up after you've already made them.

"I think that's the last of 'em," the maid stated as she ran a finger through her shoulder-length curls. A sudden sense of relief washed over Zade as she dropped the final thorn into the coppery kettle on his other side, though he felt loath to show any sign of it to her. "No, wait..." she spoke quickly as he prepared to get up, eliciting a thoroughly exasperated look from beneath the scoundrel's thin brows. Nevertheless, he let himself drop back onto the rickety bedstead. The plump girl placed a her hand over his shoulder, pulling away the white cloth of his already rolled-up sleeve. He attempted to follow her movements out of the corner of his misty eyes as she inched in closer, not understanding the curious look on her face. Her nail coursed across the back of his shoulder in a circular motion. An eerie tinge crept across his spine, the shiver that normally accompanied the sound of nails on a chalkboard, even though not the slightest sound audibly disturbed the chamber.

After several seconds, she retracted her hand and stood, eyeing him with a puzzled look on her blushing features. The raw tingling instantly disappeared. "Hmmm, that wasn't a thorn... that's ink. Since when do you have a tattoo?" she asked him. There was an inquisitive squeak to her voice, but the soft smile that graced her lips quickly dispelled Zade's feeling of being interrogated. The look that he gave her in return was comparably confounded, and uncomfortable silence took hold of the room before the scoundrel finally blinked, snapping out of his trance of abashment.

"A... a tattoo, hun?" he tried with an uncharacteristically weak, hollow voice.

"Pretty much," she replied, but she waved the matter away, oblivious to the concern and bewilderment carved into Zade's furrowed brows. When she received no response, she shrugged and turned around, faking an air of being insulted while she directed an accusing tone at the injured rogue behind her. "A thank you would have been nice, you know." She paced out of the room, expecting Zade to make use of her playful assist. None came before she reached the doorstep. She turned around, looking at her black-haired patient with wonder in her hazel eyes. Zade did not seem to notice; he absently stroked his tattooed shoulder with his long fingers and his silvery orbs stared into places where none but his own, chaotic thoughts could reach him.

She turned around and paced away, her shoes pattering harshly over the stone walkway of the inn's upper level, and her insulted look needed no longer be simulated.

[Zade]

Well, knock me down with a bleeding feather...

Zade's expression changed from contemplative to amazed as he looked back over the pale tan of his shoulder, staring into the oval-shaped mirror behind him. His shirt lay crumpled up on the bed next to him. The scoundrel forgot it along with the world around him as his eyes traced the circular drawings that stood ingrained in the skin of his back. Reddish-brown tinctures formed what appeared to be two ornate eyes, one on the back of his left shoulder, and one on the back of his right, in perfect symmetry. The two circles were connected by bifold, thick lines of strange symbols that ran over the base of his neck; it was as though someone had used his body as a notepad for solving some mathematical problem.

He would have actually admired the artfulness of the tattoo if it hadn't mysteriously appeared upon his skin from one day to the other. Thereby, he wasn't certain whether it even was a tattoo... the image seemed far too vivid, far too in tune with the surrounding skin to have been inked with anything other than his own blood. He ran a finger over the crimson circle on his left shoulder, careful not to touch the ravaged skin of the arm that hung near it. He shivered. It didn't even feel different from his actual skin.

The scoundrel sighed as he turned his head towards the only window of the room at his favoured inn. Behind the cream-coloured curtains, only the calmness of night could be discerned - all was silent, save for the drunken lulls of the final patrons on the ground floor, enticing Zade into a long yawn. Having decided to visit one of Knife Edge's few tattooists first thing in the morning, he tried to forget about the strange markings blemishing his physique as he threw his shirt off the bed and put himself to rest on the rigid mattress. He promptly noticed that the infuriating itch the barbs had left in his arm had almost entirely disappeared; far sooner than he'd expected. He smiled before he closed his eyes for a good night's sleep. Finally, some good fortune.


.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Later that night, when Zade finally lay suffused in peaceful dreamlessness, a swarthy frame descended into the shadows of the slums from the inn's worn door, unnoticed by all but stray rats and an owl soaring high through the clouded sky. Although concealed by a cloak of slate cloth and the shadows of surrounding buildings, the nocturnal wanderer's tread was twitchy and ungraceful, recognizably ruled by anxiety. Its journey was short and without incident, save for the bark of a homeless dog that startled the shape into dropping the hood of its outer garments. Curly hair billowed through the nightly breeze before the female spurtively jerked the cloth back onto her head. Eyeing her surroundings intently, she slipped into a small alleyway. She nervously counted the doors to her right. One, two, three, and there it was. The door, unlike most entranceways in the slums, appeared well-kept and in the light of day, would have bloomed with green paint. After looking around one more time, she gave the knock that would grant her access.


Knock-knock... Knock-knock... Knock-knock-knock...

Apparently out of itself, the wooden aperture admitted her into what seemed to be an empty, old storage room. She stepped inside. As soon as she was out of the way, the door was slammed shut behind her, nearly making her jump through the low ceiling. She looked over her shoulder and was greeted by a giant of a man; his skin was tanned, his head shaven bald except for two long ponytails that ran down his back from behind his ears. Although his jagged visage told of many hardships, he tried his best to put on a friendly smile. Combined with the clumsy, bentover way he walked to keep his head from bouncing against the roofing and his impeccable black jacquet, the plump girl did not feel threatened and let herself be led to the middle of the room, where a single wooden chair stood waiting for her. Several feet in front of it was a large, white sheet that covered the entire width and height of the room, essentially forming a wall in its midst, though the delineation of a humanoid creature could clearly be seen behind it.

Her anxiety reached a pinnacle as she sat herself on the piece of furniture, her gaze unsteadily fastened to the motionless shadow behind the sheet. There were no lights in this part of the room. However, a bright, fluorescent white shone from behind the screen opposite to her, and in its pale radiance the girl could clearly see how the two bodyguards had taken up position several feet away on both sides of her, leaning casually but attentively against the walls of the narrow chamber. Eerie silence reigned. She nervously tapped her fingers on her lap, not so much scared of the two oafish brutes she shared the cubicle with, but more of the man - if it even was a man - behind the screen. The shadow was strangely deformed near the shoulders and bore strange protrusions where its temples should have been. But what most frightened her was that, ever since she'd first entered, the shadow hadn't moved. Not even breathed.

"Welcome, child." She nearly fell from her seat as the ubiquitous voices reached her. Voices, indeed - the words had a bombastic quality to them, as though sung by a large choir of male baritones. The words hadn't been screamed or wailed in any way, but the perfect synergy between the three-or-so voices made for an overwhelming effect that caught the cloaked woman starstruck, leaving her wide-eyed and speechless. The voice behind the screen remained silent, waiting politely for her to make the statement it knew that she would voice.

"My father..." she gave a weak start, her voice a ridiculous squeak. Her desperate whine was not met with laughter. Only with a compassionate but firm interjection.

"Your father will be fine, child. We always keep our end of a bargain." Without warning, something behind the screen started to hum in an insect-like way. The girl blinked rapidly as right before her eyes, a small flask started to materialize, piece-by-piece. Amazed, she heaved up a trembling hand, catching the round blue bottle before it could fall to the concrete floor. Relief, even joy, could be read off her face as she placed it safely into the confines of the black-and-white garments beneath her ashen manteau. However, the joyful expression quickly faded when she looked back up and noticed that the two muscular bodyguards now stood very close by her side.

"W-what are you doing?" she peeped, frightened. One of the guards took hold of her arms while the other retrieved something from his pocket. When his thick hand returned, the girl's gaze was caught by something sharp, and silvery.

"Ensuring ourselves of your further cooperation," the voices explained coldly, without the remotest sense of emotion. "Indefinitely." The maiden could have sworn that a small grimace creased through the shadow's features. But that thought quickly faded into a mental scream of terror as the silver-wielding bodyguard stepped in front of her, and the scalpel in his hand drew closer. She tried to squirm out of the bear-like grasp of the bodyguard behind her, and only then noticed that her ankles had been roughly tied together. The scalpel glistened palely, hovering inches in front of her pupil. Her scream of pain and horror was lost in the confines of the huge hand that her captor swept over her jaws.

[Zade]

The chill of a new, frigid morning in wintery Knife's Edge arrived far too early for Zade's liking; his sleep had been so deep that it felt as though he'd only closed his eyes two seconds ago. Sitting upright with a swift movement, he stretched out his arms to drive away the numbness in his muscles, the comfortable swoon of sleep. The scoundrel rose from his resting place and stood in front of the large mirror next to the bed. He immediately noticed that the injuries on his besieged arm had clotted to a close, which gave it a rather rotten look, but Zade was altogether glad that the tingling irritation had vanished and that the pains had considerably diminished. Careful not to rip open the newly clogged scratches, he picked up his shirt from the floor near his feet and donned it. He purposely avoided looking at the strange markings on his back – every time he looked at it, even when he merely thought of it, a bizarre tinge of threat surged through his mind, clouding his senses. Hopefully, a tattooist could help him get rid of it.

Directing his thoughts to other matters, he absently paced across the room, picking up his dark trenchcoat from the sparsely furnished room’s single chair along the way. The Snow and Sun Inn wasn’t much in terms of size, but it was a cozy abode, and one of Zade’s favoured hangouts – although its cheap ale might have attributed more to that fancy than the actual quality of its accommodations. The stone hallway leading down to the common room was narrow and lit by small, round windows. It was quite dusty, and spiderwebs covered each corner and crack of its aged masonry. The common room, however, greeted him with very much the opposite image; from the small chairs and round tables on his left to the long bar and vats of wine on his right, the entire interior sung ‘crisp and clean’ as Zade trudged into the vestibule. There were few customers at the moment – business in Knife’s Edge hadn’t been altogether great since the Entente of Light had marched in and unleashed a new era of political intrigue and worthless, erudite struggles.

“Eh lad, whatever happened to sayin’ good mornin’?” came a gruff but amicable grunt from the corner of the room opposite the staircase. Despite the worrying mysteries that pressed upon his mind, Zade turned around, his palely tanned face split in two by a sincere smile – a rare occurrence these times, indeed. A burly head with small, gleaming orbs of black and far too much hair peered back at him, only narrowly reaching over the thick boards of the wooden table that the Dwarf sat behind. His beard had once bore the sharp colour of copper, but was now liberally bestrewn with locks of silvery slate. Zade did not know the dwarf’s name, nor could he remember any occasion where his rowdy friend had divulged anything about any alias, but he affectionately called the old adventurer ‘gramps’. The dwarf did not seem to take it as a belligerence, even though Zade knew all too well how tough the warrior still was – he stood tall in any bar brawl, any street fight that came his way. He also knew that the however much the dwarf enjoyed a good fight, he was honest at heart, and never afraid to speak his thoughts aloud. Quite an uncommon trait, and very admirable – he himself would never be able to live without con and swindle. Not that he wished to, but it was a nice change of pace from the usual crowd the scoundrel hung out with.

“Mornin’ gramps. All right today?” Zade snickered as he shoved the other chair at the dwarf’s table backwards and let himself fall onto the sturdy wood. He immediately recognized the large tankard of black ale standing before his thickset comrade as dwarvenbrew – the old man was always drinking, from early morning to the deepest depths of night, as though alcoholic beverages were the sole thing that kept him going. Along with bashing heads into tables and throwing humans like ragdolls, of course.

“Yeh, all’s good, fer a change,” the broad dwarf responded with a grimace, turning his body to face his new tablemate. He took a long sip from his tankard, eyes staring forward sternly. Zade knew how his companion thought about the veritable web of deceit and mind games currently being spun around Knife’s Edge’s new government. As a member of a race where loyalty was the greatest virtue and treason worse than genocide, Zade did not doubt that the dwarf would have preferred to take up his warhammer and solve the power struggle in a very quick and efficient – albeit somewhat crude – manner. The fact that he could not change anything about this cesspool of corruption, paired with his racial stubbornness, had made him rather sour company to be with the last few weeks. Unless he was drunk, which was – Zade had to admit – most of the time.

“Seems the innkeep’s up on his own two legs again,” the brawny bruiser continued. “The lass told me when I woke up on the floor this mornin’, head ringing like ‘t was trampled by a mule,” he gestured with the tankard at the fleshy maid cleaning up the wooden bar with a piece of yellow cloth. Zade followed her movements until she looked up, locking eyes with his slate orbs briefly before quickly averting her gaze. “And ‘bout time, too, if y’ask me; old geezer’s been sick ever since I got here, and that’s sayin’ sumthing,” the dwarf proceeded to talk in the background, but Zade’s attention was still with the maid. He’d hurt her, last night. Normally, he wouldn’t feel very highly about that – he’d aggrieved her and others he feigned to care about many times. But that night, with the tattoo, things had been beyond his control, and he felt something that tasted a lot like sincere guilt wrap itself around his mind. He looked at her for one more second before turning his gaze back to the dwarf beside him.

[Zade]

“A… a fight again?” he asked, hoping to pick up where he’d lost track of the Dwarf’s monologue earlier; but the burly brawler once again proved that he was no fool. “Yeh, but I won’t bore y’with tha, laddie. Now why don’t y’instead tell me ‘bout the lass… Sumthin’ finally goin’ on between ye two?” the brawler half-whispered with an impish grin as he nudged him against the trenchcoat with his tankard, leaving some creamy foam at the trenchcoat’s sleeve. Zade could smell the strength of the ale from far away. He wiped his nose before answering; he disliked alcohol, not because it didn’t taste nice, but the way it clouded the drinker’s perception. “No, no,” he spoke as he leaned his elbows upon the table, his hands supporting his unshaven jaw. His refutation came with a convincing but fake chuckle – the best weapon to use against the semi-serious tease he was faced with. “I just had a bit of a row with her, you know? Woman and all.” The dwarf roared with laughter at his unwise generalization. “Hah! Ye’ve been with one or two lil’ lassies, and now ye think ye know ‘em all.” His jeering tone abruptly vanished. “But, eh, ye should make it up to ‘er, lad. I hear the owner’s right overprotective when ‘t comes to ‘is young’uns. ‘Specially now that he’s not sleepin’ with ‘em feverbeetles anymore.”

Zade hesitated for a moment before conceding with a gruff whisper that sounded somewhat like “I s’pose you’re right.” He put on the most charming smile he could muster and stood from his chair, taking one step in the bar’s direction before turning one hundred and eighty degrees and inclining his head towards the old taleteller once more. “What’s her name again?” He found it difficult to stifle a laugh as the dwarf gave him an incredulous look. After blinking a couple of times, the brawler finally pointed to a plaque on the wall, next to him. It was a rectangular piece of stone tinted like old parchment. Legible symbols in golden curvature made Zade feel like a fool for asking.


All’s cozy at the Snow and Sun Inn.
Your hosts are Henry Mallacker and loving daughter Serria.

He nodded with an exasperated sigh before spinning around and pacing towards the maid, who was still cleaning the same part of the bar, seemingly having decided to stay as far away from him as she could without offending him as a customer. Not until he stood right in front of her did she look up, and when she did, her hazel orbs gleamed uncomfortably and with a hint of annoyance and indignation. “Can I help you, sir?” she spoke in a business-like tone, directing her attention back to her chores as though Zade was but a simple knave that she could send on his way with a snap of her fingers. But the scoundrel had experienced more break-and-make-up incidents than most men would feel comfortable confessing, and knew very well that this was just the first phase of the cat-and-mouse game that he would play to win her back.

“Listen, Serria, baby, I…” he started, his voice sounding very vulnerable. It was a tone that he’d perfected over the years, and he knew that it would serve him well, here, too. He could see it; although her eyes were off him, the position of her head and the slight stare in her eyes told him that she was listening to him, ready to hear apologies, groveling and sweet little lies – the usual tools of the trade. Not very original, but they worked.

“I thought I’d told you to stay away from my daughter, varmint?” bellowed a deep voice from behind a wine vat in coughing rhetoric. Zade looked over his shoulder at the rotund man that came stomping down the stairs. He had never seen Henry Mallacker before – the man had been sick since he’d moved in here a few weeks ago – but the man had apparently heard about him and his unfaithful involvement with his daughter. The scoundrel had spent the next few days sorting out all manner of Mallacker’s written threats, trying to memorize them – he’d had to admit that the man was good with imagery – before mindlessly throwing them into the fireplace. And now, though bleak and sweaty, the man came to crash his last chance to retain the discount on the products he purchased here. He was very wary of the warning that the dwarven brawler had given him, as well – judging from the murderous look in the innkeeper’s small, black eyes, it might be best to find a new place to stay.

Zade would have walked away just then, had he not noticed the peculiar scars on the man’s lower arm. They looked exactly like the sinister markings on his own back, only smaller. But where his own tattoo was the colour of dried blood, the innkeeper’s seemed little more than a collection of vague scars. Bewildered as he was, he had no eye at all for the end of a broomstick that quickly travelled towards his face. The impact threw him all the way out of the open door, until he staggered and fell hard upon the cobblestone outside. His hands instinctively reached up to cradle his nose in an attempt to fight back the dizzying pain. The fingers were covered in crimson fluids within seconds. Seems like a tattooist wasn’t the only specialist he’d need to visit, today.

“And don’t you show your nancy-boy face ‘round here again!” was the last threat he heard in a long line of abusive swearing before the thick door was slammed to a close. The steel chain hidden beneath his trenchcoat dug into his flesh as he lay there, and a part of him longed to go back into there and introduce the obese owner to the blunt end of his weapon, but as he sat up and had to fight back a wave of nausea, he thought better of it. Holding his bruised face with one hand, he unsteadily got to his feet, leaning against his once favourite inn’s brownstone walls. The narrow streets of the slums seemed to dance before his eyes, and the precarious constructions left and right seemed even more prone to collapse than usually.

Oh yeah. This day’s gonna be bloody terrific, sarcasm spoke in his mind as he wobbled his way to Knife’s Edge nearest tattooist. Even now, with a bloodied nose and pain surging through his face every second or so, Zade found the mystical tattoo engraved upon his skin the greatest threat.