Via Dolorosa

The scent of the spilled whiskey mixed with stale parchment paper and incented Wynken’s memory. He recalled, those many years ago, when he had first joined a gang of thieves in the city of his birth. The situation was different, of course, but not without similarities. He had sought them out rather than the opposite; observing their operation and even completing tasks before members had the opportunity. Even then he was accepted only as an initiate, forced to run messages and other odd jobs while earning the trust of his peers. Still, the boy who had been homeless since thirteen had finally a place to call his own, but this time things would be different.

“Why pay for incompetence?”

Wynken’s voice was calm yet bold as he strode from the doorway and into the light of the oil lamp which burned on Caspar’s desk. The rotund merchant handled the intrusion well, slowly looking up from the unfurled papers which layered every inch of the tabletop as he slid his glasses to the end of his nose. He peered over their rims and squinted against the brilliance of the lantern. Though Wynken’s rugged features somewhat obscured his boyish age, Althalos was still surprised at the man’s relative youth. He had considered that a voice with such a rough timbre would belong to one twice as old. Unimpressed, and seemingly undaunted, Caspar’s hand stretched lazily toward the breast of his jacket.

“Don’t.”

Wynken followed the command with a flick of his wrist, which sent an object flying in the direction of the old man. Caspar flinched then, throwing his hands up before his face, but the article merely bounced and rolled into his round chest. Gathering his wits, he recognized the parchment immediately as Reed’s missing shipment.

Piecing together the events of the past days, Caspar narrowed his eyes upon his trespasser. “So you’ve killed Reed, a worthless snake of a man – and quite replaceable. And now you’ve delivered his only possession of value to me.” Althalos leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow, the loose skin of his face crinkling into thick folds like those of a good blanket. Half expecting what was to follow, the man concluded in saying, “what else could you possibly have to offer?”.

Wynken took the bait, realizing the man was merely playing games. But he knew he held the trick card. “What I know of your operation here is enough to leverage demands.” He paused to let the confidence in his words do their work, and to give Caspar a chance to react.

“So it’s blackmail, is it?” Althalos’ face grew blush with anger at the thought of parting with more of his compensation. The terms of the deal were already arranged unfavorably. What’s more, he hated to stake so much on a bribe. Murderous strangers were among the least trustworthy fellows.

“Would you take me seriously otherwise?” Wynken halted again, this time allowing logic to fill the silence. “However”, he said teasingly, “I do have a bit of information that you and your men don’t. That, and the assurance that none of this will find its way to the proper authorities, may be worth your consideration.”

Caspar was through playing, confident that wouldn’t gain him any sort of advantage. Instead, he grew increasingly frightened and impatient with each passing moment. Althalos looked the man over, observing his poise and confidence, and he wondered if his men would be up to the task of retrieving his bribe money. “What is it that you want!”, the man barked like a cornered dog.

Wynken smirked, amused at the merchant’s displeasure. “I want in”, he stated plainly. “Sixty percent of this job’s draw and fifty percent hereafter.”

“Forty percent”, Althalos sputtered, spraying his desk with rage induced spittle. The lamp hissed in protest. “I’ll hardly be able to pay my mercenaries”.

“Forget those clowns”, Wynken said with matched enthusiasm. He came forward then to stand fully in the light, and Althalos could see it reflect in the man’s cold eyes. “I’m talking about a partnership. A mutual business agreement.” He calmed again, lowering his voice into a serious tone. “Surely one doesn’t aspire to your position by tossing good money after bad.” Caspar’s eyes narrowed once more as he searched the words for sarcasm, but Wynken merely continued. “We’ll use your louts to unload the boat, and, when they come to collect, you let me handle their payment.”

Caspar eased back once more, surprised but slightly relieved by the turn of events. He did tire of the unprofessional incompetence of his hired goons, and the indirect cost of their ineptitude often cost him more than they were worth.

Sensing the deal to be nearly closed, Wynken played his hand, producing his second copy of the shipping record. "I acquired these from two different couriers - before Reed ever received his delivery", he said as he tossed it to Caspar. "I assume that your contact in Alerar has decided to double up on his payment and is setting you up for a double cross."

Althalos looked at the man with a deeper sense of trust then, and Wynken mustered what little charm remained in his cynical tongue. “I’ll make you wealthy beyond the abilities of your hired fools. Come”, he offered placing a hand on Caspar’s shoulder. “Let us tend to our shipment”.

The two moved through the shadows under Wynken’s lead – circling close to the warehouse but observing it from various angles. Confident that he had chosen a good location, Wynken settled into a nearby alleyway just in time to watch the ship approach the building’s loading dock. “Stay here”, he commanded before disappearing into the darkness. Caspar was happy to oblige for the moment.

Mooring lines lanced out from port side of the rivership Ryerunner, shadowy tendrils which struck for the shore like black water serpents. Brom and Rohan stood ready on the docks and caught the ropes with surprising dexterity for such heavily muscled beings. They snared several lines each in rapid succession, looping them over mooring posts as they scrambled about with the sure-footedness ingrained in sailors across Althanas. As they worked and panted they bawled to one another in foghorn tones, words shattering the unnatural quiet of the hours between night and dawn.

"Watch out on yer' left mate, rope comin' in low!" Rohan called as he lashed line to post with expert efficiency. The red-haired man stopped to take a deep breath before chasing down the next wayward throw.

"I saw it the whole way, lazy-lungs. How come I'm catchin' an' tyin' with both hands while yer' restin' like a mother duck?" Brom's retort came between carefully measured breaths. His crewmate's weakness for pipe tobacco was well known, and often slowed him down when it came to moving quickly. Although he had the same boulders-and-ropes build as most of his mates, Brom considered himself wilier and boasted excellent endurance as a result of clean living. Securing the final line with an extra flourish, the dark bearded man spread his arms wide and continued his taunting. "I tell ye' flame-head, pretty soon we'll be usin' ye' as the anchor if ye don't shape up!" Rohan's breathless response was cut off by a booming baritone from the ship's stern.

"Will you two idiots shut yer' gobs an' haul us in already? This ain't my only delivery tonight so far as you know!" The captain of the Ryerunner was a short man with streaks of grey in his beard and short hair, but he ran a tight ship; several of his crew were already hauling on their end of the mooring lines, drawing the vessel steadily in to the dock.

The Captain leaned on a well-sanded rail and knuckled his temples. He knew Caspar Althalos from another lifetime, when they'd both been young and carefree, freshly married to beautiful brides. He couldn't much bear to think about those old days, but the bond between the men evolved into a complex business relationship. He ferried goods, mostly Coronian Rye as the ship's name suggested, from the docks of Radasanth to major sea ports with pricier markets. Occasionally he brought back orders of exotic goods, like the time he'd found a two-for-one deal on Fallien glasswork. But sometimes those foreign shipments came in sealed crates that weighed enough to make the Ryerunner sit a shinspan deeper in the river. The extra coin which always followed such deliveries bought the Captain, who called himself Robert Ocean, the few costly comforts he desired in his old age.

*

The rusted pulley rattled like a distant landslide as Snitch hauled hand-over-hand on the iron chain, raising the warehouse's loading gates. Moonlight seeped across its dusty stone floors like spilled milk, illuminating several crates marked FRAGILE. Snitch turned around and picked one of them up, hearing the familiar sloop of bottled whisky packed delicately in straw. The box turned his nose, smelling mustier than the building's interior itself, and he staggered out onto the road, hurrying for the docks so as to rid himself of the putrid cargo.

"Hurry up Stitch! The sooner we get rid of this grog the sooner we can finish up and go home for a nice while!" Snitch's feet beat a tattoo to match the clanking of glass inside the crate. He kicked up a cloud of dust as he crossed the beaten road, fantasies of a nice vacation down to the southern fields of Yarborough already forming in his mind.

Stitch looked up distractedly. He had been standing in the corner, toeing one of the wooden boxes and jangling the coins the drow had given him in his pocket.

"What? Right, I'm on yer' tail!" Hefting two of the boxes against his barrel chest, the heavyset man trudged off in his partner's wake. Ahead he could see Brom and Rohan, already unloading dark unmarked crates with help from the ship's crew. Taking his time, Stitch studied their movements closely, estimating which of the crates were heaviest. Like Snitch he sought speedy completion and compensation for their twisted task, but he romanticised the notion much less than his thin friend. It was a dangerous job, and when salaries increased suddenly, the work could only get more dangerous.

*

Caspar Althalos smirked as the strange killer who reeked of nicotine melted into the shadows. He waited for a full ten seconds, listening and watching the single-masted ship nestle against the docks. It was a beautiful craft, agile enough to navigate even the trickiest rapids of the Niema yet stout enough to make coastal trips through the sea. The sails were furled, like a bird clipped of its short feathers. There were times when Althalos envied Ocean for the freedom the Ryerunner granted him. But at the end of the day a heavy purse meant more to him than all the fresh air and sunshine the open water could offer.

Never one to be double-crossed when he could do the double crossing, Althalos crept in the direction opposite where he had last seen Wynken. The haunting fellow’s demeanour and deeds spooked Caspar far too fiercely for him to consider open confrontation, but taking one last look - alone around the perimeter seemed wise. There was something about the chill of the night air which had quieted the wind and creatures. But the boats still bumped rhythmically on the docks and banks as the river shifted restlessly, and he could hear the boisterous catcalls of sailors being reunited with old crewmates and friends. So it was not the silence bothered him. We wanted to go and thank his Ocean personally for the delivery, but something held him back. A vague sensation which had the hair on his neck reaching for the dark, impassive sky.

It was the feeling of being watched, shrewdly observed, as he circled to the back of the warehouse.

The captain barked orders along the line of men, which stretched from the ship’s hold to the base of the docks. There, Brom and Rohan toiled to keep pace as they hauled crates closer to the warehouse.

“Just get em off the ship, lads”, Ocean yelled in to the belly of the ship before lifting his head to the crew who had gone ashore. “They’ll sort em after we’ve sailed”. At his command, the boxes began to stack as the efficient crew members unloaded at a greater pace than the crates could be carried away.

There was a controlled sense of urgency in his voice. He had had a terrible feeling about all of his port calls that day, though none held the promise of danger like that of his contract with the Alerarians. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning…sailor take warning.” Earlier in the day, the captain had recited the old adage to the few crew members who were gathered upon the ship’s bow as he looked out at the coming dawn. That morning’s sunrise had been particularly crimson.

*

Wynken had little reason to trust his new business partner. He’d gain nothing in going to the authorities, and the time for that had come and gone. It was a hollow threat and Caspar would have known as much. He had no leverage, save for the talents he could offer, and that alone would not suffice. Still, he had planted a seed and bought himself enough time to make the venture profitable. ‘At best I’ll secure a partnership with that fat merchant’, Wynken surmised as he moved along the river side of the warehouse. ‘And at the worst I’ll take enough of his loot that it won’t matter’.

The building was large and weathered. Not the rapid and expected deterioration that occurs on the coast where the salty air plays hell with building materials of all kinds. Rather, this warehouse showed signs of prolonged neglect. The broken fragments of past shipments rest against the building’s side. Wooden boxes and pallets, rusted pulleys and various other indistinguishable tools all lay scattered across the landscape. Wynken could hear the chatter of the sailors and he watched them up ahead, no more than silhouettes, as they moved before a backdrop of open sky.

Comfortable with the distance and that everyone was sufficiently distracted, Wynken turned from the alley which ran between the warehouse and the riverbank. With great care, he stepped up onto one of the abandoned crates to press his face against a smudgy first story window. A thick filmy buildup had gathered there, and it blurred his view of the building’s contents. However, he could see through to the open bay door, and he watched as Stitch and Snitch labored to haul crates in and to the center of the warehouse. A devilish grin split Wynken’s lips as he examined the environment between him and his victims, but a shuffle at his back bid him to suspend his scheming.

“Keep quiet men. They shouldn’t be expecting us.”

The words were no more than a whisper but were accompanied by the muffled footfalls of a lightly armored troop. Wynken was motionless and pressed himself against the building’s side in an attempt to stay small. He could feel the rotted crate bowing beneath his feet. The slightest shift could splinter the boards and send him spilling to the ground. He dug his fingernails into the wooden frame of the window and gently applied pressure to lift a portion of his weight from the weakened box.

Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief as the last of the mysterious soldiers moved briskly past his position. Peering down the alley toward the ship, he could see that they were indeed soldiers, though perhaps not members of the town guard. Nimbly leaping from the crate, Wynken hit the ground and pushed his way through the building’s side door in a fluid motion – just in time to hear the introductions of the armored men.

“Hold it. We’ll take it from here.” It was the same gruff voice though no longer in a whisper. The murmurs of confused sailors faded slightly as Wynken silently closed the door.

Upon hearing the commotion, Brom and Rohan had sprinted out to the docks while the other two took their most recent haul of cargo and slipped out another set of doors and into the woods beyond. The building was empty, save for a number of crates which formed a small pile in the large room’s center. Hurriedly, Wynken crossed the room and moved amongst the boxes, and he positioned himself behind a taller stack. They were free from the layers of dust which coated the floor and its scarce interior, and some emanated the pungent yet semi-sweet odor of gunpowder. The commotion outside continued, and could be heard clearly through the open loading doors. He peeked that way to ensure no one was coming before brandishing his slender long sword.

“What d’ya suppose is going on?” Wynken recognized the voice as belonging to Stitch. It was guttural and came out slowly as if the mere act of talking required the man to expend a great deal of mental effort.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good”, came the obvious reply from his friend. “You heard what that drow said. Let’s get the rest of these crates to the thicket.”

Wynken listened as their steps grew closer. He tightened his grasp upon the tree shaped grip of the Mirror Root, whitening his hand upon the sword in lustful anticipation. The shouting upon the docks escalated, becoming less patient and more hate filled. The footsteps paused as the sound of metal on metal rang out in the night and poured in to the warehouse through its loading doors. “Just take what you can and let’s go”, Snitch plead to his burly cohort. His voice was very close.

As the box in front of him began to lift, Wynken quickly sidestepped and stabbed out with a high thrust. He felt the weight of resistance and the sentient blade filled his arm with feelings of warmth as it pierced flesh. Back down the crate slammed, and Wynken came fully around to see the tip of his sword berried in Snitch’s throat. A stifled gurgle issued forth from the man’s torn esophagus before he fell to the ground in a heap. “One down”, Wynken taunted Stitch as he loomed over his fallen comrade.

Dark purple lips peeled back from teeth dyed blacker than coal. The face of Kron Sha'keth stretched within his hood, a rare mirthless smile growing beneath the tribal tattoos which decorated his head and neck. The depths of the hood kept any eyes from seeing the history etched on his features, but Kron never forgot his upbringing in the dark forests of Alerar. It was there he learned to become one with the darkness, with the silence. It was there he first spilled blood.

The assassin had claimed the rooftop of the warehouse more than an hour before the Ryerunner appeared. He watched with satisfaction mutating into tempered glee as the sluggish brutes labored across the docks and dusty road, carrying his precious supplies. He recognized some of the crates by size - the long narrow ones, and the squat square ones which required two men to move them. All were unmarked, but made from the dark hardwood native to his homeland. The mingled smells which floated up to him on still night air evoked a plethora of memories - gunpowder and oil mixed with the forest in spring. As the lesser beings toiled to the gleam of his coin, a noise in the thicket behind the warehouse caught Kron's attention. The assassin prowled across the rooftop, silent as a spectre.

The moon barely added an ambiance of silvery light through thick grey clouds, but it was enough for the eyes of Kron Sha'keth to see what had drawn his attention - a disturbance in the night's peace in the edge of the thicket, some thousand yards away. Kron waited and watched, confident in his position, unaware that a force of Coronian soldiers were creeping up on the Ryerunner.

*

Try as they might, the brambles and thorns could not find purchase in the heavy canvas cloak Phyr wore. Inch by agonizing inch the ancient drow dragged himself through the middle of the thicket, completely concealed. His hips and knees ached from worming across the rocky earth, and several scratches stung his azure face where he had not managed to evade the thorns. The discomforts bought him something no amount of gold could; a position of anonymity from which to observe the night's events.

Reading the manifest in Althalos' office had confirmed his suspicions; it was a shipment of Aleraran weapons and technology. Although several possibilities existed Phyr felt certain the shipment was intended to aid in the establishment of a dark elven base of operations in Corone. As an officer of covert operations in the Aleraran army, Phyr had wrestled with the idea of doing such a thing before shelving it.

The main problem had been slipping such a large, obvious quantity of supplies safely into the heart of Corone, and Phyr knew the task could only have gotten harder since the evolution of the Corone Empire. He felt certain that some form of Radasanthian law enforcement would make an appearance, and planned his contingencies accordingly.

Now I only need to wait for... what is that fat idiot doing back here?

Caspar Althalos crept comically along the brush line, his exaggeratedly slow steps crackling dead leaves and twigs alike underfoot. He was breathing hard enough that his bulk heaved with each step, and clouds of steam escaped his mouth alongside belated gasps. Phyr rolled closer to the edge of the thicket for a clearer look. Althalos passed within two yards of where the drow lay. The human still wore the same heavy cloak as earlier, right hand concealed beneath it.

If he remains back here, he could ruin everything! Phyr knew the time for patience and the time for action. He wriggled like a worm in a downpour, managing to squirm his way out of the thicket and to his feet just as Althalos turned. The human’s eyes looked as round and pale as the moon herself, but lacked the wisdom of the monarch of the night.

“You,” Caspar Althalos spat the word like a filthy curse, “You thought you could...”

Phyr wasted no time on senseless words. He saw the wave of motion as Althalos moved his concealed hand beneath the cloak. Phyr reached down to his side and drew his bayonet. The heavy iron dagger spun from his hand like a metal whirlwind, but the throw was imperfect. The hilt of the knife struck Althalos high on the collarbone, evoking a high pitched sound of alarm. The human threw back his cloak, revealing that his right hand held - not a firearm, and Phyr thanked the gods in the stars.

The mechanism in the fat human’s hand clicked, and a wave of acrid smelling liquid and powder sprayed from the front, arcing towards Phyr like a malicious tidal wave. The drow dodged away from the thicket, swirling his canvas cloak before him to absorb the majority of the chemicals. The thick material protected him except for a patch of skin on his forearm, which burned as if pressed against a smithy’s forge. Hissing like a scalded snake Phyr shed the cloak, hurling it at his enemy just as the mechanism clicked again.

The second cloud of pepper-spray did not even approach the drow, for the cloak engulfed its stream of chemical heat. Enough of the noxious fumes caught Althalo’s nose that he sneezed and turned his head aside to spit. Phyr closed the distance with short silent strides, sliding his hardwood stick from its holster on his back. The polished head of the cane lashed out once, twice, striking Althalos viciously in the throat. The fat merchant coughed and gurgled, choking on his own saliva as the drow drove him into the thicket of thorns and brambles. The human collapsed there, vanishing beneath the vegetation as the last rattling breath he would ever draw filled his lungs.

Phyr hurried, searching the ground for his fallen bayonet. As his long azure fingers closed around the rusted hilt, a voice like silk sliding over coarse stone hailed him from the darkness.

“An honourable kill, old one. Such a deed must be rewarded in kind.”

It was the voice of Kron Sha’keth. As he spoke the assassin materialised from the shadows, a wraith with a black sword and cloak to match. A killer born and bred.

Stillness settled over the warehouse. There was a lull in the skirmish outside, and all was silent save for the unnaturally hushed and sporadic wheezes which labored to escape from the throat of Snitch. His burly comrade stood momentarily stunned. Even in the dim moonlight, he had witnessed the awkward bulge in the back of his friend’s neck. He had watched the man’s muscles grow taught in anguished spasms, and listened as his cries came out as no more than a stifled whimper. Now, he looked helplessly on as his partner emptied of precious blood and oxygen, his eyes growing dim and vacant in the pale light which cascaded through the open bay doors.

Wynken looked coldly beyond his victim and examined his next opponent. He was glad to have felled Snitch in the initial ambush, as he considered that the larger man would be more easily enraged and sluggish by comparison. What’s more, he wielded only a single dagger. Even in the long and powerful arms of Stitch, the weapon would be at a great disadvantage to the reach of Wynken’s own blade. Still, the man’s size was imposing, and Wynken was rarely prone to overconfidence. He shifted the Mirror Root from his right hand to his left, drew his parrying dagger, and patiently awaited his adversary.

As the last of the remaining light faded from Snitch’s eyes, Stitch remained calm. If he were in a state of rage – if he experienced any anger at all – he did well to hide it.

“Sorry to cut your work short”, Wynken taunted with a sarcastic sneer. He found it much simpler to battle opponents who were blindingly mad, but, in response, Stitch merely slid his dagger slowly from its scabbard and stalked cautiously forward.

The weapon was comical in the man’s bearlike hands. Its grip was entirely engulfed, and the blade appeared more like a knife than a short sword in relation to the bulky mass of its wielder. Wynken had considered that the dull brute would attack him wildly upon the death of his friend, but his poise and professionalism had the assassin reevaluating the thug as well as his dagger. In more of a defensive feint than a serious attack, he thrust the Mirror Root lazily toward the man’s midsection.

Two clangs rang out and resonated loudly throughout the warehouse as Stitch predictably yet quickly parried. Too quickly, and with more strength than anticipated, as the vicious blow forced the tip of Wynken’s sword to hit the ground. The stone flooring chipped, sending a few small flecks of rock into the air. Being jerked slightly forward, and unable to retract the blade fast or powerfully enough to form a more proper maneuver, Wynken was now over-committed to the feint.

Stitch saw the opportunity and came forward with a backhanded swing of his own. Boxes to the left, the swing coming from the right, overbalanced forward, and with neither weapon in a position to parry, Wynken tucked himself into a headlong roll with no time to spare. As he ducked and spun just right of the oncoming man, Stitch’s blade caught his cloak and tore it from middle to end.

Wynken set his feet and the two turned to face off once again. He had rolled himself near to another, ‘L’ shaped set of crates and now stood with his back to them. He made a move to get out of the corner they formed, but Stitch quickly adjusted his angle to cut him off.

“Almost had ya”, Stitch chided in his slow and dopey tone. The playful nature of the words was lost to the fire in his eyes, and to the muscles in his exposed neck which were taught like the prongs of a wire rake. For a moment the building was silent again, though yelling and frantic footsteps could be heard once more along the docks beyond its doors.

Stitch took the offensive then, and the two rhythmically traded blows as they worked their weapons seeking for an opening in the other’s defense. Wynken scored one, perhaps two, glancing hits, but had time to neither keep count nor to celebrate. He instead focused his concentration on maintaining a steady offensive volley. Trapped as he was, the last thing he could afford to do was surrender ground.

Several minutes showed that Wynken had indeed been mistaken. The long, powerful arms of Stitch more than compensated for the range of his dagger, and Wynken doubted he could contend with the man’s endurance. Already his arms grew heavy from the relentless assault. Through it all Stitch had hardly moved his feet, willingly accepting a few minor scratches rather than forgo the advantage of having his foe so enclosed.

“How long can ya keep that up”, Stitch asked rhetorically through a devious smile. His breathing was unlabored by even the double work performed by his single blade to Wynken’s two. “I can’t be dancin all night with you.”

With that, Stitch punched out with his free hand, the blow connecting solidly with Wynken’s chest. He backpedaled a step and a half under its force and could feel a wooden box against his heel. He thought to push off, to close the distance once again, but a loud and powerful voice cried out inside his head and bid him to pause. Wynken’s left arm tingled from the base of his neck to the fingertips which clasped the sentient Mirror Root. He kept his focus but before he had the opportunity to fully consider what had happened, Wynken watched as the dagger which Stitch held pointed at his torso rapidly expanded to the size of a four foot long hand and a half sword.

Frantically, Wynken brought his own dagger across. He connected and pushed the oncoming blade aside, but the magical growth was too swift. Its tip pierced his leather jerkin, tore through his left oblique, and continued on to become lodged in the wooden crate beyond. Through gritted teeth, Wynken growled in pain as the cold metal ripped through the muscle in his slender side. He retracted his parrying dagger and stabbed it toward the heart of his burly assailant, but the weapon was awkward offensively and Stitch easily knocked it away with his free left hand.

“Still a little fight left in ya, ay?” Stitch leaned heavily upon his sword, drawing another howl from the impaled Wynken. “Well, we’ll see about that”, the man said as he closed his large hand over Wynken’s throat.

Again all was silent. Close to unconsciousness, Wynken slipped in and out of focus and, though not a sound could be heard, his ears rang as they perceived the emptiness. His eyes lulled. They opened and shut; they moved and were still as they came to rest on everything and nothing in observance of the spaces between objects. He heard an inconceivably loud retort. His chest shook in response, and a crash sounded in the warehouse behind. Then he was free. Wynken gasped for air as his wits returned and played back the events in their clarity. There had been an explosion. It was a gunpowder blast. It was a canon.

Having lost his concentration, Stitch’s dagger instantly resumed its normal size. He had relented his assault, and even backed a pace or two in confusion, as his mind raced to unravel what had just transpired. It did so too slowly, and Wynken, still in half a daze himself, quickly took advantage of the man’s stupor. Ignoring the pain in his side, Wynken operated from instinct more than intent. With a flurry of stabs and swipes, he had the man reeling and off balance. He swung predictably, timed the rhythm of the man’s deflections, and then deftly changed the tempo. His sword slipped beyond Stitch’s parry and bit hard into the man’s barrel shaped chest.

Wynken's side bled and pained him greatly. He had no desire to toy with his foe and so he ended it quickly, glad to be through with the hard fought battle. With a sigh of relief, he removed his torn cloak and tightly packed bits of its cloth against his wound. Wiping the blood from his sword, he collected the three daggers from the bodies of both Stitch and Snitch and then ran to the bay door which looked out onto the dock.

Robert Ocean, Captain of the Ryerunner, always enjoyed a well-packed pipe of Raiaeran tobacco upon the completion of a large delivery. He nearly bit the pipe's wooden stem in two when a score of Coronian soldiers materialised around the outbuildings and stacks of wooden skids.

Before the smuggler could find his voice, twenty-five of his crewmen crowded to the docks wielding belaying pins and bits of timber, or wrapping tough woven cord around and around their knuckles. They called the soldiers out raucously, working themselves into a mild frenzy as the soldiers reacted, shouting their own threats and insults. Their leader tried to maintain order, but his commands for silence and order were lost in the sailors' catcalls.

The last three of Ocean's crewmen rushed about the deck, securing lines and preparing the vessel for a speedy departure.

Grabbing the rigging for balance, the Captain of the Ryerunner jumped up on her prow rail and inflated his barrel chest. Short he might have been, but never lacking for power.

"Back aboard the ship me lovelies! Crack those lawmen on the crown if'n they give ye any trouble, but don't go spillin' their blood now... we wouldn't want the might of the Empire sharkin' our wake!" Ocean wished the wind would pick up. The dead air would be less than ideal for his escape, and it seemed unnatural, like the sudden calm before a gale.

The sailors stayed bunched tightly as they made their way up the gangplank, covering the retreat of their crewmates. Under their red-faced leader's bellowed commands the soldiers charged intermittently, thrusting with the hafts of spears and smashing at the smugglers with heavy bucklers. The sailors were experienced brawlers though, and fought as a better unit than the military men, many of whom did not seem pleased with their order to avoid lethal force.

Most of his men had made it onto the ship. Ocean sucked nervously at the end of his pipe although the ember had gone out minutes earlier. This was the moment of truth; the soldiers would make a final rush in force, attempting to arrest the last few of his men while they were alone and vulnerable on the wharf. Ocean had seen it before, but he did not intend to see it again... certainly not this time, with everything at stake. He clenched the pipe between his molars and eased himself to the deck, finding his first mate and giving orders in lowered tones.

"Run out the starboard shortgun... I've a feeling we may need a bartering chip in a moment." The mate nodded wisely and dashed belowdecks uttering an aye aye as Ocean chewed his pipe and turned to watch the shore once more.

*

The dark eyes of Kron Sha'keth bored into Phyr's skull. The one-armed drow remained kneeling with his hand on the hilt of his bayonet. He felt frozen there, unable to do anything but observe as the wraithlike assassin stalked toward him, each step silent on the dead grass beneath his blackened leather boots. His cloak swirled with the speed of his movement but made no noise, for the younger drow wore the night like a second cloak, barely distinguishable from the first. The long glassy blade of his black diamond ninjato settled against his right shoulder, almost vertical, as Kron stopped with both hands gripping the hilt, two yards away from Phyr. To the untrained eye the assassin appeared relaxed, but Phyr knew that stance, that grip. With a forward half-step and downward scything chop, Sha'keth could remove his head.

What is that form called? Ah yes... cutting the cornstalk.

The way the assassin held his sword, like it was a part of him rather than a tool, frightened Phyr more than if the blade had been pressed against his throat. He was looking at a master of the blade. As a fresh cold sweat broke out on his neck the old drow struggled to stymie his panic and find a way to escape. The sounds of a skirmish on the docks reached his shrivelled ears a Sha'keth grew impatient and spoke again.

"I would ask who you are, ancient one, but I am far from uninformed. There were reports, months ago, of a prison break in Salvar led by a one-armed drow named Sa'resh." Phyr sucked in a long breath at the mention of his name, but somehow the assassin's arrogance catalysed his memory. His brain whirred like the well-oiled machine it was and put together a few forgotten pieces of information as the assassin went on in his low, ashen voice. "But I could use you, so I will let you live if you tell me, right now, what you took from my shipment and where you have hidden it." The black drow's right wrist shifted a fraction of an inch, and Phyr flinched unconsciously. But he had his answer.

"Years ago, youngling, when you were still swinging from the trees with your brother, I consulted on the matter of a covert incursion into Corone. Before the idea was shelved, I recommended two boys be trained for the mission... brothers named Sha'keth." Phyr brought his bayonet up to neck height, as if it could offer some protection against the other's sword. Kron had barely shifted at the mention of his family name, but once again the tension in his frame and realignment of tendons had Phyr partially anticipating a swift death as he continued. "And now you're about to fail. That fighting is bound to attract attention... and if even one of those sailors is apprehended by the authorities, you'll have blown the whole mission worse than a stove-piped canon!" Sha'keth wavered, and Phyr willed himself to appear casual and unafraid.

"You are wise, ancient one. But if you are not still here when I return, I will hunt you to the end of land and sea." With that Kron seemed to vanish in a swirl of darkness.

*

Kron Sha'keth sped across the road, sword clasped easily at his side as he ran with short, silent steps. He flowed over a stack of trakym pallets and glimpsed of the action on the docks; a group of soldiers attempting to absorb a smaller group of sailors, who repulsed them furiously as they retreated to their ship. Kron cared not what happened to those already aboard the ship - they would keep quiet out of self preservation - but the mass of men brawling on the docks presented him with a problem to solve.

In the space of a second the rowdy shouts from the soldiers turned to screams of shock and pain. Sha'keth spun throughout them like a dark whirlwind, his sword a harbinger of death and agony. Wherever its tempered blade swept, limbs and head left torsos in waves of blood. The soldiers turned upon him, cries of rage ripped from their throats as they finally attacked with the points of their spears, turning their aggression on a true enemy. But they found only frustration and agony, apprehension and death, for stabbing Kron Sha'keth was like trying to skewer an oak leaf caught in a cyclone. Tendrils of shadow magic shot from the tip of his sword as the soldiers surrounded him, entangling several and knocking them into the water, weighing them to awful deaths on the river bed. Kron used the space he created to outflank his victims with a sudden burst of immaculate footwork, ploughing through a section of the soldiers like a farmer threshing wheat. Only rather than grain, blood and guts showered the ground and docks around him.

And then only three soldiers remained, trapped on the end of the dock, the assassin between them and the mainland. His sword ceased its eye-blurring patterns so abruptly that a spatter of blood flew off the blade and painted the fearful faces of those last three a garish crimson. Sha'keth sheathed the blade in the scabbard on his back as casually as pocketing a coin, but kept his fingers on the hilt. Before the soldiers could think to attack him more dark matter, thin tendons rather than thick cables, crept from behind him and flew toward the soldiers like black chain lightning. Rather than striking the tendons invaded the brains of the men through their ear canals, and Sha'keth's voice sounded in their minds as thunderous as any God's, heavy with compulsion.

You have seen the might of the Aleraran Elves and you wish to serve me now, out of honour and fear. You are mine to the very bones and fibres of your being. Now bow before me.

As the tendrils withdrew into the scabbard two of the soldiers clapped fists over their hearts and inclined their backs to forty-five degrees, and odd but suitable bow for fighting men. The third, it seemed, had a stronger will. With a wordless howl the soldier stripped off his breastplate and boots and launched himself into the Niema, swimming frantically for the distant but reachable shore.

"Kill him." Kron commanded flatly. Like a pair of children told to do their chores, the former soldiers of the Empire turned as one, cocked back their arms and threw their spears after the man who had been their comrade moments earlier. They slammed into the swimming man's back one after another, and his blood joined the runoff from Kron's massacre on the docks, dying a portion of the Niema a pale, ghostly red.

"Fire!"

The voice of the ship's captain carried well across the water. Kron saw the flare of a torch as it touched a four pound canon's fuse. The canon shot rent the night air, but Kron was ready for it. A mass of shadow energy exploded from his ninjato, absorbing the shot and sending it straight back like a rubber all bouncing off a wall. Kron smirked as the last of the shadow energy receded into his scabbard. He was tired now, drained, but his last effort would shake the audacious sailors to the very cores of their souls.

From the open bay door, Wynken watched in awe as the mysterious dark elf unleashed a torrent of spinning death upon the ranks of the city guardsmen. The initially casual conflict erupted suddenly and unexpectedly as the tide of the battle turned. The hoots and hollers of taunting sailors and chiding soldiers faded, giving way to screams of fear and confusion which echoed over the docks. The seamen broke away almost immediately as they turned from battle and fled to their ship. Being a superstitious and ever-cautious lot, they had no intentions of questioning their good fortune, and even less interested in waiting to confirm the shadowy figure to be friend or foe. Few anguished cries could be heard from the land below as the sailors weighed anchor at Ocean’s command and maneuvered the ship into the Niema. Each of the master’s blows was swift and precise, and each swing ended life and silenced another of his enemies.

The scene lasted only moments, and Wynken continued to observe the curious new character as he showcased the dreadful abilities of his enchanted weapon. He noted the tendril’s effectiveness as both a physical and mental weapon, the way it effortlessly controlled the strong guardsmen. Wynken wondered if he would be so easily manipulated as he considered his own sword. The sentient blade hummed softly in his hand, and Wynken tightened his grip. It had become a part of him, and he couldn’t fathom wielding another.

The dark elf was turned away from him then, facing out into the river as Wynken looked across the docking. He weighed his options - flee or remain, hide or be known – and felt compelled to stay despite the obvious danger. More pieces came together to amend some misconceptions Wynken held. ‘Althalos is a pawn in this’, he thought as he considered the deal he had struck under the assumption that Caspar had orchestrated the illegal shipment. ‘Why work for that fat merchant, collecting debts and playing hide-and-seek with the dock warden…’ Subtle movement, a mere shifting of darkness under the light of the moon, arrested Wynken from his thoughts. One of the soldiers was stirring upon the dock, and Wynken could see, across the short distance, that he had produced a small hand crossbow. The man took aim, pointing it in the direction of Kron.

He hadn’t much time, so Wynken rapidly developed a plan and committed himself to it. The gash in his side throbbed as the steel of his throwing blade glinted in the darkness and spun from the warehouse doorway. Still his aim was true. There was a sickening crack, and the soldier’s head lurched as the dagger embedded itself just above his right ear. The crossbow’s trigger released with a muffled click as the man’s muscles tensed, but the bolt sailed wide of its mark and plunked harmlessly into the river beyond.

Kron turned in time to see his assailant in the throes of death, and Wynken hesitated a moment to allow the drow’s mind to settle before stepping from concealment. The eyes of the wary elf shown with a hue of red as they scrutinized Wynken’s casual posture. He knew that the act of killing the soldier may not be enough to win over the skilled and merciless killer. It didn’t have to be, and Wynken played the same bargaining chip he had to Althalos.

“You must have left some enemies in Alerar.” He spoke low and with a manufactured calm as he swiftly continued. “There were two copies of your shipping record. One went to your puppet Althalos, and the other…” With a nodding gesture, Wynken allowed the words to hang in the air where they mingled with the scent of the freshly concluded battle. This time, Wynken didn’t expect to leverage the information as blackmail, but rather to display it as a testament to his cunning and worth.

Without a word, Kron quickly closed the distance between them, and Wynken willed himself to remain in an unthreatened and unthreatening pose. The man was close, within striking distance, and the silence built a palpable tension which weighed on Wynken’s throat as heavily as a booted foot. Still he didn’t move, he didn’t speak, he only waited.

Phyr struggled to still his body against the chill which clutched the core of his being. A weak wind sprung up, feeling like a sluice of ice water on his sweat-slicked body. Shivering, the one armed drow focused on the fiery pain on his forearm, where the chemicals from Althalos' device still burned. Slowly, the stinging brought his adrenaline back, and Phyr fought his way out of Kron's compulsion, staggering and barely catching himself short of the thorns. The thicket reminded him of the black crates concealed within its fringe, not far north of his position, but the operation had collapsed.

I must flee.

The thought soured Phyr's stomach worse than bad manners. He had planned so carefully, subjected himself to such unpleasantness preparing for the theft... a sliver of pride, left over despite years of imprisonment, would not let him run away without something.

Even in retreating, a clever commander uses the loss of a battle to turn the tide of war.

Dropping to his knees, Phyr inched his way past the fringe of the thicket and grabbed Althalos' leg, hugging it to his chest with arm and stump. Writhing like a snake, he slid backwards, using the large muscles in his core to drag the merchant's corpse onto clear ground. Without the protection of his cloak the thorns feasted on his flesh and tore his already ragged clothing. They showed no mercy to Althalos' unprotected face. By the time the merchant's head lay on brown grass, his cheeks and forehead were a mess of oozing gashes.

"My apologies, you swine," Phyr muttered as he set about searching the body. The human's voluminous pockets yielded a small but weighty sack of gold and a sheaf of parchment bound by an iron clasp. Phyr stuffed both beneath his rags before rolling the merchant and stripping off his cloak, donning it. The garment was designed for a much shorter but fatter being, and did an excellent job of protecting him as he plunged into the thicket anew, nettles raking his new cloak like bear claws on a tent shell. "The device," he muttered, bloodied fingertips questing amidst the loam and roots..

Aha!

His single hand closed over something, and Sa'resh slithered out of the thorny jungle to examine the device in the moonlight. It smelled strongly of the sulphuric agent it sprayed, consisting of six cartridges set on a metal ring designed to be worn as a wristband. A trigger-like mechanism, most likely activated by the thumb, had punctured one of the cartridges, releasing its pressurised contents. Phyr wrinkled his nose. The acrid odour had an oily element too it, but he could not put a name to it. Making a mental note to seek an alchemist's opinion, Phyr slid the metal band onto his stump. It would have slipped off of his wrist almost immediately, but fit his wasted triceps well enough. I'll have to adjust the firing mechanism, he reasoned, climbing to his feet.

The wind tousled his blood-matted hair, but the ancient elf felt warm despite its chill. Although the Aleraran technology so close by still called to him like a siren song, he would not leave the field of battle with nothing gained. And it seemed possible some of Althalos' papers might prove useful downriver. But now is not the time to stay and fight.

Wrapping the heavy cloak closer about his sickly frame, Phyr fled into the heart of night.

As the Ryerunner completed the final maneuver to free itself of the docking and come clear from the relatively tight shore way, the sound of the captain's orders quieted, adding to the already eerie stillness that had settled upon the jetty. Wynken swallowed hard and tightened his grip upon his long sword as the drow continued to survey the situation in silence. Finally, Kron sheathed his weapon and looked from Wynken across the gruesome scene he had left in its wake. Hesitantly, Wynken did likewise, and he sighed inwardly to see the man so visibly relax.

The moon had reached its apex and already begun its descent. The mission hadn’t gone precisely according to plan, but all risks to this point had been mitigated and all challenges overcome. Only one hurdle remained between Kron and success. Time.

“You may be of some use”, the dark elf offered, abruptly turning his attention back to Wynken. “And you will tell me of this…betrayal”, he spat bitterly, “but now is not the time.” He had no doubts that Wynken would willingly and accurately recount the information. Even so, it was Phyr who spared the man from the brainwashing compulsion of those wicked black tendrils. Kron tired from their overuse, and thought to reserve some of the sword's energy in the event that the old and withered drow had remained.

With a flourish of his cloak, Kron stepped aside as two horse-drawn carts appeared, as if on cue, from the alleyway beside the warehouse. They were each driven by an Alerarian elf, and another climbed from one of the carts to make three. Wynken hadn’t heard them approach, and he wondered if they had been hidden when he traversed that same alley not an hour before. Looking closer, he noted that the horse’s hooves and wagon wheels had been coated in a black, tarry substance which muffled their sound upon the stone road and wooden docks.

The four shared a brief exchange in their native tongue, none of which Wynken understood. At one point, Kron motioned in his direction which elicited scornful glances from the three arrogant and xenophobic drow. Those expressions faded quickly though as Kron continued, and they soon were gathering the shipping crates and loading them into the carts with Wynken’s help.

A sloshing sound could be heard upon the embankment, and Wynken looked up from his work to see the two brainwashed guardsmen amble ashore. Kron, who was overseeing the operation, pointed and gave the men some orders which they promptly obeyed, disappearing around the far side of the building. Discretely, Kron followed them to similarly vanish into the darkness which loom beyond of the building’s northern edge. Wynken recalled watching Snitch and Stitch haul some crates into the thicket there, and sure enough, after several minutes, the two returned each bearing a box labeled FRAGILE as well as numerous cuts and scratches. Though their skin and clothing were torn, they immediately and undauntedly set about to aid in the remaining effort as well, and the six of them soon had the dock and warehouse emptied of shipping crates.

Kron as well sprinted around the corner and up the dock then. His visage was clouded with anger, and he barked to one of his associates. Wynken thought he understood some of the words; something about someone leaving, escaping, or getting away.

“Come”, Kron ordered, speaking again in the common tongue. “Time is short. The authorities will seek the status of their patrol." The tone of his voice held mockery and contempt, as if to regard the city officials as a worthless and unworthy annoyance.

As they rode away from the docks, Wynken wasn’t particularly comfortable where he sat nestled amongst the boxes. However, it wasn’t the wooden corner which jabbed his back, as the cart maneuvered the cobbled streets of Radasanth. Nor was it the splinter in his calf that had him unsettled. Rather, it was the glaring eyes of the dark elf with whom he shared the wagon’s bed as he looked over the spoils of his battle with Caspar's goons. Three daggers, one obviously enchanted, were tucked once more into his belt where they remain hidden from those prying eyes.

He had Kron’s blessing, for now, but Wynken understood well that he played a treacherous game. He had once made his livelihood as an assassin, and he longed to do so again. However, murderers, smugglers, and thieves never made good company, and there was a long and tiresome road ahead. A road where every step would come under open criticism, and every turn need be evaluated for snares. With a sneer, Wynken matched the drow’s stare. It was a journey that he was well prepared to make.

Out of Character:

Spoils: 2 unremarkable plynt daggers and a small, well embellished damascus dagger which, once per thread, can magically expanded to the length of a bastard sword.

Legs full of lead and forearm still afire, Phyr trotted around puddles of mud and human waste as he made his way through the back alleys of Radasanth. He had tried scrubbing at his burning arm with some damp leaves, and even dipped the irritated patch in a urine-blighted puddle, but to no avail. The pungent agent, whatever one called it, refused to relent. Phyr felt much more comfortable having such a toxic weapon in his possession, but a lasting sense of horror from his encounter with Sha'keth spurred him harshly, urging him to run faster and harder. Relentlessly, the old drow kept himself at a fixed jog, refusing to glance over his shoulder even though the pins of invisible eyes pricked him at regular intervals.

Steady your head, Sa'resh, he told himself, you just survived one of the most fearsome killers in the land, no reason to start fleeing morning birds and tomcats after all that.

As he passed through the eastern section of Radasanth, clinging to the shadows where they still pooled in rebellion against the gloaming, Phyr undertstood the city was not suitable for him. Honest work which fit his skill set was scarce, and he did not fancy the idea of working for the Empire. Based on what he'd witnessed and read, and heard from drunkards in taverns, the Imperials were worse than any three of Alerar's most scheming politicians, and in a city owned by martial law, it seemed like only a matter of time before a one-armed drow would end up in prison. Thinking of imprisonment took Phyr back to Devil's Keep, chains shackling his wrists and slop poisoning his stomach, dreary darkened cells and everywhere the sounds of torture and the stench of bile and death. Gagging that very thought, Phyr drew a deep breath of clean Coronian air and shuddered softly as he splashed through a puddle that was too large to skirt or leap. No, he would seek out a place to safely recuperate and plan, gather his strength and resources, and choose a new direction from there. Somewhere, hopefully, where Kron Sha'keth wouldn't find him.

The sun peeked over the teeth of the Comb Mountains as he reached the outskirts of Radasanth's eastern quarter, abandoning the dirty alleys for the bustle of the cobbled streets. A few whores lounged sleepily in doorways, hawkers called prices for fast-breaking meals and smoke billowed from chimneys. Phyr kept the cloak drawn tight and the hood up, disguising himself against any who Sha'keth might find and question. Finally, in a square outside of a low-income residential building, the ancient drow found what he needed.

"Ho there sir, may I ride with you?" he called in his best common accent. His knack for enunciating the awkward phrases had improved greatly during his recent immersion. The man he called to, an aged farmer who rode in the seat of a two-mule wagon, looked down at the tall sickly creature and peeled off his straw hat, messing the thin grey hair beneath. "I'll gladly pay you a gold crown for passage as far as you're going," Phyr continued, suddenly worried about the feasibility of his lie. "I'm on my way to Akashima, and-" the farmer waved his hat as if swatting flies before plunking the sun-shield back on his pate.

"No need for payment, always glad to help a friend in need." The farmer had a gravely voice that soothed Phyr's worn nerves as he climbed into the wagon's empty bed. "Just finished sellin' this season's last crop at the market, after all, an' I don't suspect we'll have need of any coin till sometime next summer!" The farmer clearly enjoyed having someone to talk to, for he sat up straighter and beamed as his cart bumped off the cobblestones onto a dirt road that lanced east toward the mountains.

"We?" Phyr asked arbitrarily, and then drifted into much deserved slumber as the farmer rambled about his six sons, two daughters, lovely wife and scores of domesticated animals.

Akashima would have been suitable, but I'd prefer somewhere with a little less moisture in the air. Perhaps I can find a path into Concordia and look for a little honest work in one of the towns there...

*

Captain Robert Ocean sat amidships on a thaynefish sized coil of rope, eyes red-webbed and wide open, staring at the Ryerunner's prow. The jagged top edge of the hole there was high enough they weren't taking on any water, high enough that he could goggle at it from where he sat. High enough that it barely bothered the ship at all. But the memory of watching the dark assassin tear through a score of soldiers then return canonfire as if it were a rock thrown by a child haunted him. Cringing, the captain tamped out his pipe for the umpteenth time. His hair and heavy clothing reeked of the fine tobacco, and his mouth and throat burned, but even so he reached into his pouch and found only two pinches left. He grimaced and packed it all into the bowl, every last scrap of his good Raiaeran stash, and lit the pipe from a small book of matches. Gnawing and puffing intermittently on the wooden stem, he went to find his first mate.

He found the lanky middle-aged helmsman with one steady hand on the rudder of, guiding the Ryerunner on a true course through the often treacherous waters of the Niema River. The mate looked badly shaken, as if he also hadn't slept since the horrific delivery. The men nodded to one another in a show of mutual respect and then lapsed into quiet contemplation. Ocean steeled himself against another shudder, drawing furiously on the pipe until his head swam. Eternal Tap sap my life, he thought, if this has shaken us so, surely the men are in worse condition. Like many sailors, the crew entertained themselves with outrageous superstitions and incessant brawling. But none of them had witnessed such an act before. Thaynes preserve me, even the Bazaar War never wrought such carnage. The grey bearded sailor thought, feeling the full weight of his age.

"Spread the word belowdecks," he said to his crewman, taking over control of the helm, "I don't want anyone speaking of what happened last night. Do ye' take my meaning? Tell them to forget about the delivery, and not spout a word of this to another soul, no matter how bloody drunk they get." The first mate gave a sombre aye-aye and trudged to the aft ladder hatch, descending out of sight. Ocean pursed his lips and tried to make a smoke ring, but the breeze blew it apart. The men would still gossip - they had little else to do on shore between brothels and bars. But they would do so a little more quietly, with a measure of care for who they spoke to. And if they didn't they could just find a different flaming ship to work on, one captained by a fool. But Robert Ocean was no fool.

Enough with the piracy of the imperial taxes. We'll take our chances in the southern waters, sail to Scara Brae if need be. Won't we milady? He laid a calloused palm on the ship's oaken mainmast, absorbing comfort from the coarsely sanded wood. Aye, we've got a few good years left before we stop tastin' the freedom of sea air.

Out of Character:

Spoils: Phyr gains a six shot pepper spray wristband with two shots already used.