Via Dolorosa

Out of Character:

This thread will follow the adventures here.

Darkness fell suddenly upon the docks of Radasanth, a common occurrence so late in the season. That particular evening had been a new moon, and an impenetrable fog had enveloped the streets as the cool night air descended the Jagged Mountains and mingled with the warmth of the Niema River. The thick covering of cloud confused the distance of the lanterns which lined the harbor such that they appeared to exist at infinity. They showed as dimly lit suns, merely large orbs of dispersed luminescence, struggling in vain to pierce the unrelenting night.

Reed loathed walking the wharf after sunset, and he cursed himself for being kept so late. He could hardly see his feet as they clumsily navigated the broken cobblestone which paralleled the wooden planks of the jetty. More than once he stumbled atop a loose stone producing a clamor that echoed against the shanties despite the raucous disorder that had already begun to spill out of the nearby taverns. Each time, he stopped and listened to ensure that he walked alone, and, each time, he heard only the lapping of water against the pier. The sound, typically invited for its soothing familiarity, threatened betrayal and seemed to mock him from its concealment in the misty gloom.

He was a fisherman by trade, though it was more accurately by circumstance. Reed possessed no other skills, arguably no redeeming qualities at all, and he was only considered to be a fisherman by virtue of the fact that he held a fisherman’s net. It was more by default than desire, either on his part or that of his colleagues. He was poor, even by the modest standards of his peers. However, there were uses for the feeble and the frightened, and Reed would often accept payment in exchange for the accomplishment of various deeds or for valued information. Such an errand was the reason for his tardiness this evening.

Reed breathed easier as he reached the shanty of his own. A shack really, consisting of a single room, and scarcely furnished with a cot, a small table and chair, as well as the necessary cooking utilities. He shifted his eyes nervously as he always did after finishing an unsavory transaction. Such dealings wore heavy upon his conscience, not out of pity or regret for those he may have victimized, but because he was convinced that they would one day lead him into a situation from which there was no return. With a sigh, a brief lamentation of the cowardly yet fearful life he led, Reed turned his key in the crude lock and pushed his way inside.

He had never been described as observant or aware, but Reed could tell that something was amiss as he stepped beyond the threshold. The ever-present stench of foul bedding and rancid fish had been disturbed by a sweetness that assaulted his senses and alarmed his sensibilities. The light from the outside lamps, still suffering thousands of refractions, failed to breach the open doorway. He peered into the darkness, and he envisioned a shadow looming ominously against the dark backdrop of his one-room hut.

Reed felt as though his blood had frozen within its corridors. His heart pounded viciously to move the fluid, and still it drained from his extremities leaving his face a ghastly white. He turned to flee through the open portal and managed only a single step before a heavy blow pierced the flesh behind his right kneecap. Though he willed himself to run, Reed’s body collapsed under its own weight, and, crying out in pain and terror, he fell headlong into the street.

Wynken rolled his eyes disgusted by the waste of a man that he hauled from the cobbled street. Reed had lost consciousness and defecated himself, though Wynken was uncertain in which order. He carelessly retrieved his throwing dagger, wrenching it from the back of Reed's leg, before propping the man none too gently upon his makeshift chair.

Wynken reeled and his stomach turned in place as his nostrils cursed him for the brief respite from the offensive interior. His sense of smell, which had become accustomed to the stench of Reed's living quarters, was disturbed anew by the added unpleasantness of the man who was now sitting in his own filth. Wynken took in another breath of the pleasantness that affronted the foul air as the two clashed in the doorway before composing himself and closing it out entirely. It was as if the outside world died behind the light timber as Wynken swung the door on its hinges and set the latch.

He was pleased that Reed had fainted as it ceased his incessant whimpering. Looking the man over with another roll of his eyes, Wynken determined it unlikely that Reed could write. He would have taken the opportunity to rid the man of his tongue had his sole purpose for visiting the wretch not necessitated his ability to communicate. As Reed regained his senses, Wynken lied, growling in his face, "now keep quiet fool or I'll have out your voice box". He ran his dagger menacingly over the soft skin of Reed's throat.

Wynken moved around Reed to stand across the small table before him. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness once more and the dread in the man’s face could be plainly seen. A macabre silence filled the room, like it would a coffin. An appropriate foreshadowing of death as Reed scarcely drew breath for fear of inciting the fate that he had always felt to be imminent. Slowly, Wynken brought a cigarette to his lips, and with the flick of his wrist, vanquished the malignity that cursed the one-roomed hovel.

The deathly quiet fled as the match snapped and angrily burned paper and herbs which hissed and cracked in the stillness as if someone had set the Concordia ablaze. The fire and embers caused the room to be bathed in an eerie red glow and sent shadows to dance upon surfaces which were previously indistinguishable in the implacable black. Sweet pungency from the aromatic smoke expunged the indecent and incessant stench as it lazily stretched, like incorporeal fingers, to gently caress the men’s noses.

Wynken breathed deeply, filling his lungs with smoke, before extinguishing the match with a shake. He flicked its charred remains at Reed and it hit the man in his right cheek, leaving a smudge of soot under his eye. Reed flinched comically, and nearly a full second too late, causing Wynken to chuckle at his expense. “You know why I’ve come, don’t you”, Wynken stated more than asked, a wry grin creasing his mouth. He produced a scroll from a pouch underneath his cloak and tossed it onto the table. It was rolled and bound with twine, but a smaller parchment with large markings had been fastened on its outside. As Wynken took another draw on his cigarette Reed could see, by its dim light, the words, ‘Pier 14’.

It had been three days since Wynken entered Radasanth. Led by curiosity, he had explored the contents of the two scrolls taken, one each, off the men from the mainland - the men who had badgered Aislynn and himself those weeks ago in the Peaceful Promenade. Both scrolls contained identical shipping records, but only one contained the additional pier number. He had restlessly observed the docks until finally spying the most unlikely of couriers, Reed.

Half fishing half scouring the planks for the dry nook which was to hold his consignment, the man had waded through the water as Wynken looked on from the concealment of an alleyway. Having determined the shipment missing, after some time Reed reluctantly abandoned the pier and stalked nervously up the cobbled street. Wynken had been trailing him since, seeking clues as to the document’s purpose and its proprietor’s whereabouts.

Recognizing the scroll as his expected shipment, Reed looked from it to Wynken’s cold grey eyes. Though stoic and still, they burned with intensity and a hatred that caused Reed’s skin to involuntarily tremble. He swallowed hard and looked to the scroll once more. “You just tell me who this belongs to, and where I can find them”, Wynken’s words echoed in his ears. The vicious wound on the back of his leg throbbed, and he wondered which would be more merciful; his employer or the man before him.

Reed quickly came to the determination that his employer would be far less delicate. Though his rational wasn’t quite so fluid, he did understand that his existence was of some value to Wynken. His employer, on the other hand, would have nothing but rage to placate, and it would be played out in dramatic fashion.

“I…I unno wha it’s for”, Reed stammered pitifully. “I’s told not tah open it.” Wynken scowled, maintaining his intimidating facade though he believed the man to be telling the truth. He had broken a wax seal to access the records and was certain that Reed’s employers would have expected it to remain unopened upon receipt.

Seeing his glare, Reed sensed Wynken’s impatience and continued nervously. “Same time every two weeks I find it and gives it to a man down by tha docks along with some fishes. He pays me an tells me tha next pier tah check.” He paused and skewed up his face in contemplation before concluding, “That’s it”.

Wynken digested the information wishing he hadn’t immobilized the man. He would now have to rely on Reed’s directions and a description of the individual who he made deliveries to. He was also aware that Reed’s employer was unlikely to merely take him at his word, and would be paying him a visit in order to investigate the missing documents. “Which dock”, Wynken asked in a harsh whisper. He wished to get all necessary information from Reed before the report’s rightful owner came looking for it.

Using his dagger as a writing implement, Wynken hastily etched instructions onto the parchment which previously held the pier number. Several times he interrupted Reed, placing a finger to his lips to silence the man as he listened for noises outside the shanty. The stillness beyond its thin walls was almost more unnerving than had he heard the expected shuffle of stealthy boots, as Wynken felt a sudden urgency to complete his business there.

Late night gave way to early morning and the fog dispersed as the ambient air and the lazy waters of the Niema tended toward maximum entropy. The harbor lanterns had exhausted their oil, but for a few which remained flickering in the distance. Though it could scarce be heard, they sputtered, like old men, as if cursing the silence. As is the way of all things pierced by the arrow of time, they too would soon be expired.

Though he expected more stealth, Wynken’s fear was realized as a heavy blow fell upon the feeble door which separated Reed’s living space from the darkness beyond. Splintered and loosed from its hinges the door lurched inward, wreaking havoc on the already disheveled contents of the cramped quarters.

Wynken cringed at the thought of what could have been as he watched the scene from the safety of a tight alley across the street. He had finished with Reed nearly an hour prior. Had his aggressors been thorough, they may have discovered Reed, still warm though void of life, floating atop the river beyond his hovel. As it were the impatient men stormed in only to emerge even more enraged.

“I wish you hadn’t kicked the door in, ya cretin”, the lithe man bellowed at his stout companion who skewed up his face in confusion at the use of the unconventional expletive. “Now how are we supposed to find him? Huh, Stitch? He’ll never return here with the place looking like this.”

The two were the archetypal brain and brawn. Stitch merely shrugged in response as he labored to climb from the shattered doorway. He was tall as a man but thick as a dwarf, and the dense muscles in his neck forced him to pivot awkwardly rather than turn his head from side to side. A grizzly scar ran width-ways across his forehead, hence the nickname, Wynken surmised. The only weapon he carried was a dagger which hung at his hip, though its size seemed comically diminished in relation to the bulk of its wielder.

The smaller man carried two such weapons, and paced the still quiet street as if walking may somehow improve things. He continued to rant, though he held his tongue in check for fear of his ally. He slay the man with his eyes but expressed only general statements of displeasure with the situation rather than the actions of the impetuous Stitch. “What are you going to tell the boss”, he asked trying to force his friend to fully consider the consequences of his latest gaffe.

“What do you mean what am I gonna tell him”, the man said with added emphasis. “You seen it, Snitch. Reed just aint at home, and the record’s nowhere to be found.”

Snitch conceded with a wave, and shushed his comrade. “We. I meant we”, he whispered peering around to ensure they were still alone. “And keep it down about the shipping record.”

Wynken noted that the two spoke of a singular shipping record. He considered his pouch which held two, and also that only one was marked with a pier number. Though they were both sealed with wax, Wynken hadn’t looked to ensure the signet used was the same.

As Stitch and Snitch made their way from the scene, Wynken slipped further down the alley and paralleled their movements from the next street. He had previously intended to find Reed’s mark, but figured this may be a more direct route to the record’s final and intended recipient.

Phyr Sa'resh coughed violently, the taught muscles of his shrunken stomach clenched beneath a stained burlap overcoat. The beggar had spent the better part of the past night and day laying partially concealed in a mass of torn old fish nets. The hemp-cord blankets did a piecemeal job of keeping his body heat in, and the chilly fog left a swamp in his century old lungs. This land is weak, he thought as he shifted position to help the fluid settle in his chest. If anything it would help him adapt to the incredibly wet temperate zone.

To keep his wizened mind from drifting off to sleep he toyed with the spectacular notion that one of the targets of his surveillance might notice him. If one of those obese human oafs actually had the eyes to make out a body through the mist, the utter vagrancy of his appearance made him less of a threat to their pig-headedness than the stench of the docks. Quite apart from his physical and environmental advantages, he had trained for counter-surveillance against Elves and Orcs during his youth in the Aleraran Army. I would sooner rot in Berevar than let those three discover me. Phyr shifted beneath his rancid camouflage. Recalling the Devil's Keep - the northlans prison that had stolen thirty-nine years and his right arm - made the woven nets feel all too much like iron chains.

The drow stopped breathing at the sound of creaking hinges, thoughts of the past vanishing with the wind off the water. He let his eyes droop shut and lay still as three men came out of the shack he was watching.

The three human males stomped out of their shack and slammed the door with enough force to quiver Phyr's azure ears ten yards away. All were corn-fed locals close to the drow's height but with beef in their arms and rocks in their skulls. Even with his eyes shut he could see them as they thundered down the jetty; two muscular sailors, one dark and one ginger, flanking a fat balding merchant whose eyebrows grew straight into his beard. In Phyr's mental reconstruction, the fish stench of the docks substituted their body odor.

The wily drow opened his eyes and shifted his upper body to catch a glimpse of the men before they rounded the corner of a tall inn. All three were swathed in dark clothing and moved quickly. The sailors carried studded cudgels, which coupled with their rope-like muscles and scarred faces made them penny-hire thugs. The ever-perspiring merchant toted some sort of crutch Phyr couldn't make out before they vanished.

Perhaps a physician recommended it for a healthier distribution of mass.

Phyr wiggled his toes, flexed his calves, and rotated his shoulders. As he warmed his body towards the idea of standing, several mongrel cats crept up to investigate the motion. The drow would never make the mistake of haste by approaching the shack too soon. The feline company gladdened him, and he wondered tersely what cat tasted like before abandoning the idea. He had consumed rat and other rodents more vile while surviving the Keep, but saw no reason to resume prior habits in a land where doors and pantries were left unlocked often as not.

As the iciness in his extremities receded enough to feel the blood flow, one of the felines mustered enough courage to give the drow a sniff, so Phyr sniffed it back. It smelled like fish guts.

Phyr stood up one piece at a time, using the walking stick in his single hand as a lever. Bits of dirt and fish bones cascaded from his long coarse overcoat. Exaggerating the hunch in his back, he stooped towards the shack unsteadily. The small army of cats followed him stealthily until he leaned his back against the box-building's door, and then they scattered with a rise in the wind.

Certain that no one could see him or in any case, cared what he did, the drow left his cane standing against the wall and produced a large iron bayonet from the folds of his rags. It took him longer to put it away after jimmying the deadbolt than the act of breaking in itself. Regaining his hardwood stick, he slipped into the shanty and closed the door silently.

The pile of shipping reports strewn across a tobacco stained bureau suggested it was an unkempt office for the merchant. However, the collection of splintering furniture crammed against the back wall and the stink of stale sweat that came off it told Phyr it was a regular meeting place of men. Most likely all under the merchant's hire. The drow had counted at least three other employees besides to two guard pups that followed him around.

It had occurred to Phyr before entering the shack that he might search it for further information, but he abandoned the notion upon witnessing its categorical untidiness. Not to mention everything would be written in chicken-scratch common, one of the drow's least favorite languages.

At any rate, he already knew most of what he needed, all solid information mined through rigorous eavesdropping. All that remained was to determine the pier number. The only reason Phyr bothered breaking in was...

He saw it perched seductively on a twisted oaken end table; a half-full bottle of amber Coronian whisky. Listening to the sailors drink the previous night away in the comfort of their shelter had tortured Phyr as effectively as any warden back in Alerar or Salvar. When he had been proven irrefutably to be the perpetrator of crimes against the nation, they had tried for years to wring information out of him, like baby calves suckling at a dead mother. Then they had sent him to hell in the far north.

Phyr tossed his cane onto the largest chair then limped across the room to fetch the whisky and a tumbler carefully between the powerful fingers of his left hand. He poured a double measure into the tumbler before producing a worn iron flask and holding it between his knees to fill it from the bottle. The flask vanished once more and Phyr lifted the tumbler, toasted the empty chairs, the foolishness of men, and the whims of life beyond alcoholic bliss.

*

Caspar Althalos was sweating through his small-clothes in spite of the damnable cold weather. The merchant drew his thick black cloak closer around pudgy shoulders and combed two sausage fingers through his long eyebrows. The whole bloody situation had his nerves walking the spine of the jagged mountains. It was why he carried the crutch-shaped contraption beneath his cloak now, and why he had brought Brom and Rohan along. The sight of the two sailors with their weatherbeaten tattoos and scarred faces was enough to scare most commoners away, and their muscular arms and studded cudgels ensured his safety. Even if they did cost twice as much as louts like Stitch and Snitch, and that half-wit Reed.

"Son of a whore born in bilgewater," the merchant muttered to himself at the thought of Reed, the idiot he had hired to be a conduit of information and goods. Althalaos was concentrating so hard on navigating the slummy district Reed inhabited that he didn't notice the uncertain looks that passed between his henchmen. While content to follow the scent of easy gold, the human boarhounds did not like working for maniacs, and they could find few other explanations for the recent decline of Caspar's behavior. For the past week he had doubled their hours as a personal security detail, lost any sense of organization in the mountain of paperwork he usually handled casually, and begun to jump at small noises such as when the wind shook the roof of his shack.

Rohan and Brom exchanged glances again before re-gripping their heavy clubs and lengthening their strides to catch up with the boss. Although they never mentioned it in his presence, the two had argued at length over what could cause the normally cold, calculating Althalos to behave like a girl on her mother's apron strings. Rohan, the ginger, was certain it was an inevitable loss of sanity due to a lapse in healthy diet and lifestyle. Brom on the other hand insisted the changes had occurred just after Caspar received his first payment for the shipment scheduled to arrive that night.

In any case, he had refused to tell them what was so special about the shipment or indeed, where they would be picking it up.

The trio of men could scarcely have failed to notice that they were drawing attention. As they beat the cracked cobblestones of a particularly poor residential area children stopped playing to stare and curtains fluttered behind smudged windows. Dome-like pate and droopy jowls shining, Althalos finally called a stop in a urine-drenched alley between two inns that made half their incomes off whores. The only living soul in sight was a skinny junkie wrapped in a burlap cloak lying on a wooden bench, and he barely seemed to breathe at all.

"What were those kids starin' at, huh?" Caspar said, words rushing between quivering lips, "My Sari an' I wouldn' never 'ave raised babes to be so rude as 'at." The sailors exchanged what felt like the twelfth glance in as many minutes while their employer glared at them. Although his hands remained beneath his cloak, his eyes buffeted them like a gale at sea.

"Well? I'm waitin' on one o' you two to tell me where to go next. Considerin' I'm the only one who's never been to Reed's house!" The hired goons shifted their considerable weight awkwardly. Brom scratched at his coarse black hair as Rohan spoke up.

"Sorry, boss, I been there but I forget, all these houses look-"

A distinct dry slap echoed down the alley as Caspar clouted the man. Rohan rubbed at his stinging cheek, dumbly accepting the punishment while his shipmate stepped in.

"Don't worry Mister Althalos, I know where Reed lives. It's jus' a ways down, confusin' blocks aroun' here..." He trailed away under the fat man's withering stare.

"What a waste 'o time." Caspar clutched his head between two bloated palms. "Brom, you find Reed and those two idiots I sent to find 'im and bring 'em all back. No, wait," The merchant took a deep, wheezing breath of putrid air and re-arranged his thoughts. "On secon' thought, take piss-brains here with yeh. The others should spot that red mop of his a league away."

Althalos stormed away but hesitated at the mouth of the alley. A secretive glance into the voluminous folds of his cloak seemed to reassure him, and he waddled rapidly out of sight.

*

Phyr hadn't intended to spend any time reading Caspar Althalos' documents, but as the whisky warmed his blood he automatically scanned and organised the papers. As a long-time officer in the Aleraran Army, any chance to enjoy a drink came when he was assigned a stack of paperwork. Habit hard-wired in his brain, the drow had four small categorised stacks of a paper in front of him on an otherwise tidy desk before even noticing. He mulled over the information, little of it useful, that he had absorbed and stood up to fix himself another drink.

A breath of cold air penetrated the shack as the door opened and a human stepped in. Phyr's neck cracked audibly as he jerked his head around, hand plunged in to the depths of his rags, fingers closed on the warm hilt of the heavy bayonet stowed there, its blade keen and thirsty.

"Ah... is Master Althalos here?" the young human male spoke in a nervous, breaking voice.

Phyr relaxed his body but left his hand hidden, squinted at the boy and tried to concentrate. The warmth of the shack and the whisky had taken a toll on him; his mind felt like it was sinking into a swamp. The drow shook himself and looked the impatient creature before him up and down. Peasant's clothing, but good boots, and a leather scrip hung around one shoulder. A messenger then, or a small post office delivery boy.

"Mister Althalos hire me, help make neat." Phyr said in a strained voice, letting his natural tongue heavily inflect the words. It would make everything easier if the lad thought he barely spoke common. The ancient elf gestured at the tidy desk in front of him, and then waved his single arm hopelessly at the rest of the jumbled interior.

The messenger nodded slowly, as if it made absolute sense to him that Caspar Althalos had hired a crippled dark elf to do his bookkeeping. Certainly the man needed someone to teach him some organisational skills, but Phyr had neither seen nor heard of any other drow since his arrival in Corone. That was why he'd had his ear to the ground and heard about the secretive shipment coming in from Alerar.

"Well... will he be back soon?" The messenger moved a step closer to the desk as Phyr looked at him quizzically and cocked his head to one side, a bird examining a worm. "Mister Althalos," the boy said, his voice rising in pitch but not volume, "will he-" the lad pointed at the door, "come back-" indicated the desk, "soon?" On the last word the messenger seemed to lose faith in his pantomime abilities and half-turned to leave. Phyr bumped the desk with his knee and nodded twice quickly.

"Yes, ah, return before dark." Phyr swept his palm towards the failing light that filtered through the shacks single muddy window. A massive weight seemed to fall from the messenger's shoulders as he took a wax-sealed scroll out of his satchel and placed it carefully in the middle of the four stacks of parchment.

"Please make sure he gets this right away. My master impressed upon me it is of vital importance." Phyr returned to pretending to study the papers and ignored the boy's comical sign language, instead making a curt gesture for him to leave. After the door opened and shut, venting the room with more cold fishy air, Phyr jumped to his feet, knees popping like twin musket shots. He rummaged rapidly through the mess at the back until he found exactly what he was looking for

As wind howled outside Phyr had another drink and did some more things he'd trained for in a different life, and it left him smiling until suddenly the door opened again and he found himself face to face with Caspar Althalos.

*

With the haste and urgency of fire on a wet log, the River District of Radasanth’s lower south side had reluctantly sputtered to a state of wakefulness. Fishermen, sailors, and deckhands of all shapes and sizes labored to begin the routines which would carry them through the day. They were simple people, unfit, unskilled, or unmotivated for work upon the ocean which lay to the west. Many couldn’t afford to finance repairs to a leaky pair of waders, let alone to a seafaring vessel.

Wynken was glad for the activity, and used it to his advantage as he turned into an alleyway that would bring him in line with his mark. He had followed the two thugs, Stitch and Snitch, only a short distance before losing site of them as they advanced upon the street parallel his own. He moved between commercial establishments, bars and taverns mostly with a tackle or supply shop here and there. The shanties were on the north side of the cobbled street nearer the river.

They were some distance from the piers and further yet from the open market, but still the smell of river water and dead fish hung in the air to mingle with that of bread and seared breakfast meats as they were being served in the taverns. Wynken, who spent the previous evening waiting on Reed and then staking out his shack, hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. His belly rumbled softly, but the foul blend of odors did nothing for his appetite as they devilishly toyed with his stomach.

The street offered relative relief over the alley, which acted as a wind tunnel, and Wynken forced his discomfort from his mind to peer through the small gatherings of people. He was certain the goons hadn’t gotten ahead of him, and they were unlikely to turn back. So, when he failed to locate them on the street, Wynken set about checking the likely establishments.

‘There are only two or three possible options’, he thought as he considered the block they would have traversed between his last sighting. Wynken stood in the street staring at its storefronts, and just as he had decided which tavern was their most likely choice, he watched as Stitch and Snitch appeared at its window table. Looking over his shoulder, Wynken grinned at the realization that Reed’s shanty was still visible at this distance.

‘Perhaps they aren’t utter fools’.

Wynken’s stomach rumbled again and so he stepped into a neighboring inn and occupied a table which afforded him a view of the street. He ordered a bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and he waited.

Morning passed to afternoon which waned into evening. On several occasions, Wynken considered checking to ensure his two targets had maintained their watch but each time decided it better to merely wait. Now, Reed’s house could hardly be seen through the growing darkness, and Wynken second guessed his previous instincts. Getting up from his table, he dropped a few coins upon its top and made his way for the door.

Stepping out onto the street, Wynken looked down to the other tavern in time to see Stitch come bounding out of its entryway.

“Hey you baboon, ya better put out that fire.”

He had obviously consumed his share of alcohol and was yelling as he shambled toward two bulky individuals. Snitch was hot on his heels, half trying to calm his cohort but notably amused at his obnoxious behavior.

“Rohan, ya fiery-crotched bastard”, Stitch continued loudly to the chagrin of the red haired man. The four were closer then, and exchanging words that Wynken couldn’t hear. They were also distracted, slapping each other on the back and exchanging jokes, so Wynken had no trouble remaining inconspicuously attentive. He moved a bit closer and lit a cigarette.

“The boss is pretty angry you haven’ found Reed yet.” The men grew somber as the conversation turned from its original joviality.

“How bout I find my dagger in your face, Brom?” Stitch fixed the man with a glare, but he merely smiled in return. The two faced off, both on the edge of snapping. They had been in silent competition for Caspar's favor since he had hired the two new mercenaries.

Uninterested in a fight, Rohan spoke up then saying, “Althalos says we’re to find Reed, and the four of us are to bring him back to the office.”

“We’ve been watching his house all day. He aint there and hasn’t been there.” Snitch also saw the wisdom of forcing the topic to one of business. The other men had at least one hundred pounds on him, and he looked nervously from Stitch to Brom as they each weighed the words of their associates. “If Althalos doesn’t get that record, none of us are gettin paid”, the wiry man continued.

That was all it took to settle the hostility, and the four quickly laid out all that they knew in order to brainstorm a plan. It was akin to watching a fish out of water – the entire act was foreign, ungraceful, and markedly uncomfortable. In the end, their collective genius decided to walk the few blocks back to Reed’s house…just to have one more look around. Wynken rolled his eyes once more and followed.

The deceptive early-darkness of the cold season and warming sensation of the alcohol in his bloodstream caused Phyr to lose track of time. Years earlier, he would have had each second calculated down to a fraction, contingencies layered upon each other like good Aleraran plate-mail. However as the former prisoner gathered a cracked oil lamp from the rear of the shack and assembled it on a bare portion of his commandeered desk, the idea that someone might walk in on him slipped from his crinkled brain.

Adjusting the choke until it gave the tallest flame possible, Phyr produced his bayonet and held it above the fire until it glowed orange and radiated waves of heat. Balancing his dagger so its hilt lay on the desk and the blade pointed in to thin air, Phyr held it in place with one foot - his hips groaned, protesting the flexible feat - and used his hand to manoeuvre the scroll against the keen heated blade until the wax popped off, intact and unmarked. Never one to celebrate incomplete victories, he read the scroll three times fast, fixed its content temporarily in his memory palace, and then re-heated the dagger and reversed the process to replace the seal.

When Caspar Althalos entered the shack, he found a skeletal drow with waves of grey hair and only one arm seated at his desk, drinking his favourite rye, with a sealed scroll squared between two tidy stacks of paper.

Phyr wrinkled his nose partially at the fat man's slovenly breathing, and partially at the smell of fish guts that invaded the shack with him. Phyr had allowed his senses to become habituated to the slightly acrid lantern oil and the full-bodied brew he sipped and smelled as though it were a twenty-year vintage. Not visibly alarmed whatsoever, he held his bayonet out of sight below the desk and waited, glaring the expectation of a military officer's eyes across the room at Caspar.

Althalos slammed the door behind him and advanced one menacing step. The whole shack quivered beneath his bulk. Phyr hid his amusement as he watched the merchant's rubbery face twist through different emotions and shades. Finally Caspar seemed to regain some composure and opened his cavernous mouth to speak. Phyr cut him off with a furious salvo of precisely enunciated common.

"Ah, Master Althalos I presume. How kind of you to join me. It isn't often my master's servants make our wages by sitting around sipping swill." He considered the dregs of his tumbler, then downed them with a single gulp and smacked his lips. "Ahh... but I always appreciate native spirits. Now that you have your final instructions," his nose indicated the scroll on the desk as his hand prepared his garments for the biting cold outside, "I may be on my way. And of course, if this little delay effects the rest of my schedule at all, expect it to come out of whatever my master is paying you for your services."

As Phyr sidled past the frowning merchant, he sensed a tightening of the man's muscles, a flurry of hand movement beneath the cloak, and thought the man had a pistol. For a moment he was back in the Devil's Keep, surrounded by enemies on all sides, fighting for his life. And then the moment passed, Althalos removed bare hands from beneath his cloak and gestured harmlessly for Phyr to leave. The drow did so, but paused in the threshold, waiting in the mixture of warm and cold, savoury smells and foul odours. He sensed that Althalos would make a parting barb, some comment flung at his back meant to sting his pride. Such petty insults often gave a man's secrets away.

It came as he was shutting the door. Caspar poked his head out and seized the handle, a crocodile smile veiling worried eyes.

"I woulda' thought he'd at least let you call him by his name, instead of all that master nonsense!" The merchant's voice rang like a foghorn over the docks as Phyr stumped away, leaning heavily on his sick. His experienced mind whirred like a masterwork clock, sorting through everything he had read inside the shack and everything Caspar Althalos said. But for that last comment, it all fit together perfectly.

"Why would a cripple like me be on intimate terms with the kingpin? He wondered as he vanished into the thick crowds and crooked alleys that felt so much like home.

The house was empty, Wynken knew, so he didn’t bother following too closely. Reed was washed up onto the embankment, no doubt contributing to the Niema’s wretched odor by now; and the shanty’s contents had been methodically searched the night before. ‘They’ll be heading back this way before long’, Wynken thought as he lit another smoke and settled into the space between two of the neighboring shanties. There he leaned against its rickety wooden siding and strained to hear the men over the pub noise and gently rushing water.

Wynken watched as fishermen passed by, but they paid him no heed as they made their way either to or from the taverns which lined the southern side of the cobbled street. The sky was clear and the road free of fog. All that remained of the previous evening’s haze was a cloudy mist which hugged tightly the surface of the significantly cooled river. In a few days even that would be no more, and in a few weeks time the fishing season for those in the River District would begin to slow.

Wynken took a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it toward the river. It came to rest upon the wooden pier, and its embers shown a bright red in the gentle river breeze. Wynken briefly wondered if anyone at all would care if the entire decrepit borough were to be engulfed in flame, but his thoughts were disturbed by the familiar banter of the four goons as they approached upon the street. They too paid him no attention as they walked, and Wynken shadowed them once more.

“The boss isn’t gonna be happy ‘bout this”, he heard Brom report as Wynken dipped silently beneath the horizon of the gently sloping river bank.

The waters of the Niema in Radasanth's northern district smelled a little less like oily guts and a little more like the mountains the river stemmed from, but the buildings were built in smaller clusters there, and the earth barren. Vicious winds lashed Phyr's grim face as he trudged towards the warehouse which had been specified in Althalos' scroll. A few questions in the right tavern had netted the ancient drow all the information he needed.

Phyr crouched in the lee of the warehouse, putting his bony back against the harsh stone wall. His single scarred arm dipped into a pocket and brought out the half-full flask. Thumbing the cap off, he took a long pull of the fiery spirit to warm his blood and calm his nerves. Everything was in place. The shipment would arrive two hours before dawn the following morning. Now that he had seen the place, all that remained was to get some rest until then. So why were the short hairs at the nape of his neck standing at attention?

As he paced around the warehouse Phyr inspected both the building itself and the grounds nearby. It had two entrances, a front loading bay door that faced the road and the Niema river beyond, and a small back door which lead into a thicket of thorns. Twenty yards away the thicket gave way to lush evergreen trees carpeting the foothills which surrounded the Jagged Mountains like a gang of aspiring followers.

Completing a second circuit around the warehouse, Phyr decided he would approach from the east around midnight and bide his time under the wing of the evergreen trees, observing the warehouse at a safe distance until he saw the delivery completed.

Although the former soldier did not dare underestimate his opponents, he knew unquestionably that all mortal beings made mistakes. And if he happened to be nearby, there was none better to capitalise on even the tiniest infraction than Phyr Sa'resh.

"You're all fools, the lot of ya."

Caspar slammed his fist upon his ramshackle desk, causing the bottle of whiskey that Phyr had emptied to topple and shatter upon the floor. Wynken took in the scene from the barred window on the river side of the small building. The room was dark and the window at a poor angle for viewing, but he could hear well enough as Althalos continued berating his four hired hands.

“Reed is dead, found floatin' right under yer noses early this afternoon”, the merchant bellowed while waggling a chubby finger primarily in the direction of Stitch and Snitch. Brom smirked arrogantly to the disdain of the two mercenaries and inciting Althalos to greater heights of rage.

The man came out from behind his desk to stand fully before his henchmen. His flabby face was red and trembled with anger as he spoke. “The four o' you have been on the street all day, and a witless informant – a mere boy – told me o' Reed’s whereabouts just an hour ago.”

Althalos calmed slightly and Brom tried to interject on his own behalf, but Caspar continued to speak over the man’s hallow excuses. “Whoever killed Reed likely took the shippin' record”, he exclaimed matter-of-factly. “We wouldn’t even know what to expect or where to expect it if it weren’t for that same messenger boy". "Perhaps I should pay him your wages", the man said with a rhetorical chuckle.

Caspar had a chance encounter with the messenger as the lad made his way from his office. The boy, who often ran errands for Caspar’s small cartel, spotted the merchant and explained that he had left an important package upon his desk in the care of a strange drow. Althalos, of course, confirmed both to be true, though he still puzzled over the dark elf’s presence. The creature made no move against him, but the wary merchant was certain that he wasn’t who he claimed to have been.

Wynken continued to listen as Althalos fed more instructions to his goons, including the location of the delivery warehouse. “Don’t fail me this time, or I’ll be takin' it from your pay”, he warned upon instructing them to find the drow as well as the missing record. “Two of you secure the warehouse”, he pointed to Brom and Rohan before continuing, “and you two track down Reed’s killer”.

Wynken moved from the window then, and opened the record which had been destined for Reed. The shipping address there was the same that Althalos had given his men, but the task remained to find a way to profit from the delivery.

Phyr melted onto the hay-stuffed mattress as if his bones had turned to powder. The fifth and final inn he approached housed a clerk crooked enough to let a spare room at half the normal price, off the ledger. Usually the drow would not deign to pay for lodging at all, but he required at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, and he needed it right away. His muscles relaxed and his joints crackled as they settled, the most welcome of feelings after so many hours of mistreatment. Only one whimsical notion clouded his mind as it curled upon itself to rest, nestled in the clean smell of fresh straw. It was the memory of feeling watched somehow as he inspected the grounds around the warehouse.

*

Wedged in the nook of an ancient fir which had twisted its trunk to accommodate the seasons and sloped ground, Kron Sha'keth stared out over the Niema like a Lord of the land. The assassin's dark eyes scanned the grounds near the warehouse for movement. Even under the shroud of night and a hundred yards away he could count the whiskers on a rodent-creature which poked its head out from behind the building.

The rat reminded Kron of the other drow he had seen earlier in the evening. Although approximately his same height, the limping invalid would only be likened to Kron by a blind fool or a Coronian human. Where the one-armed beggar was withered and wasted Kron had never looked stronger. Since the murder of his brother he had poured his small amounts of spare time into additional training. Although he had left Alerar one of the crown's most revered assassins, his physique and skill with a blade would barely be recognisable upon his return home.

If I return.

Kron knew himself inside and out. In spite of of his unscrupulous confidence he knew he would not allow himself to leave Corone until he avenged his brother's death.

The mission in Corone had belonged to him and Shynt Sha'keth equally. The shipment Kron awaited contained all the supplies he needed to recruit and equip a sleeper cell within the populace of Radasanth. While the assassin brothers had devised the scheme together, it had been Kron's analytical mind that realised more control than chaos could be gained by creating a cadre as opposed to killing a few politicians and hopping the next airship back to Alerar. After long meetings with the Royal advisors, the operation had received full backing. It was a brilliant plan, and it would have already been put in motion if it weren't for one unfortunate human.

Joshua Cronen.

The name made Kron's blood boil. He had watched helplessly, trapped beneath a fractured cart, as the man foiled the Nomad Process and slew his brother in cold blood. If not for that bastard called Breaker the cell would already be established, panic would have seized the population of Radasanth, and Shynt would have been alive and playing his rightful role as trainer to the new recruits.

Instead Kron sat alone, freezing to the bone in a tree, putting his search for Cronen on hold so he could wait for his supplies. With Shynt's death his workload had doubled, trebled with the inclusion of the never-ending manhunt. Kron rarely slept more than an hour each day. He ate paranoia for breakfast and it stayed with him well past nightfall. Even something as simple as receiving a wretched shipment seemed complicated and dangerous. Who was the ancient drow who inspected the warehouse earlier? And who were the two slovenly louts who had arrived just before dark, entered the warehouse, and not shown themselves since?

Evidently I am paying that fat idiot too much, if he has funds to hire so many employees.

Kron sucked a deep breath of frigid air through his nostrils and leaned back against the tree, taking a brief break and rubbing his forehand with one callused black palm

Ah well. At least he is caring for my supplies. Perhaps I am too vigilant.

The sweetness of sap reminded him of home; the trees looked different here but smelled similar. Leaning forward again to patiently watch and wait, Kron dropped a hand unconsciously to his sword and eased the blade in its leather sheathe.

From the shadows of the building’s northern side, Wynken heard the door open and close as the four henchmen exited. He crept closer to the office’s corner but allowed it to obscure him from the view of the street ahead. The day’s light had waned, however the dark was not enough to conceal him. “How we gonna find Reed’s killer?”, he heard Stitch ask but only silence returned in answer from his comrade. Brom and Rohan had already moved off in the direction of the nearby bridge that would take them across the river and to the shipping warehouse, leaving the two alone.

Snitch rolled his eyes, certain that his compatriot’s head was empty save for the meat that comprised the remainder of his bulky frame. After a lengthy pause, he audibly determined that the bars and taverns surrounding the office and warehouse should be queried for clues as to the killer’s whereabouts. “How else do we find people”, he asked, not really expecting any answer.

Althalos, assuming Phyr had something to do with Reed’s disappearance, had detailed the dark elf’s appearance to the best of his recollection. “A one armed drow aint so hard to recall”, Snitch reasoned and his friend couldn’t disagree.

Wynken held his place as the two made their way down the street and disappeared into one of its many pubs. ‘Let the crippled elf fend for himself’, he thought moving to stand upon the doorway of Caspar’s office. He had wasted the day trailing the merchant’s goons, and wasn’t about to similarly squander the hours that remained before the shipment’s delivery. With all the grace and finesse possessed of one who survives by the art of nondetection, Wynken opened the door and slipped inside.

*

An hour or more had passed, and the two mercenaries had inquired every bartender and tavern keep on the River District’s south side. None had seen or heard of the drow, and Stitch was beginning to grow impatient. “Hows come we don’t just join Brom and them to receive the shipment?”

The man was concerned that the conceited Brom aspired to a greater position - one of more esteem and importance in the eyes or their employer. Snitch understood his friend well, and, in honesty, he felt the same. “It’s important to Caspar that we find this drow”, he lied but it drew a nod from his sullen friend. “Now let’s get moving. We’ve the north side to search, starting with those nearest to the warehouse.”

With that, the two hurried upstream and across the bridge to the northern borough. The structure was easily the most magnificent construct in the city’s forgotten River District. Strong beams and buttresses held fast against the current and reached high out of the water to support the arch-shaped bride. It was tall enough to allow most inland ships to pass underneath. However, it was built with an ingenious series of cables and pulleys which could hoist each end like a drawbridge and allow taller, seafaring vessels to pass. Wealthy merchants, ship owners, and politicians had lobbied for its construction; as it largely served to further increase their already considerable power. The fact that it benefitted the riverfolk was considered an inconvenient consequence – a necessary evil.

“Perhaps we’ll find him with enough time to still help with the shipment”, Snitch offered with little conviction. He doubted they’d find the drow at all, and after two more establishments proved unhelpful he found it increasingly difficult to hold his restless friend to task. “One more”, he said with a sigh. “If no one’s heard tell of him, we call it quits.” Again Stitch nodded his approval, and the two made their way toward a remote inn which sat on a quiet street somewhat removed from the bustle of the loading docks.

They had both given up on their fruitless mission, and hardly expected the nervous old inn keeper to provide them any hope. Something about the tone of his answer, the movement in his eyes, when questioned about the gimpy old drow, piqued the suspicion of the wary informant, Snitch. His nickname was well earned, after all, as the man was an expert at information gathering. "This old crank knows something, Stitch", the smaller fellow said confidently to his muscled friend. "Break a leg or both to make him feel like talking".

Stitch grinned from ear to ear, and the wrinkles in his forehead showed as disjointed lines as they contended with the scar there. The force wasn't necessary, as the old inn keeper showed no further reluctance and leaned in close to utter a room number.

Phyr's internal clock was still as accurate as any in Alerar. By the peak of the witching hour the old drow had roused himself, warmed his muscles and joints using basic callisthenics, and retrieved his possessions from where they were laid out on the floor. He preferred seeing all of his tools at once to stacking them on the cracked cabinet or stowing them in its wormholed drawers. Unlike the fresh mattress, it seemed the innkeepers did little to maintain their splintering walls and dishevelled furniture. Picking up his hardwood walking stick, he tapped the floorboards thrice for fortune then turned around and opened the door.

Stitch and Snitch stood bunched together in the corridor, the larger man's arm extended, moments from opening the door. The flickering light of a torch down the hall cast shadows across their coin-sized pupils and slack jaws.

A single thrust of the cane would have stunned them where they stood agape. Phyr could drop the stick and have his bayonet out and stabbing in less than a second. But in a heartbeat the tactician decided to let them live, and stepped aside, a welcoming smile on his face. See everything. Use everything.

"Come in gentlemen," he said in clipped common, taking them further off guard with his careful accent. They crowded in to the room and closed the door. Stitch stepped forward, his size the only thing that separated the two in Phyr's eyes. The heavyset lout glanced left as if recalling a rehearsed speech, and then tried to lock eyes with Phyr, a difficult task since the elf stood several inches taller.

"Reed was found floatin' in the river t'day, an' Althalos says yer' the one we oughta come after--" Phyrs laugh cut him off like shattering chains. The drow chuckled for several seconds as he desperately threw facts and guesswork together in his head.

"Indeed, that's what our dear fat friend said? My boy, do I look like I could throw a fully grown man in the river, much less murder one?" The interchangeable pair glanced at each other and Phyr's grip on his stick tightened, but no hostility followed. If anything they seemed to relax slightly. Good. They don't like thinking for themselves. Phyr pursed his lips and blew an exaggerated sigh, uncertain if they would be able to read his feigned facial cues.

"I warned my master about employing merchants of course, but he wanted a local middle man. At any rate it's your skills we sought, and the time has come for the first half of your final payment." Phyr hated parting with gold, and reserved it for situations in which there was no substitute motivator. Reaching into a small leather pouch concealed beneath his rags, the drow prduced two thick Aleraran crowns. They were made of gold with mythril folded into the core. The nigh indestructible white metal showed through as intricate filigree in the shape of a steam engine. Valued at twenty-five gold pieces each, the crowns made an impressive show of exotic wealth. Phyr handed both of the coins to Stitch then came out with two more and awarded them to Snitch. The smaller man pocketed his payment immediately and glanced nervously at the door. The larger, perhaps slower specimen, goggled at the foreign coins for several seconds before stowing them.

In a few short minutes Phyr had stirred their mushy brains so much that open expectancy replaced the suspicion in their eyes. With two weeks of pay in their pocket, their dog minds desired a task to perform. Phyr adopted a stern expression and took a half step closer, lowering his voice to a covert pitch. To borrow an old Dwarven phrase, he had them in the mine holding pickaxes. All that remained was to set them swinging.

"The nature of the goods being delivered is delicate to the point that my Master has several contingencies in place. You two are the most important. You must wait inside the warehouse until the crates have been delivered and picked up. If at any time you suspect a third party is attempting to gain access to the shipment, let the others fight them off. Your job in that case will be to remove as many crates as possible, starting with the heaviest, and conceal them in the north edge of the thicket behind the warehouse. Others who reside in the shadows will handle them from there. Whether or not this becomes necessary, once your task is completed meet me here again. I will be waiting with the other half of your salaries." The common tongue could be such a hindrance. Phyr almost wanted to explain the job a second time using simpler language, but decided not to push his luck. Already the ruffians were edging towards the door, eager to fetch what he commanded.

"What about Althalos?" Snitch whined, turning back on the threshold. "He'll still want us to be off lookin' for whoever did kill Reed..." Phyr snorted and tossed his matted grey hair dismissively.

"Tell that pig whatever he needs to hear in order to keep him quiet. Unless you'd rather be paid by him than me--" Phyr cut off in laughter as the door slammed shut behind them.

Interesting. His work for the night had just been halved, but it was still exceptionally dangerous. The number of unknown elements outweighed the known, and no tactician could be completely comfortable with that. Not sober, at least. Phyr sat on the bed, waiting awhile to give the goons a head start. Took out his flask, still half full of the pilfered rye, and thumbed off the cap. Just enough time for a drink. The friendly aroma and mulish kick assuaged his worries better than a partner's company.

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.

Via Dolorosa

Wynken and Les Misérables

Story: 7
Fantastic intro from Wynken. It's rare for me to see an intro post that does not star the player character and this hooked me right away.

Halfway through, though I was enjoying the read, I couldn't help but feel I was reading what amounted to a side quest, an unimportant blurb and chance for Wynken to make money. Finally though, it started to get good when I recognized the antagonist and mystery drow, Kron, come into play.

Overall, what was crafted was an excellent short story that tied everything together rather well. It took a while getting there, but I was happy I paid enough attention to watch all the pieces fit in the end. I mention it a bit later with some of the minor characters, but I felt a little bored in the rising action. It was written well and very detailed, but if I had a taste of a little bit more action in the earlier parts I think it would have added to the momentum of the thread.

Continuity: 8
I think you both did an excellent job of representing the docks of the city while constantly reminding the reader of the location of several landmarks throughout the thread. I gave bonus points here as Phyr's knowledge of Althanas lore really injected a sense of the world into the story, reminding me of life outside of Corone, the current political climate, and major past events tied into minor characters (Ocean's nod to the Bazaar Wars) and not just the player character reciting something he heard in the Flying Stone.

Setting: 9
I don't know how you do it but it seems these walls of text you write always seem to excel at bringing the locales to life, Mr. Misérables. I was also pleasantly surprised to see this level of attention from Wynken as well, as this is the first I've read from him. Great work here. Seriously, though, you mentioned the fish smell way too much. Give me bird droppings or something else to take my mind off of it. Every time I read about the smell (I don't want to go back and count, maybe it's less than I'm remembering) I had to kinda pause and think of something else. Once or twice is enough, not every post near the water, though.

Creativity: 7
I really enjoy catching your metaphors and interesting descriptions, Misérables. I would score this category higher for both of you if it was really, really creative in terms of what actually happened. Despite being written really well, if you take a step back from it, you guys just created a complicated thread involving a half a dozen people, Snatch-style, fussing over a bunch of boxes.

Character: 7
Phyr's descriptions and reactions to the docks were fantastic. The trail of cats and their curiosity was an excellent detail and the type of cleverness I like to see in your posts. Only two threads with reading about this guy and I am hooked on him as a character.

Wynken, I think you suffered here a little. It took the whole thread for me to grasp what Wynken was about—he's an opportunistic duelist. I like it! However, the pacing and the introduction of his character made him seem more like he was trying to get down to the bottom of something to set a couple low life's straight. So overall I have some mixed feelings about him, but want to learn more.

The double pair of mercs and their characterization was classic, but I felt that pursuing them took a bit longer than I would have liked. There were a few posts here from Wynken that, while excellently written, almost bored me as it felt like nothing substantial happened. However, at the end, I found myself feeling kinda bad for Snitch, and I can't remember the last time I cared about an NPC.

Despite excellent NPC work, I can't score it higher without seeing these characters grow. I get that both are low level so nothing life-changing is going to happen to them for a while, by Althanas standards, so save it for a good thread. Wow me then.

Interaction: 7

Strategy: 8.5
Heres where things are most interesting to me. This thread was obviously started over a solo, slowly developing over a couple months and growing into its own with Wynken at the helm. It seemed that partway through the alliance was formed between you two to craft something out of essentially a stale solo jaunt. This is awesome to me! This, coupled with well-timed switches between authors and the methodical approach each character took showed me that this thread was discussed and planned well.

Clarity: 7
Despite beautiful descriptions, I think you both should take a step back on occasion and ask yourself, is this paragraph a little meatier than it should be? Do I have too many details? You guys are both great, but I hate going back through a paragraph feeling like I missed something and realizing I read some over-complicated metaphor wrong and it has to settle before I continue. Good job on keeping so many characters in line and on the right track. I was able to follow all that pretty easily, it was mostly just the little things.

Mechanics: 9

Wildcard: 7

Total: 76.5

EXP
Wynken gains 1150 exp.
Les Misérables gains 1360 exp and loses 50 gold paying Stitch and Snitch

Loot!
Wynken is forced to relinquish some of his weapons to the elves accompanying Kron, and chooses to part with the Snitch's plynt daggers. However, he keeps the enchanted damascus dagger. The expanding ability can last a few posts or until Wynken loses concentration.

Phyr keeps the pepper spraying wrist band, 4 shots remaining.

EXP / GP updated. Phyr and Wynken both reach level 1!