The Fall of Sir Edwin Francis

(From Corone Mission Board, “Assassination”; closed to Tobias Stalt)

The flavor of a good pipe never really got old to Storm, as he breathed in the rich burn of the smooth tobacco. Nothing else calmed him down as reliably, he considered, as he leaned back against the grey-stone wall of the Radasanth library. The rising sun was a welcome respite from the morning cold, as his thin dress shirt and fine linen suitcoat were not designed for harsh weather.

Where in the blue hell are you? Nine-thirty my ass…

The small, squirrely man with nervous eyes quickly popped around the corner, searching for the tall wizard and his eyes widening further when he spotted the infamous villain. Amidst the morning bustle, others looked at the squat traveler with confusion as he bumped into several, bee-lining towards Veritas with an effeminate, low-handed wave.

“So good to find you! Here, you know how to read common, I presume?” His nervous voice fit well with his useless, tubby frame. A wattle of blubber shook under his chin as he spoke.

“Enough!” Storm glared through thin, furious eyes as he breathed a mouthful of smoke at the small man. He took the envelope the man carried without hesitation, pulling it tightly into his vest pocket and tapping the edge of the paper frame flush to the bottom of the pocket. “We’re done.”

He turned and walked away, leaving the confused and flabbergasted messenger awaiting some response. The job would be simple; if Storm had planned anything but acceptance, he would not have met in the first place.

Walking up the stairs of the library, Storm entered and quickly strolled to an abandoned stretch of bookshelves lined in neat rows. At any time of day in Radasanth, one could find five men in a bar for every human in the library. He quickly opened the envelope and extracted a few bank notes and the letter.

Quote:

---

***~~~***

Sir,

As per our arrangement, the needs of the people outweigh the ambitions of the few. The first one hundred and fifty crowns are enclosed for you based on good faith of your acceptance. We will send a messenger following completion of your task the morning following execution at the same point of contact.

Your job is to remove Edwin Francis from office. We have sent similar details to your colleague, whom we have found to be equally skilled in handling delicate matters such as these.

We thank you in advance for your discretion and valor.

With Regards,
The People of Radasanth

***~~~***

---

Storm neither smiled, smirked, nor frowned upon reading the note; there weren’t any real surprises in there. It was a simple job, one which felt absurdly overdone with the solicitation of two experts in the field. He could easily have done it himself, but reasoned that another set of trustworthy hands would help make things operate more smoothly. There was one thought which bounced around his head, not settling quite right with him.

Amazing how these people make an execution seem like public service. You don’t hire killers to be heroes; you hire killers to kill.

He took another deep pull from his cherrywood pipe, lighting a furious fire within the bowl. He rolled the letter and envelope into a tight cylinder, pushing the edge down and smoking, feeling the fire catch quickly on the corner.

The small fire had burned through over half the paper when a neatly dressed old woman came around the corner as a house of fire.

“What is the meaning of this!? There is no smoking in the…”

Despite the old, greyed eyes that hinted at cataracts, the elder statesmen of the city knew Storm Veritas when they saw him. Fearful from the horror stories of years ago, her tone and volume dropped like a stone.

“Ahem, I’m sorry. Please take your smoke outside sir, these books are very flammable.”

Didn’t back down completely, I like that. Ballsy old bitch. Good.

Bright white teeth flashed in a smile that clenched his pipe taut. Nodding with a hint of respect, the would-be assassin carried the last edge of paper past the terrified woman. His hand quite warm from the burning paper, he hurried outside, where the wind quickly killed the fire. Only black ash and tiny fragments of parchment remained. With one more deep inhale, Storm finished his pipe.

Time to go; work to do.

Thick morning fog broke under the gentle warmth of midmorning. A crier announced the half-bell, and hands exchanged coin in the fish market just like every other day. Fishermen too old to ply their trade sat along a bench like pidgeons, chattering amongst themselves and sharing old tales.

"I saw a Kraken once," one man stated nonchalantly. "Tentacles shot up from the depths and ensnared my ship. Watched it suck a score of my mates into its gaping maw, I did."

"Like hell," another of the old men cackled. "Might have seen an octopus once. There ain't been a damn Kraken in the seas since long before any of us were born."

"Swear on me life," the first raised a hand and crossed his heart. "I still have the scars from where pieces of the boat flew across the deck and carved me up."

"Have you ever seen a demon?" The old men jolted, and glanced up at the younger man standing behind them. He held up two hands, pleading innocence. "Just a question. My apologies. I didn't intend to startle you."

"Ought to be more careful, son," the second man told him. "Old folks like us have horrible constitutions. I almost shit myself." He glanced curiously at the alleged Kraken attack survivor passed an envelope to the boy, then tilted his head. "You two know each other?"

"No," Tobias replied, "and that's as it should be." He tucked the unmarked envelope safely into the folds of his cloak. As he turned away, he waved a quick goodbye. "Thanks, Charlie."

Charlie flashed a wide, toothless smile. "What the blazes was that about?" Charlie turned to his friend and shrugged. "Don't know," he answered. "Just delivering a message."

Quote:

---

Mr. Stalt,

Our sincerest grattitude for accepting this job on such short notice. The people of Corone are in your debt.

As you know, Corone is in the death throes of revolution. Any resistance to the swift end of the bloodshed needs to be dealt with. To that end, we have hired you and another professional to bring justice to one Edwin Francis.

We do ask for the utmost discretion in this matter, of course. Godspeed.

Regards,
The People of Radasanth.

---

As he finished reading, Tobias crumpled the paper into a ball. He struck a match and ignited the note, letting it drift in the wind as flames reduced it to cinders. "Another professional," he muttered. "Hope he's good."

The mercenary trampled the cremated letter as he strode into the back alleys of Radasanth. Standing water and sewage assailed his senses as he made his way toward the Imperial holdings. Tenaments lined either side of the path, and the sound of a kitten mewling somewhere in the distance quelled the silence intermittently.

"Cities like this are sick." Tobias stared up at the grey and blue skyline above the houses. He sighed audibly and shook his head. "Everything in the west is insane. Everyone wants to line their pockets instead of helping someone else. It wasn't like this back home."

After a moment of introspection, the mercenary glanced back toward the Promenade, and to where his target waited.

Standing before the mirror, Storm could barely pull himself away. He had aged – there was no point denying it – but he still looked like he could be the Prime Minister of Radasanth. In his silk shirt, fine suit, and silver cufflinks, his tanned complexion was striking. A bright smile belied a dark soul, and his slicked, meticulously quaffed salt-and-pepper hair was the perfect spray of “energy” and “experience” that instilled a false sense of trust. Were it not for the pair of daggers tucked behind his belt and under his vest, he’d feel positively aristocratic.

Look good, feel good, kill good. Perfect.

The finishing touch was a positively brutal one, but it was essential, nonetheless. The red tie, which his colleague was to be advised would identify him as the partner. It was cumbersome, and obvious, and garish, but he’d acquiesce. It looked clean and suitable, but clearly wasn’t his color, and the urge to replace it with a more suitable blue or yellow ached at him like a mosquito bite, begging to be scratched.

Screw it. Blue tie in the pocket.

Moments later, Storm walked through the front door of his hotel, hitting the street and making a bee-line for the Radasanth House of Representatives. With a notepad tucked under his arm, and a pencil in his left hand, he had all the munitions he was likely to need. They’d never let him past security, but he could possibly meet with the stranger and pick out some movement patterns. Standing at the long stone fence, which separated Center Market from the House, Storm was shoulder to shoulder with a few press types jotting notes for no less than a minute before being rudely disturbed.

“Sir, paper? Half ‘crown!”

The tall wizard turned in disgust at the young merchant, a boy no older than ten who had ran up with a satchel full of local papers. Biting his tongue, Storm handed him a small silver coin to shoo him off, accepting gratitude and offering him some privacy.

The sun was at least high enough to stay out of his eyes now, and cast short shadows behind him in the comfortable late morning. He leaned against the stone fence, pressing the small of his back against the knurled union joint, leaning back hard until his back cracked with satisfaction.

His awful tie in full display, betraying his normal panache, the magician spied about the open area in the warm sun. Bored, he began taking “notes” in his ledger, trying to look busy so as not to announce himself as out of place.

Don’t write anything –real-. No notes of Edwin Francis, or methods of killing, or real plans. Too many eyes around here.

Unable to script actual plans, unwilling to talk to the press-types chattering around him, and unsure as to where his contact was, Storm’s note-taking quickly devolved into vulgar doodles of recent female conquests in various states of disarray.

Radasanth came to life during the latter part of morning. When the sun approached its apex, the dull yawn of wakefulness traded itself in for the commotion of the market. Street vendors shouted merrily and the trickle of gold pieces flowed like water from pocket to pocket. If Tobias did not know better, he would have thought the notion of Imperial oppression absurd.

Smoke roiled skyward from the heart of some local forge, hard at work in their constant battle to kit the dwindling reserve forces. Sequestered away from plain view, the remaining officials conducted the glum business of perpetuating a war that was all but lost. He traced steps unnoticed through the bustle of the crowd, a wraith of a man swathed in black.

Tobias understood the seedy, silent world. In the days that followed his exile from Alerar, he fled constantly and learned to think like his pursuers. As he ducked under the sign of a tailor's shop, he felt a tug at his sleeve. "Beg pardon," hissed an urgent female voice. Tobias glanced idly in her direction. "They said you were 'eaded this way. Word travels fast 'round these parts."

"Who are they?" He frowned. Had he been tailed? He started to turned his head to have a look around, but she gripped his wrist firmly.

"Best not," she whispered. "Don't want to attract any unwanted attention. Come in to the shop, let's make it look like business." He nodded in agreement.

She led him into the modest establishment, flecked with cobwebs and stained with light that bled through holes in the rotted ceiling. The door creaked shut behind them. "Of course, as the situation gets more bleak, the remnant in turn becomes more... ah..."

"Paranoid," Tobias finished her sentence. She snapped her fingers and smiled.

"That's the word!" She reached up and peeled his hood back, searching his eyes. She looked over his stern, yet still young features. "Not much different from you, I imagine." Tobias stood perfectly still, but his gaze followed her as she moved. "They describe you pretty well," she recalled as she suppressed a shudder. "If looks could kill...."

"Get to the point," he snapped.

She produced a tape measure from her sleeve and held it triumphantly in view. With a slight lean that caused her bosom to flop out of her shirt, she began to take his measurements. "Neck first," she stated. "You know, I sold a red tie to a fellow this morning."

"So what?" She tightened the measuring tape a bit more than he was comfortable with, but Tobias did not flinch. After a moment, she relaxed, then sighed.

"New fellow in town," she explained. "Like you. Here on business."

"I see." It clicked in his head instantly when she said the last few words. He noticed a young boy watching through the window and offered a smile. The child went pale, then scurried out of sight. "The Empire hires them that young?" he asked in a low voice.

"No one suspects the children," she replied softly. "That's how I got my start, too." Tobias looked up and studied the girl. Auburn hair and pale skin made her appear almost ghostly. Her green eyes darted away from him. "Don't look at me like that," she hissed.

"Don't much like my kind, is it?" Tobias glanced behind her, toward a painting hung on the wall. It appeared to be a younger, brighter image of the girl taking his sizes. She was flanked by two figures with their faces ripped out of the picture.

"Don't much like men," she replied tartly. "Few years in service to the Imperials can do that to a girl. Got tired of cock, 'specially cock as I dint ask for."

"Ah," Tobias muttered. His thoughts trailed back to the Cathedral of Saint Denebriel. He saw bare flesh again, and he heard the moans. The screams reverberated in his memory. "I understand."

"Doubt it," she shrugged. "But that doesn't concern me much. They wanted to be sure you knew how to find your friend here, in this big city."

Tobias had to give it to this woman, she retained her composure well under pressure. All of her verbal cues were excellent and concise. "Red tie," he repeated back for her to confirm.

"Aye, you were paying attention. Now," she started in on his chest, and scrunched up her face. "Get yer damn arms up. I haven't got all day."

Tobias did as he was told and raised both arms. "The Empire still has you listed as an asset," she told him. "A few of our men on the inside confirmed for us. You should be able to move relatively freely through the palisades."

"At least there's that," he remarked blandly. "I doubt my partner will have that luxury." Tobias watched her for any kind of cue. When it came, it surprised him.

She began to laugh. "No," she shook her head and withdrew her measuring tool. "You'll find him once you get to the rendezvous. At that point, you two can decide the best course of action."

"Thanks very much, ma'am," Tobias spoke up. "I'll return for my shirt in a week's time."

"Always a pleasure, sir," she smiled.

OOC: Bunnying has been cleared

Adventurers are many things. They are nearly always brave, spontaneous, and brazen. They are often intelligent, intuitive, and creative. Occasionally, adventurers are witty, powerful, outspoken, or thoughtful. As would be the case with Storm Veritas, adventurers are nearly never patient.

Son of a bitch must of gotten f*cking lost. That will treat me for agreeing to taking on a partner. Maybe I just run and do it, then shave off a couple crowns and flip them to the lazy prick that couldn’t pull his ass out of bed this morning.

As he contemplated the strategy of playing well with others, Storm instinctively pocketed his notepad full of assorted perversions. Trading one vice for another, he produced his pipe again, once more setting up to indulge in a long, warm smoke as he waited.

A thin man, a little wisp of a thing with wiry white hair, glared up at the magician. His eyes shot weighted daggers at the villain, who returned his glare with white-hot ire. Smoking was not technically illegal anywhere in Radasanth, but there were some “enlightened” members of this pitiful plebeian class that dared to attempt to independently outlaw the practice. Although no freedom fighter, Storm positively relished the opportunity to pick a fight with these overly pious types, who dared impinge upon his civil rights.

“Pick another hill to die on, stranger…” his words were icy cold, and eyes continued to glare down the length of his pipe as he lit the bowl. He did so with a snap of his fingers, overtly displaying the electrical prowess that made him special, dangerous, and identifiable. Without a moment’s delay, the tobacco leaves burst into a rich, gray burn.

Irate, the little man did not recognize the had-been antihero, unaware that once upon a time the name Storm Veritas meant something in this land. Here, today, this stranger was just another selfish ass, and one of the magically-touched many that were inclined to feel entitled. He sneered with disgust, but ultimately swallowed his pride.

Smart move, little man. One pump of bright blue from my fist to your chest and the best doctor in Corone couldn’t save you from the “massive heart attack” the autopsy would determine did you in. Can’t help but admire the stupid brave – you idiots never know how close to the line you dance.

The almost-ugly incident left as soon as it came, and the traveler knew himself lucky to have not been spotted. While Althanas saw many like him come and go, Radasanth didn’t have so many that had done so much that he could presume himself completely anonymous. Worse yet, there was still work to be done, and it’s hard to collect earnings from behind a prison’s walls.

Stepping away from the stone gate, Veritas eyes an approaching stranger. The man – a kid as it were – was slight of frame but very distinctive. He had yellow eyes; a sure sign of magical nobility. At last, things could begin to get interesting. With a wry smile, he extended an open palm towards the stranger.

“It’s about goddamned time.”

"They were a bit too discrete for their own good," Tobias murmured lowly as he brushed past his well-dressed companion. It was not an apology. "Let's walk and talk."

He did not wait for Storm to catch up as he pushed in between two members of the boisterous crowd that had amassed outside of the last Imperial holding. It was not difficult to go undetected in this portion of Radasanth: even with the guard and heavy security in place to keep would-be assailants at bay, the resistance had garnered enough of a foothold that protesters were an ever present piece of the local scenery. Screams of "end this war!" and "surrender!" played on repeat around them, which made it easy for private conversations to remain relatively covert.

As he slid toward the backside of the square, Tobias glanced over his shoulder to where the faux reporter kept pace, albeit several steps behind. "It's not often I take a job for the Coalition," he told the other man, "so I'm the inside man on this job. I can get close enough to drive Francis into the open, if not put an end to him myself. The problem is going to be getting out once we get in."

Straight to the point, Tobias did not often dally on details. "You're saying you do work for the Empire?" Storm raised an eyebrow. "Why go out of your way to kill one of their leaders? Doesn't that cut into your cash flow?"

"A job's a job," Tobias shrugged. "This one pays better."

Storm only grunted in response. Tobias guessed that the explanation was adequate for the other man. He didn't bother to investigate further. "This is a rare opportunity you're getting," he began again. "They rarely open the gates for press releases. Not unless there's a damn good chance to circulate their propaganda. That means they're going to be checking you pretty thoroughly for weapons and contraband. I trust you already prepared for that eventuality."

The other man popped his tie with a winning smile. "If bright red is a crime, lock me up."

Tobias snorted, then shook his head. "This is where we part ways, for now," he said. "It would look strange if we went in together. And I'm using a different entrance. Meet me in the great hall, on the second floor. Got any questions?" He folded his arms and waited for the other man to speak.

There was something about this newfound partner that immediately impressed Storm. The way he moved through the crowds, speaking with ease and finesse; it was just so f*cking smooth. It seemed that he knew a lot MORE than Veritas had been informed of; he held a certain swagger and confidence beyond what anyone in such a predicament could conceivably hold. When the stranger opened the floor for questions, Storm imagined about twenty questions, which seemed reasonable.

Who the hell are you? Why don’t we take him NOW? How do you know about me?

In an instance of pragmatism, the electromancer thought in a more straightforward angle.

“If I see the opportunity before we meet again, I’m taking it. I’ll trust you to do the same. Either way, don’t worry about getting out; distractions are a bit of a specialty for me.”

A bemused smirk was shot his way, but Storm didn’t take long to consider it. With a knowing nod, he turned and began to move, careful not to draw any additional attention to either assassin. There was work to be done.

With his daggers stored off his body but safely nearby, the only “contraband” available was the wire ring used to bind his notepad. Another smile crept across his face as he tucked a pencil back into the ring binding, very proud of his meticulous guising of the perfect garrote.

Now to get past these imbeciles.

The attire of a reporter was a little unsettling for him; the suit was off-rack, the linens thick and loosely combed. For today’s purposes, it served him perfectly as a lovely disguise and horrendously, terribly normal look. A pair of fully metaled guards patted down a series of incoming visitors and press members; Storm’s counterfeit credentials of the Radasanth Register seemed perfectly plausible. He didn’t sweat heavily as he awaited his pat-down.

“Arms-up, hands-open! Move up, spread your legs!” The bark of the guard was full of false authority and the type of cynicism that took years of futile work to forge.

“A little slower on the inner thigh, sailor.” Storm’s request was not handled well, as an angered grunt resonated from the soldier inspecting incomers. Apparently his sense of humor had been stretched thin.

“Clear. Move it, jackass.” His notepad and pencil were thrust into his chest as two hands pressed firmly into his shoulder blades, physically moving him forward before the masses. He heard a good laugh from a few nearby viewers, who apparently didn’t find Storm’s quip very funny, either.

Composing himself, Storm strode towards the large, stone-laid building. The warm sun yielded for the shadows of the great hall, which left a stark coolness. The marble floor of the large amphitheater he entered was full of long echoed footsteps, which set an entirely new tone for the change of pace. His eyes scouted about the room, scouring for his target, the presence of guards, and different paths of inlet and egress.

In the back of a large scrum of huddled reporters, Sir Edwin Francis had begun holding court with his usual panache. It took all of Storm’s best efforts to avoid physically licking his lips as he marched at the huddle. His mind raced with ideas of plotting and action, but the elegance of simplicity called to him loudly.

Just take him, here, now. Time to work. Let’s go, baby.

"Stalt." First Lieutenant Elmira Reinhardt sneered at the mercenary as he strode past her post. The woman glanced around as if something would jump out of shadows and knife her. "I wasn't notified that you were staffed for this press conference. That seems like a bit of overkill, doesn't it?" Tobias studied the woman gently as she interrogated him, but his expression betrayed nothing.

"Miss Reinhardt," he greeted stiffly. There was a rigidity between them Tobias pointedly ignored. "It has been some time."

She eyed him critically. "Eight months," she spat after a moment, "not even a missive, and you show up at my workplace like nothing happened. You're lucky I can't put steel through your face without a court martial." His lips tilted in a wry smirk, but he did not laugh. "All that talk about rings and weddings, bah! You could have told me-"

"Shh," he held up a warding finger and watched the shadows move in the hallway beyond. "This is neither the time nor the place, Elmira. I promise, I'll meet you later for drinks and we can talk about it."

Her face reddened. "Like you promised me we'd have five children? To hell with your promises, Tobias Stalt!" He did laugh at that. "What is it with men like you? Quick to say anything to put your cock in a lass, but slow to keep your word. Poor wenches like me have been suffering from your indulgences for too long. Drinks, hell. I'll put a dagger in your jewels if you come anywhere near me when I'm off duty."

"Ah, Elmira, I understand," he drawled as he raised both hands in defeat. "I will do all that I can to make it up to you, if you'll let me." His gaze moved over her slowly. Her eyes followed his. She scowled. Apart from her expression, she was hardly plain. The buxom armor barely hid her cleavage- perhaps Francis liked them that way? Her lips held that natural pout, painted in a manner too obscure for any guard. Tobias remembered the way her gasps, moans, and screams reverberated, though his desire to recreate them was long gone.

His directive now was to remain inconspicuous.

"Don't flatter yourself, Stalt. Your cock was good, but not that good. You're lucky I don't skewer you." Her green eyes were slow to move from his face, though she visibly forced her body away from his. "I've got work to do. get along, now, before I take you to the guard captain." She let out a slight gasp of surprise as the vagabond slipped a bit closer and put his lips to her ear.

"I apologize, truly," he told her. It was an honest sentiment. Tobias had been a great liar and weaver of tales when his wiles were wanton and his ways were sleazy. He regretted every woman he had done dirty. "I hope you have been well." He cupped the back of her head in the way someone might caress a dear friend. Elmira shivered as his fingers slipped through her silvery hair.

"I haven't," she whispered. "And you're a terrible man." He could almost smell the salt of her tears.

"Yes," he agreed. "I am."

She shoved him. Tobias did not resist the effort. "Get on," she rasped. "Go." He watched her for a moment, woefully aware of the pain he had caused.

Damn me.

He turned slowly as she fought back sobs, then strode deftly into the dimly lit halls. He heard the rabble beyond who had been called to court, and the dull roar of amassing reporters trickled in. He spared one glance back toward Elmira, who was nowhere to be seen. That's not good.

The Mercenary grit his teeth as he increased the pace. There were a hundred things that the woman might do. Tobias did not want to bet on any one of them. He spied the tight guard already in place, posted at least one hundred strong. The court was massive, decorated with stained glass left over from the age of heroes. The light spilled through the colorful windows and over the crowd, somber blues and gentle greens at contrast with the incriminating red that fell on him.

"Got to work quickly," he muttered.

Tobias slipped into the crowd as the clatter of metallic footsteps filled the hall in his wake. "Find him," the guard captain hissed. "Find Tobias Stalt."

The huddle of people around the politico was a sight in and of itself. A slug of exclusively men, almost all between thirty five and sixty, shoulder to shoulder in a human wave of raised hands and frenetic pencils. Each of them scrambled with their pieces of wood-shorn lead, chanting at the seasoned aristocrat with fervor and desperation. In the large, open aria with marble floor and high, vaulted ceilings, the echo of their outcry sounded like a flock of crows cawing at high tide.

They all needed to report out on Francis’s positions; each one hoping to launch their competition to the Radasanthian Reader. Despite their collective isolation and individuality, they moved to follow him as one.

They look like a school of tuna, ready to get picked off by the sharks.

The entire affair was such a tease to the wizard. Francis waddled in front of him like a fat ribeye before the eyes of a lion. One single blast of electric energy would fry him in his tracks, sizzling that bloated gullet of neck fat like a bullfrog in a campfire. The problem was certainly not the execution; it was the escape that seemed impossible.

Two guards or better at every door. Plenty of light. People everywhere. Sure, I’ll scare away the pussies, but the men with swords will know who did the deed. How do I hit and run!?

The convenience of living amongst such opulence was the presence of metal. Leering about the space about him, Storm scrawled on his notepad as he took inventory of all that which he could manipulate. The guards wore metal armor, the windows were iron-rimmed, and steel even supported the large, marble beams that erected the entire room. In an effort to make the amphitheater supernaturally strong, the architects of the city left it extremely vulnerable to the supernatural.

Veritas smiled as he peeked at his notepad. In his mindless doodling executed to portray the visage of a writer, he had scrolled a page’s worth of phallus and bosoms in simplistic fashions. That he had pulled this off without even looking at the notepad struck him as somewhere between hilarious and terrifying.

You stupid ass. It’s a goddamned miracle you haven’t gotten yourself killed in a whore house or poker room by now.

The echoes of crows cawing away their pedantic, idiotic questions was beginning to quell, and Storm knew that time was of the essence. The brilliance of his electromagnetic wizardry was that his actions had no apparent author, and he could play as shocked and appalled as every pedestrian imbecile that unknowingly witnessed him bring down the house.

His eyes locked in upon a large crystal chandelier, positioned subjectively above the collection of huddled stupid. The wiring which suspended the large spread of glass and electric candles was made from twisted iron, which gave the piece of art a brilliant, gothic appearance. It also made the entire thing brilliantly susceptible.

The hand which held the notepad opened flat, his palm pressing openly through the penis-laden papers. A massive pulse of energy was channeled upwards, pulling at the wire harness. At first, the outer bands of the candelabra yielded and bent, sending shrapnel of fragmented glass and casings to the audience below in a terrible twinkling sound. Within four seconds, curiosity gave way to carnage as the whole damned chandelier began its free fall from some forty feet.

Backpedaling as if awestruck and terrified into the sea of reporters, Storm let out a horrified shriek that should have belonged to a small girl. He wasn’t the only one screaming in abject fear as four hundred pounds of glass and light came crashing down unexpectedly.

And now it hits the fan…

(Moving to Solo mode because Tobias has flaked on me)

The crash of metal and glass hit the ground as a hush fell over the crowd. People had sprayed backwards from the projected landing spot, but were still largely paralyzed by the shock of imminent danger in an environment that was typically a safe haven.

Time to fly!

The moments surrounding the fall of the massive chandelier featured Storm’s best work, as the electromancer instinctively pocketed his notepad and found one of his long, slender daggers between the fingertips of his right hand. Had he pulled the blade from his sheath? The entire process was so automatic that he couldn’t quite remember. While all other eyes in the room took the beauty of destruction wrapped around the falling ornament, he was bursting towards Francis, the blowhard son of a bitch that bloviated wildly to his press corps with thumbs tucked into his suspenders.

The wizard’s feet were a blur, his body a slithering, boneless serpent. He moved between the press corps with only incidental contact, his speed so steady and intention so focused that none stopped to question the contrasting actions. He was four feet behind the politician as the bottom tip of the chandelier had just begun to crash into the unyielding polished redwood floor. The thunderous crash of glass and twisting metal produced a perfectly muted two seconds.

Two seconds was more than enough.

Without hesitation, Storm snapped his body forward, hands firing across the chest of Sir Edwin Francis, opening his neck above the collarbone in a wide, tearing slash.

That’ll do it, fat boy. Time to screw.

He stepped back just as quickly, and as automatically as it had been produced, the dagger was resheathed, just touched with the cuprous and rich blood of the portly politician. He had been simply too fast for the blade to take on more blood, the strike so clean that Francis only felt the enormity of his wound seconds later. As the sound died, he felt the eyes of many fall upon him.

Now, turning, Storm felt eyes upon him as the thunderous crash of glass settled into a spraying, chattering echo of rebounding glass shards. The collective gasp of the room was now two-fold; the majority still reeling from the explosive crash and checking their skin for shrapnel, while many aghast at the falling Francis. Edwin Francis was caught in disbelief, hands clutching his throat as he fell limply, with a fast spreading hemisphere of crimson pulling his white dress shirt taut to his barrel chest. Two members of the press caught him and supported the falling body, as others called and pointed in the direction of the fast-fleeing villain.

“It’s him! The red tie! Get him!”

Well, shit, this f*cking tie!

Storm Veritas hit the stairs at full gait, striding four stairs at a time for two strides before bounding up the marble risers with a desperate leap. He avoided a few outstretched hands, but felt the crush of humanity swirling around him. Before him, two guards blew whistles and raised sabers in his direction. Behind him, a hoard of people seemed to scramble upwards, emboldened and furious. The light sprayed in on him as he moved forwards, his cheeks growing red as he searched frantically for the sight of Tobias Stalt. The secondary distraction was now overdue.

Any time now, Tobias. Any goddamned time.

While dozens of concerned reporters swarmed on the dying Edwin Francis like ants on an abandoned crumb, Storm scrambled to find an egress from his disastrous situation. He found himself in a long, suspended catwalk above the main floor, a small hoard of guards and hardscrabble men following him with loud calls amidst the chaos. The long, polished sand colored marble ahead of him was pristine and unblemished, a sharp contrast from the limitless entropy he left in his wake.

“Up there, the red tie! Grab him!” The chorus of calls from behind the white noise generally paraphrased to some similar appropriation. The sun shone in at a low angle through the tall, broad windows that marked the eastern side of the hallway, dust particles dancing gently and indifferent to the petty humans that trifled beneath them.

How much longer can I wait!?

Tobias Stalt held a very high reputation in Radasanth, perhaps one of the few whose name raised as many eyebrows as Storm’s did. In spite of this, the desperate electromancer knew his time was fleeting; waiting for the dapper gentleman would be his undoing if he continued to push his chips behind the wager of divine intervention.

Screw it. Time for my own f*cking divinity.

With a wave of his hand, Storm tore the iron railing from its cemented wrest, a tremendous effort that drained the blood from his face. The screeching, creaking scream of the twisted metal joined with the railing creating a fine blockade behind the wizard and before the oncoming flood of humanity. Furious, a symphony of pitiful clangs and swears sounded his way as his pursuers were stopped at the wall of freshly turned iron atop the catwalk. Behind Storm, a single wall of office doors remained conspicuously closed, no doubt pencil pushers locking their work-homes from the inside.

Gotta move, gotta move. Shit, gotta move.

To his right, the catwalk ran another hundred feet before another set of heavy marble stairs spilled down to the same chaotic floor, where men sprinted awkwardly in their expensive suits to get at him. Echoing his earlier move, the powerful mage pulled the iron footings clear of their small cement foundations, blocking off now both paths to attack him.

A single crossbow bolt missed him, an armed guard firing the small lead bolt at him from the floor below. He didn’t even see the dart, just heard the whistle-thwack of the projectile striking the wall above and behind him. Instinctively, he jumped back and squatted, hiding himself from the archer’s angle of attack. Another wave of swears and curses roared his way as he looked to his right at the new wave of pinned pursuers.

Reaching behind him, Storm found his hand on the doorknob to one of the three accessible offices. The door handle resisted him, but very little effort was needed for him to use his abilities to unlock the metal tumblers. A simple turn, and…

(THUMP)

The door was blocked from the inside, where the hinges for the door sat cleverly hidden. He was completely trapped, and noticed archers moving for the stairs.

They get up here, and you’re screwed. Fish in a f*cking barrel.

From his perch, hidden from the view of the outraged people below, the sun shined down in a compassionate yellow glow upon the great evil man. The window panes were fairly thin, and certainly metal, hanging some twenty feet in front of him.

Shit. That’s it, then. Only live once.

When a man lives long enough upon Althanas, he can find courage an easy thing to fake. A tall enough glass of whiskey, or the business end of a flintlock pistol were more than enough to spur even the most cowardly of men to action. Storm Veritas epitomized this phony bravery on many occasions, and for a brief moment most likely appeared quite fearless to the oncoming hoard of people to both his right and left. Not fooled in the charade was the heart, beating out of his chest with a deafening toomtoomtoomtoom rattle that made it hard to draw a breath.

Clowns to the left of me… jokers to the right… here I am…

…totally, irrefutable f*cked.

The wizard squatted, breathing deeply as his legs trembled beneath him. The window opposite him was tall, with panels of glass some four feet tall, bound by relatively thin metal glazings. Pulling the railings had done a number on him. From here, he was too fatigued to simply pull the casings, allowing the glass to fall free and clear. With sweat running over his brow and filling his lips with a taste of salt, the quick math of a relatively bright man was simple enough.

Three steps, pump, blast, and pray like a son of a bitch. Goddamnit Tobias.

The cavalry wasn’t coming, so the element of surprise was the last bastion for the electromancer. He strode quickly across the catwalk, reaching a bound and leaping with anger headlong at the window. Airborne, he heard a raucous call below him, archers raising their crossbows at a most unexpected target. His electromagnetic focus found purchase on the cross point of four window panes his shoulder seemed destined to crush, and was able to dislodge the set point as he soared, the glass creaking and metal yielding. Sadly, the glass only broke away in a small fragment, leaving large, heavy panels of unfriendly silica suspended in his wake.

You. Whore.

The collision of man and glass and metal was as graceful as a newborn giraffe, the bending of flesh and manufactured materials being ushered to the people with a crack, crash, and shriek of splintering glass. The mage had hit the glass high and hard, leading with a shoulder that bounced and contorted, his back and hip following through the shrapnel. Fragmented, long thin blades of window hung behind the crash, their tips coated crimson as a warning for other damned fools stupid enough to attempt such an absurd stunt. Behind the falling body, a sparkling rain of scarlet tipped shards landed harmlessly about the foyer and window with a soft twinkling sound.

Now outside the building, Storm experienced six new shades of hell. He landed in shrubbery, a mild mercy of thorn and thin branch that cushioned his fall at the expense of innumerable scratches about his forearm, face, hand and wrist. His body had been torn wide from right shoulder to hip, long thin streaks like daggers dragged the length of a man’s arm. His clothing stuck to his back in an unmistakable wetness; his body was pumping blood wildly and he was most certainly on the clock.

Get away, get shelter, get stitched. Don’t stop. You stop, you die.

A wild fear held his heart compressed within a tightened chest. The pain that injuries wrought upon his body was nothing aside from the self-suffocation of panic that clutched his torso within an invisible vice. The luxury of self loathing, rest, and forethought were no longer available; he knew that his bombastic exit from the municipal building would gain the attention of anyone within a quarter mile.

The sun blasted his face like a spotlight, the clock in his head ticking. He had to clear himself of the grounds, and the city, in spite of his wounds. Worse, he had to do it right now.

The bush was harsh and unforgiving, but the oncoming rush of horrified Radasanthians would be far worse. Storm had to scramble, seek safety, anonymity, and to be healed. First, there would be one minor hold, one cessation of escape in the name of justice. His hand grabbed at his throat, clutching and tugging with the urgency of a choking man.

Seriously, F*CK this tie…

The red tie had brought him nothing but bad luck, and in spite of his injuries and urgency, Storm Veritas brought the terrible rose colored necktie to hell. Grasping both ends of the long, silken scarve, the blue etchings made for the perfect resistor. A small electrical pulse the length of the tie was slowed by the blue ink, which glowed orange briefly before bursting into flame. The whole ordeal took seconds, but the small pillar of grey smoke that burst from the little pile gave him a rush that was nearly orgasmic. The faint odor of smoke reminded him of his easy morning, and brought a craving to resume his position behind a good pipe.

Seconds wasted. Get your ass in gear.

Snaking low through tall bushes which obscured his view from the edges of the tall, gothic building, there was near pandemonium erupting from every orifice of the mighty government edifice. They were looking, and sprinting towards where he had landed, no doubt soon to trace the toppled grasses and droplets of blood that would lead to him. He didn’t pause to hop a hip-high, ebony painted iron wrought railing and onto the main, cobblestoned street. His back screamed in agony, a long crimson slash dancing down and across his back. Improvisation was a strength.

People looked on in horror, the aristocratic and debonair adventurer looking as though he hopped out of the very gates of hell. Across the street, a tailor’s shop was open, its heavy door propped open with a long-loosed cobblestone. Without hesitation, the wizard strode through the door, grabbed a white dress shirt and handy grey overcoat, and flipped five gold crowns to a bewildered shopkeep.

“Sir, those are over fifty…”

“Rental; one hour. Shut your f*cking mouth and take it.” The razor thin eyes of the wounded Storm Veritas shot a white hot glare at the tailor, and he didn’t slow as he exited the back door. Bright sunshine found his face immediately, as behind him he heard the maddened rush of loud and angry men that had entered the tailor’s shop. Running now, he gripped the shirt and coat in his fist, dashing between buildings at a full head of steam. Small alleys and alcoves were insufficient cover; his escape was as inconspicuous as a fireworks display. Something about a sweat-soaked, profusely bleeding Adonis caught the attention of these three-toothed townies on a warm, pedestrian morning.

The further he moved, the more he bled. He was gaining distance, but losing consciousness. The blood fell slowly from his face as he felt the wet stain of blood drop down across the top of his dress pants.

Stay up, keep moving. Build distance, hang tight. Hang tight.

The sun was beating on him as he moved with a delirious blend of pain and haze, until an oasis appeared amidst a small alleyway. A sewer cap was upturned, beckoning him.

Thank the Gods.

He moved ahead as quickly as possible, the raucous screams and yells from behind him blended into a singular wave of white noise. The assassin’s body ached, his blood and sweat blending into a thin, dirty slime that covered him as he plunged down into the depths beneath.

Splash!

It was dark down here, a long and broken tube extending through the black before him, broken in fifty-yard intervals by sprays of sunshine that popped down from the street above as the sun rose high. With a hand before him glowing lightly, the wizard could move much more quickly than his pursuers. After making his first turn (a hard left under what he believed must have been the first tavern), he heard the crash of soldiers and constables crashing into the sewers behind him. It was only after moving for some thirty seconds that the gravity of the stench overpowered him.

Why couldn’t I be one of the specials that could just teleport, or fly? This place is BULLSHIT.

The ankle-deep sewage was most likely largely relatively clean; Storm hoped against hope he was running through runoff from kitchen drains and rainwater overflow. This ignorance was all he could stomach, and his ignorance of plumbing wrenched the singular, sinking suspicion that he was running through human waste. At the least, amidst a few dozen rats that had smartly fled from the steadily jogging magician, the ripe odor was dilute. As the sludge splashed up upon his ankles and knees, a sinister smile crept across his face.

If you’re wasting energy worrying about getting a little shit on your pants, that certainly beats the shit you almost filled them with. We’re out of the fire, baby.

Men continued to descend as he worked his way axially away from the site of his transgressions. They were searching for needles in a haystack, picking random sewercaps to dive down in hopes the scoundrel would happen to be moving past at that particular moment. It was a fool’s errand, and they were desperate. As statistics dictate, they were also unsuccessful.

He wouldn’t be caught again, but he had been identified from his abilities. Radasanth would not be safe for him for some time, but other ne’er-do-wells would come by and steal the headlines, freeing him from scrutiny. For today, he’d have to skip town, launder funds into his own pockets, and regroup. His head scrambled a bit; he could live in the forest for some time, and show up in town a month from now with a thick beard and wolfskin clothing. He could also hide out in the stables, catch the morning post, and evade arrest for long enough to pick up a few hundred extra crowns. The latter option seemed entertaining; it would afford him a chance to cash in more quickly, and would afford him the chance to steal a bottle of whiskey and have himself a night.

Naturally, that night would make for a different adventure.

Thread: The Fall of Sir Edwin Francis
Participants: Storm Veritas & Tobias Stalt
Type: Workshop

Storm Veritas receives 2200 EXP and 150 GP.
Tobias Stalt receives 660 EXP and 50 GP.

All rewards have been added. Congratulations on your level up, Storm!