By Rook, Wrath, and Ruin (Solo)

[Leopold]

Previous Day
Berevar, The Ahyark Pass

Mr Whalen lay prone on the eastern side of the pass. With his bow strung, arrow notched, and one eye closed with a squint, the sniper watched and waited. In the intensity of the moment his breath had stopped, his heart seemed to die and his skin froze.

The perfect kill was his to relish.

As a young boy, Thurman Whalen had always had a keen aim. From slingshots to knife to bow, it was a natural progression for the boy wonder to become a mercenary. He was, in fact, the greatest archer in Salvar.

“Come on now,” he whispered, breaking his concentration just long enough to incite his old ritual. “Just a little closer…” he goaded the caravan as it moved through the snow.

What Mr Whalen had expected to happen at that moment was for silence to fall over the cold crag and for the caravan to continue up and out into the tundra. When the last wagon passed his sights he would lose his arrow. The death of his target would incite panic in the wagon’s guard just as the brigade burst through the swirl and cut into the slumbering occupants of the rear wagon.

He did not however expect to feel a familiar, chilly prang against the nape of his neck. He swallowed a lump from his throat and slowly released the tension in the bow. The thick shaft of the arrow rested limply against the fine horse hair string. It’s cold, barbed steel tip shone in the twilight. Though Mr Whalen had come to prefer long range engagements, he had lived just long enough to recognise a sword pressed against his skin when he felt one.

“Good evening,” a husky voice whispered behind him. The sword retreated and right on cue, Mr Whalen rolled onto his back. His head was half suspended over the edge of the crag, the vast and perilous expanse below threatening to engulf him.

“Oh,” the archer mouthed.

Arden Janelle could only smile. It was the sort of smile he had used before, and the sort of smile that had garnered him many strange names in his native Scara Brae.

“Listen closely, and you may die quickly.” Mr Whalen nodded hastily. The strikingly red attire of the swordsman could only be a bad omen for the archer. All his instincts told him to comply and wait for an opportunity to present itself…if it ever did.

“There is a man down below by the name of Mr Thomas I believe. Are you familiar with the fellow?” he raised an eyebrow beneath the red silk hood. He tightened his gauntlet about the hilt of his long, single edged and devilishly sharp blade. It re-assured Mr Whalen that he was very skilled with using it.

“Yes…”

“Good. Now, turn around, quite slowly, and when he appears from that abyssal snow veil…what do you think I am going to ask you to do?” Arden’s voice was fairly chirpy, too chirpy, Mr Whalen mused to himself. He came across as horribly comfortable with the acts of subterfuge and murder. The archer almost admired him, almost.

“I have…a wild idea.” Mr Whalen’s eyes sparkled. Arden almost admired him right back.

Arden waited for his victim to roll over and shuffle on the flattened, thawing snow. Beneath the man’s cloak, the cold frost of Berevar could not remain solid for long. The man’s clothing, dark green and brown wool were damp and smelt rotten. He had, from Arden’s limited experience with snipers, been prone on this crag for quite some time.

“Good man.” Arden leant forwards, just enough to see the carriages below. They were faint red squares in the gloom, barely touched by the moonlight that pierced the dark heavens and clouds overhead.

On cue, the distinct sound of men too brave for their own good assaulting a merchant’s caravan rose up from the frosty depths of the Ahyark Pass.

“Now?” Mr Whalen asked meekly. He notched the arrow properly once more and pulled it back. With nimble and prehensile muscle strength, the short bow, wickedly tight and brandishing red ribbons that matched Arden’s attire wavered. Even in the heavy wind and poor visibility, Mr Whalen was horribly confident with his aim.

Arden pressed the tip of Kerria against the man’s neck once more.

“Show Mr Jackson your ‘trick’. I am quite excited to see it; he spoke of it for many leagues.” Arden flashed a grin, and no sooner than the arrow fled the bow into the mist, he pushed down with his sword. At the same time the arrow struck Mr Johnson down below, his blade slipped between the main vertebrate in Mr Whalen’s neck and cut any feeling to his legs with a sickening crunch.

He stooped and plucked up the bow, so that his ‘costume’ for Mrs Winchester was complete, and muttered a soft prayer for the dead. If she believed he had done exactly as she had asked, instead of get others to do work he did not consent to doing, then all would work out right in the end. She had seemingly forgotten, when she pressed him to infiltrate the Brigade because her husband would do nothing in Knife's Edge to stop them, that he blind in one eye.

“I would not invite you to parties because of it…,” Arden chuckled, his punch line falling on deaf ears before it was whisked away into the wilds, where only the Old Gods would remember it. He pulled his sword from Mr Whalen’s corpse, and turned to descend the jagged cliff face.