The Stolen Weapon

The dark leather coat hung across his frame. The familiar elf, dark skinned and calm as a soothing sea, stepped through the doorway. His glasses reflected off of the little light left in the room. Passing a massive cauldron full of a thick, muddy substance, he stepped up a fleet of cold stairs and seated himself upon a makeshift throne. He knew he was operating outside of the law, he knew this could spell trouble. This opportunity, however, was too important to just let slip away. As he looked around the steel, rusted room, he placed his chin in his palm. “Was this the only option we had?”

From the shadows, the voice of a female sounded. “This is an abandoned base of the Coronean Rangers. It is secluded, has all the perfect tools for our project, and maintains hefty security. It was made as a prison and torture chamber.”

The sounds of grunting sounded as through a hallway, two workers were lifting several large crates of goods. The dark elf shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he muttered, “It will have to do…”

“Sir?” The elf turned to see the female stepping closer. She was a younger dark elf with purple skin and short blue hair. She adjusted her own glasses as she cleared her throat. “Are you sure Alerar won’t find us out?”

“A month is all we need.” The scientist turned to watch as more supplies and equipment were brought into the dark room. “Lucky, I’ve been saving up so much vacation time.”

He lifted his hand as he smiled, “Plus, everything we have brought with us, we bought from the Fourth Guild before we left. We shall soon return to the Spires safe and sound.”

The woman placed a hand on his chair's metal brim. “I believe in you, Golwendor.”

For a time they observed the operation. This large hall was where prisoners were dragged in, then awaited their pain. Indeed, a quick look around proved that this long forgotten prison had many torture devices and interrogation options to choose from. It was like Halloween candy! Golwendor smirked. Only one thing was needed left...

“High sir!” Another man entered the room. The brunette human bowed in respect towards the scientist and spoke excitedly. “The bounty hunters have accepted the bounty! They will soon bring the weapon to us.”

Golwendor nodded, “Excellent work, Morgwen. Take a half an hour off, rest up.”

The young man nodded in thanks and darted off to the mess hall. As he left, Golwendor lightly laughed before turning to his right hand. “See, Eredhiel? Everything is perfect! All according to plan…”

The Stolen Weapon

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[OOC: Closed the Shinsou, Philomel, Hayate, and Storm if they want to join. I'll be posting the next post then it's whatever posting order y'all want.]

*Slam!*

A heavy fist slammed into the desk. The scout reporting to his general flinched as she fumed. “This cannot stand!”

The redhead looked down at the table, neatly organized minus the pencil holder she just tipped over. She scooped up the pencils and started putting them back in the holder as she scowled, “Nothing impairs the safety of Whitevale like that. I’m heading out to see for myself.”

The man stood there, baffled. “You-you can’t take on an entire drave pack by yourself!”

Behind her desk, the young woman laid back. “Of course I can’t. Which is why you’re going to report this straight to Lord Osiris.” As dim sunlight filtered through the large window behind them, the muscular woman pushed her seat back. She stood up, “I’ll be gone by the time you get to him. I’ll be scouting their location and taking them out. Now go!”

The urgency in her voice caused the man to dart from the room. Left alone, the girl stalked across the room, causing the wooden floorboards to moan. She walked up to a display where all her weapons were neatly set out for all to see.

“You’re not hunting monster mutts in that outfit, are you?”

Felicity gasped, turning around to see a white haired boy whom magically appeared in her room. He leaned against the cupboard opposite of the display. He smiled as she scowled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She turned and pulled a black sword down. “And yes, I’m changing.”

The green eyed woman currently wore a red shirt, covered by a black tunic and trousers. She had heard that these two colors were rather striking and professional. As the general of the Brotherhood, she needed to look her best. Her long hair was tide back in a ponytail. As she continued to ready her weapons, the boy spoke.

“Hey, I will not be able to make contact with you for the next month.”

The girl dropped the bow in her hand, whipping around in disbelief. “A month?”

The lightly dressed boy sighed. "The Great Ones have called me for an extended time. I dare not disobey them.”

The room was flooded with knowing sadness. Felicity placed her dirk on the desk as she walked over to him. “You’re not their puppet, Gwenael.”

The blue eyes of the being turned golden amber. “I am their holder of time. Jomil’s offspring.”

The girl placed a hand on his shoulder, “At least believe in yourself a little? And come back.”

Gweneal reached up and took the hand on his shoulder. “I will return to you, who I have sworn to guide through life.”

The two shared a single moment of sadness before urgency called them both to depart. Gwenael smiled, “Take care of those draves, ragechild.”

The girl smirked, waving a finger in front of him. “Take care of yourself, owl boy.”

Then, they tore away. The girl rushed back to her weapons as Gwenael approached the window. He called before he left, “Good luck, Felicity!”

~~~

The cold road was bitter. Dead grasses surrounded them as they darted behind a bolder. One man lifted his hand as a signal to the other. They were the top of the line, professionals at this kind of work. No wonder their bellies were full in this apocalyptic nightmare surrounding them. As harsh winds blew at them, the man next to the first cursed at the cold. The two were brothers. Bounty hunters for six years and counting. Their newest mission was to capture the girl Felicity Rhyolite and bring her to the undisclosed location. They knew she would be out here soon, searching for a nonexistent pack of draves in the countryside. They waited…

A thin, well quaffed man of average height stood in the doorway in the central quarters of Whitevale. An oversized office was framed with narrow windows, which allowed only a small touch of moonlight into the resident therein. Finding the room had been simple enough, but the whole administrative building seemed otherwise vacant at this hour. As his father once told him, bad news aged worse than milk, and ripping off a bandage was always the lesser of two evils to the slow peel.

He nervously rapped his fingers across the paperwork he was holding, feeling the crisp edge of the folder against his long, slender digits. He was dizzy, sick with nerves as he shifted weight from foot to foot, reminding himself don’t lock your knees and remember to breathe! as guidance to prevent passing out. He had bad news to deliver, and the man who’d assumed the lead of the town could sense it.

“Enough with the bullshit soft-shoe routine. What in the blue fuck do you want!?” Behind a large wooden desk, his face lit by a long-wicked candle which seemed to cry upon itself in a timeless glob of wax, Storm Veritas looked weary. The once-adventurer had replaced the formerly omnipresent odors of aged, honeyed mead and venereal disease for slow-drying inkwells and whale oil lanterns. His face looked the part, appearing more drawn upon a yellowed, almost pallid complexion.

“Evening sir, Steven Nimitz, father of four here in town. M’lord, word from the Capital. It’s not my own message, sir.” Stalling, he looked to his shoes for answers.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I KNOW IT’S BAD! WHAT IS IT, BOY!?” The brief eruption from the officer pained both of them. Quieting, the seated wizard rubbed at his face, feeling the thick stubble upon his jawbone as he braced himself for the inevitable. His eyes raised, awaiting retort.

“Radasanth, sir. It appears there’s a lien against Whitevale based on damages.” Without further delay, the hesitant younger man carefully laid the folder of papers upon the edge of the leader’s desk. As the magician began to pore over details, Steven deliberately backpedaled, his heels searching for the framing of the door, tapping about and seeking escape. His eyes remained upon the tired Veritas, like a trainer cautiously gaining distance from his tiger. He noticed the wizard wave him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, brushing the air towards him. Knowing a golden opportunity, the man was but a shadow and memory before Storm Veritas could change his mind.

Coincidentally, Storm couldn’t help but grimace at the sight of this preposterous document. Radasanth had no leverage to collect money from Whitevale directly, but they could place restrictions, tariffs, and threaten further liens upon the other towns in Corone that Whitevale relied on. If Storm chose to continue his intended insubordination, they’d likely pressure other trading partners, perhaps Alerar to stop the influx of spice and technology.

Gods. Already giving twenty-five percent of my business to these brokering whores that skim from the top and bottom of every transaction. Maybe I’ll chop everything amongst them, and try to create a bidding war amongst them. Let them launder the exchanges outside the purview of Radasanth, and see if we can’t slice that skim a touch.

The wizard held the paper aloft, snapping his fingers to create a spark and watching the paper and ink catch above his desk. A lovely char smell filled the small room, casting a secondary light on the otherwise dark evening. As the papers burned, tiny fragments of newly blackened paper floated through the air, their red-orange rims fading before they slowly, dramatically settled upon the lacquered hickory desk.

OK, cute enough. Don’t burn the goddamned place down trying to be cute.

His smile fading, Storm pivoted slightly in his chair, dropping the quickly burning paper into the trash. He’d have his administrator call in the brokers in the morning; the moon was high and his temper was short. Negotiations would be tense, expensive, and annoying, but Storm would be cold in the ground before he would willingly split a single crown off his pile for the pigs in Radasanth.

Sighing with resignation, he shifted back in his chair, pulling from two pockets to produce a pipe in one hand and a healthy pinch of tobacco in the other. He was good at this, and knew he’d find a way to insulate Whitevale from Radasanth’s petulancy. He also loathed this sort of work, and gazed out the window to fantasize of a time where his Brotherhood business actually included action

After the fallout of the war, the Gilded Lily formally invited those ladies associated with their guild, who were not yet part of the Lily army, to join it. As per the training of any Gilded Lily woman, each of them already know how to fight to a degree, at least in the context of defending oneself. Philomel van der Apart, matriarch of said guild, recognised even more now the need for available arms. After the world changing super volcano, which was then followed by reports of death and disease, it had been a difficult time for the faun. She had been seemingly everywhere in Corone, from a small town infected by an odd infection brought on by contaminated water, to her fortress hidden away in the forested mountains of the north. The world seemed to constantly be beckoning her, and she answered, with courage and sword and intellect.

In her wake she left soldiers. Those who had been part of her army beforehand, and those who now longed to be. Of course they could still earn money in the traditional Gilded Lily way - of seduction and pleasure - but they had a bigger commitment to the defence of women in times of violence now. Althanas' first feminist guild had to fight in a world governed by men, who lived by sword and steel, both with mind and body.

Thus it was that Philomel found herself in a wood, quietly training new recruits in a further level of swordwomanship than they had received before. Gone were the basics of self-defence - this was real and serious. Swords clashed in light rings, arrows thudded into trees. The women were strong. They were fierce. And nothing would stand in their way.

Or so they thought.

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Sorry its short. Let me know if you want me to add anything, but tried to leave it open for you.

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