Tora Tyra :: So the battle begun

[vladdeh]

It was not, as a matter of consequence, terribly important that he died. It would be, from many perspectives, better if he did do so. And who was I to deny the people their wishes? I had always acted on their behalf (even if they were not aware of it) now was no different.

My target sloshes back his seventh tankard of ale. It had not been a good day for him. Since he woke (or was woken would be more accurate) before dawn he had spent the day being hustled by tall person after butch person after scarey person. And I had been there, watching from the shadows as I always do. I had timed it perfectly. In the moment of his darkest dispear I had bumbed into him. Literaly sending him flying backwards.

The cover was perfect. A fight had broken out down on fifty-third street outside the Kings Head and I had been caught it its mist after tailing my target who had, momentarily, escaped my sight. I know many people, and I also owe many people many things (and i've every intention to keep it that way), it was one such person who I happened to owe something very expensive and precious. My flee had brought me barraling into him. Him who had accepted my large bleeding eyes that saught his protection.

And he gave it.

Very willingly. All it took was a few out of breath pleas and the promise of a night he'd not forget (there are no lengths I'd not go to you understand) for him to whisk me away to here. Here being the Royal Partridge. It was far from royal, the floor was grimmy with thirteen years dirt, fleas were as common as the alcohol and the stools were often missing legs. Not to mention the glasses weren't cleaned. This didn't seem to both him. Or me. The royal was perfect, the shabby upstairs rooms were within my price range (even his by the look of him) and meant we didn't look out of place.

So the night has progressed with very little deviation to how you might expect. I had been sure to digest two loafs of stale bread before consuming alcohol (and Vlad has found a trick with fish that works tremendously though I reccomend not telling the men you've a dead fish down your top) to insure I did not become intoxicated as he did.

He leans brashly over the bar and waves his hand dramaticaly. "Suwus!" He barks at the waitress who flashes the same smile she flashes all the men "Suwus!" He yells at her again over the racket behind us. A poker game is in full swing. I debated about joining until I thought my cover might be blown. The bar maid siddles over. "Can I help you Sir?" She asks him as she polishes the inside of beer glass. The same one she was polishing when we came in three hours ago. "Woo wuddy well can. Youuusgimme ale!" He snaps at her, so furious with her slow movements. I lean forwards, giving her my own beady grin. Fake. "Make that port. We can't have my man falling behind." She nods and turns away to reach for the port. My target looks at me through blurred eyes as he studies the new tankard I hold up. It is filled with a dark liquid. Port. He gives a mischievious grin of understanding when in reality he doesn't have a clue how I came to own the port.

Quick hands my dear.

The maid brings back the port and my target downs it slower than the ale he had been poisening himself with. I debate about forcing the drink down him until he dies, only that would take too long. So I'll do it now, because his frequent kissing and hand exploration of my anatmony is begining to drive me mad.

No one notices him slump into his drink. Just as no one notices his left eye spin out of control in the port, the blood spilling uncontrolably into his agape mouth. I give a relived sigh and stagger from the bar onto the street. Now, I must find Vlad, to insure that Girl of his turns up...

[*Verdana*]

I spend my nights as I spend most of my nights in civilisation: Engaged in a little friendly sport. This 'sport' shifts from one focus to the next. From seeing how many pocketwatches I can swap to how close behind people I can walk before they notice. The fun in this is heightened a little by the beer. I'm not drunk per se, not after a measely two pints. I'm just elated. Yeah. That works.

Unfortunately, my 'elation' doesn't last as long as I'd hoped. I have a high tolerance to alcohol due to what I would like to think of as a strategically large intake of the stuff in my youth. By about two hours after midnight, all that I'm left with is a slight tingling in my right elbow and a feeling of loneliness as I wander the deserted streets. After midnight, even the thieves and beggars have retreated to their homes and alcoves around the city. Me? I don't have a little place to put my head down. It's the wise choice. It is. Nothing to hold me down or keep me in place. No sentimentality. Besides, I don't need one. I've got my pack, a good, sturdy pair of boots, my trusty knife and some useful skills. That's all I need to survive.

Still, there's no denying that I'm alone.

I kick my feet against the cobbles. It doesn't really do much, but it makes me feel better. Mist is filling the back streets. It smells like ocean air and old fish. And... And something else. I can't quite place the smell. It's too far. Nonetheless, I definitely remember it from somewhere. My interest piqued, I begin to track it. My sensitive nose rarely leads me astray. On a moonless night, I can guide myself by scent alone. I'm very proud of this ability. You have to be born with it to have it. At least my Sylvan ancestry was good for something.

As the smell gets stronger, a little shiver of apprehension tickles my spine. My nose remembers this smell, and it doesn't connect to pleasant memories. But the actual definition is still out of reach. Instead of backtracking, as may be wise, I carry on. I've gotten this far, I might as well finish my little adventure. I'm almost there. I've almost got it...

Unbidden, an image springs up in my head:
Disjointed flashes. An elaborate candlestick. A leering mask, illuminated by a flicker of light. A hushed whisper. A presence on my mind. A job. The smell's from a job. Andurin only entered my mind on a job. Long halls. The plink of water. A sloshing noise. Looking back to see a vat of...

Blue dye. I stop dead, heart hammering. I know the smell. I haven't caught it in decades, but it's unmistakable. Incense. Chalk. Blood. And the smell's owners are just around the corner. I halt, listening for their footsteps. I hear nothing. I'm not surprised. The Knights of Fate, half deadly man, half deadlier spirit, have not gotten where they are today by being obvious. My mouth is dry. It's not too late. I can still back-track. I need to run, but I need to do it silently. If they hear even a plink they'll-

Too late. A white gauntlet shoots out of the mist like an arrow, aiming straight for my throat. I leap back with all the force I can muster. Those horrible shiny-cool fingers grab the skin of my throat but don't encircle it, pulling, pulling... The flesh breaks with a spurt of hot blood, and I'm thrown back, legs jittering against the cobbles to regain my balance. If I fall, I'm doomed. I may already be doomed. I get my feet under me, gasping, whirling, beginning to run.

I'm not fast enough. I'll never be fast enough. A hand, the same hand, speckled with my blood, encloses my shoulder. I look at it in numb despair. The whiteness is speckled with blue. Oh, by the blade, now it's personal, I think wildly as I thrash and struggle like a wild fox. His hold doesn't even shift. I spit, I growl, I fling my legs up, and with a clang, I connect. I'm lucky. I'm very lucky. I get his helmet. He hisses as influences from the world flood his vision (the Knights of Fate believe in trusting Fate entirely and ignoring the rest of the world, one of the reasons they're so formidable) and his grip loosens. It's all I need. They've nearly surrounded me at this point, but I break out of the tight circle, feeling like a mouse in a pack of terriers, and I scamper away.

I run, and run. I run through dawn, I slow when the streets get busy (nothing gives you away like a trail of confused and disrupted people) but I still hurry. I slow once or twice, to eat, to drink, but not for long. I keep hearing the quiet rustle of their cloaks, the whisper of their chainmail, and I can't tell if it's in my head or if they're right behind me.

I keep running, as I've run for nigh on thirty years. I don't know where I'm going, or when it will end, but it's all I know how to do.

[vladdeh]

Vlad [/u] // I had buisness. "Buisness" comes in many shapes and sizes, ranges from the tniy things that no one thinks about -like bringing the alcohol safely from the ships ...no one minds if a few barrels go astray- to the larger jobs which no one else dare to. Tonights job is somewhere inbeween.

I am robbing the crown jewls from a rather important political figure. It isn't immposible (because i've done it before) but neither is it a small matter. There are alot of implications. For one he has a body gaurd. And that body gaurd is an assosiate of mine. I wouldn't call him a friend. Nuuu, perhaps a fellow escapeé. And that's not good. Because we know how the other one works, and we both know that i'm coming. Tonight. As if that wasn't bad enough there's the small matter of I don't know where the jewls are.

Still...

Not known that to stop me before, tonight wont be any different. Even if it is a little chilly. And ...the sea mist a little unnerving. I don't care. Honest. "Vladamus!" A hand thwacks my left arm. I start, infuriated at the outburst when I recall that it would be unwise of me to insult the offender. "I'm listening." My nose wrinkles up and my my ears twitch in annoyance. Lectures were dull. No-one gave any varitey. Me. Now that was different. I would one-day become the best lecturer in Aurmata, and I would have crowds follow me in anticipation. "Of course you are, so much so that I'm the bloody queen." My eyebrows raise in mild interest as I look at the "blood queen" "Well your royal a-" I start in a sadonic tone before another twack haults me mid-word. I fall silent, a smug smile spreading across my lips.

{{Later that night, else where in the city}}

A late night distrubance was not uncommon in the city, infact, it would be more unusal, more disturbing if there was not some sort of commotion or unfriendly meeting of limbs. So to say. Perhaps this was the reason Godrick thought nothing of the muffled cry and sound of a corpse meeting the cobble streets. He put it down to a drunken row.

Only if they were drunk, how were they so quiet?

It was a shame Godrick did not think of this sooner, if he had he could have prevented such a murder spree. Maybe even helped in some way to protect his Master. It was why he was paid afterall. To be attentive. To pay attention. He was supposed to know Aurmata, understand that when you are gaurding someone important and you know that you are gonig to be attacked that night, that when you hear someone not far behind you die, you do not dismiss it as a drunken row.

Supposed to know. But didn't. Or, he did, and something stopped him thinking. A drink he'd had earlier? Knocking back some pork crackling with an old friend. A girl friend. It had been a big thing. And surely he could trust her. A girl wouldn't hurt him. Surely?

He'd never know. Not anymore. The attacker had him pinned onto the frozen street. A rat squeeled in terror as a prowling cat came to investigate the freshly laid banquet. The attack -who had thus remained unseen- leaned down to his prey. "And a true gentleman owns nothing but the bruises of justice" Hisses the culprit of the muders. Godrick trembles in terror. Now he understands. He knows who it is and what has happened. "You dirty two-faced basturd."[/b] But Vlad simply plunges his trusty sword deep into the lower back. Godrick spazes, his body jittering this way and that as it attempts to control the siezure. He fails. Paralyzed he relises that Vlad will leave him here. Unable to speak. To scream. To fight back. The ultamate humiliation.

All over a small issue of the past.
And the jewls.
But mostly the past.

{{Vlad at dawn}}

The blood was easy to wash off, it was easy to mask the smell -mud and fish guts are not hard to find- it was the bodies that were hardest. Thankfully stray cats and ravens and crows had sorted that out before I'd even left. Now I needde a good drink, some gambling and then I could get on with my day. Lets see, what was there to do? Tora Tyra, that was it. Shaygrin. Mm, I looked forwards to that. Providing she came.

I stroll down along the prominade, turning into the heart of the city as streaks of salmon pink begun to mix with the shreds of night. My sword remains hidden behind my coat, my knuckles rattle as I walk. It's a quiet sound, the sound of death knocking on your door. And that's when it happens. As if in seek of revenge Shaygrin bumps right into me. She was looking the other way. But here she is. Walking right into me..."A hello would have been fine, you didn't need to hug me" I joke at her stepping back to give her space. Was it just me or was she running from something? "Can I help you or did you just want to see me again?"

[*Verdana*]

It's not easy to tire me out. I'm resilient, determined. I take wounds in my stride. But I've been running all night. My neck hurts where the armoured freak grabbed me. I must look a sight, wild-eyed, a bruise along my cheek (I don't remember where I got it, but it's starting to ache) and dried blood in a spatter pattern all over my shirt. What people are going to think happens to be the last thing on my mind. My focus is to get away, and become part of the crowd again. The Knights are less efficient in the daytime. Less efficient, but still deadly.

Head for the markets, head for the busiest, smelliest parts of the city. That's what I need to do. That way, they won't be able to smell me, and my passage will be masked by the bustle and concerns of the multitude. For all their skills, the Knights aren't very good at negotiating crowds.

Score. Crowds are my specialty.

I slip down a passageway, letting mixed memory and instinct lead me to safety. I have such faith in this powerful seventh sense that I even close my eyes. In hindsight, maybe that wasn't the wisest move. No matter. What's done is done. Anyway, the problem with this maneuvre is that one minute I'm walking unobstructed, the next I'm slamming face first into someone.

I feel no shame. I never have. Not once. Not that I can remember. If possible, I feel even less when I smell the obstacle in my path. Oddly familiar. Dry. Dusty. Musty. Almost like... No. No, it can't be. But how? No, this hasn't happened. I didn't want to come! If I backtrack, this will never have happened. I'll never have to see him again. Then he has to go and speak and ruin it. Return of Corpse Boy.

My eyes reluctantly register his presence in my path. I recoil in slightly-feigned disgust.
Do you mind? I demand, pushing past him. I'm right in the middle of- Wait. Hang on a sec. I draw closer, sticking my nose to Corpse Boy's chest. I sniff him. And again. Another idea is growing in my mind... I draw back speculatively, purse my lips.

Then, without a word, I begin rubbing myself all over Corpse Boy, taking his stench of fish and mud and grime and corpse and smearing it all over myself. At the same time, I'm making him stink of me: Of rhinefruit and lavender and ocean and travel and leather. I can't understand why I didn't think of this before. I go round to his back and repeat the process. By the end of the wordless exchange, I smell almost exactly like him. It won't last, but it should be enough to get me lost.

I take Corpse Boy's arm.
Come. Take me somewhere that isn't here.