Private Forced Divide

[Faramund]

The month of Hochtar, 351 E.O.D
A league from Akkelon, City of Silver
What goes around comes around...

Something was not quite right with Innkeeper Sverod. Faramund knew it, he just couldn't prove it. It's the eyes, he remembered thinking the moment fate had brought him face-to-face with the man. Beady, they were, like a rat's, only without any of the vicious cunning that kept the vermin from the tomcat's claws. There was also the matter of his horns - the jagged stumps protruding from his crown had been sawn through. It was the kind of punishment loan sharks were wont to inflict on debtors that failed to pay.

The devahni still had his kneecaps, though, which was more than could be said for most who made poor financial decisions involving shady characters.

'I truly am sorry, saer, but we really don't have any more rooms!' Sverod wasn't a big man. Lean as a lamppost, he had to crane his neck to look Faramund in the eye. From the way he kept popping up all over the place, the Dawn knight could just as easily have mistaken him for a mushroom.

'We only seek to stay the night here,' the dawnling tried again. 'Some space beneath the benches will suffice. Nearest the fire, preferably.'

Spring had sprung, but the conditions outside had yet to improve. Harsh winds and cruel nights had left the party sorely in need of some respite. Not that Sverod seemed to care for their plight. The bastard. 'A-again, I truly am sorry, s-saer, but there's no more room. How about you and your fellows try elsewhere, perhaps? I know of a lovely little inn just down the ways from here. Right outside the city walls, too. Can't go far wrong with that, can you?' The devahni chuckled, rat eyes darting to the group gathered around the hearth.

'Right.' Following his gaze, Faramund rapped his knuckles against the wood of the bar. 'I s'pose there's nothing for it, then.'

Bidding farewell to the Innkeep, Faramund turned to leave, pausing momentarily to admire the large skull above the mantelpiece. Some kind of oversized rodent, the knight surmised, noting hilts and handles among the gathered strangers. Probably one of Sverod's distant cousins. Outside, the temperature dropped significantly.

Drawing his cloak tighter, Faramund adjusted his scarf, so that it covered his nose and mouth. Flexing his fingers, he plodded down the steps towards the stables, where a handful of bodies stood huddled together in the lee of the building. Faramund need not see their faces to seperate Dawn from Dusk.

'It appears our gentle innkeep's landed himself in a whole heap of trouble.' Rattling his blade, so as to ensure it hadn't frozen in its scabbard, the dawnling joined his brethren as they observed the quiet inn. 'It's dead as can be in there,' he told them. 'Bunch o' bruisers warmin' themselves by the hearth. One sat in the corner lookin' all mysterious like,' he huffed. 'Kitchen's empty. Figure ole Sverod sent his staff home early.' That, or they had been dumped out back with the hogs. The thought alone was enough to make Faramund grimace.

 

[Cydonia]

Faramund's report was hardly heartening. The whole waiting outside in the shadows thing had seemed excessive to Cydonia until she saw him stepping in return, blade already half-drawn, frown stuck further down his jaw than usual.

Innis, crouched next to Cyd, held a fretful expression under the brim of her hat. "Is Sverod alright? Did he look hurt?" the young Dusker asked.

Cyd did not have the answer, but her features softened at the asking of the question. The squires -- no, not squires any longer, they'd taken the oath last year, or the year before that, hadn't they? -- had a way of reminding them what was most important. Nevertheless they were too volatile, still getting used to their own magicks. And Faramund was a bucket with a hole in the bottom when it came to the shroud. That left only Rimebol for Cyd to focus on.

Rimebol was an ass. If he noticed someone's emotions at all he simply chalked it up to moon cycles and went about his business. That suited Cyd well. She didn't have to meter herself as much around the felonin. But his arrows weren't quite so quick indoors at close range. Swords, it was then.

'Kitchen's empty. Figure ole Sverod sent his staff home early.'​

"Good, then we can use the back door. Hector and Innis, you go through the kitchen and cut off their retreat. The rest of us will use the front door," Cyd said, drawing her blade.

She paused, feeling like she'd skipped over something.

"Sorry, we are fighting them, aren't we? We can hardly let a bunch of ruffians menace a whole town."

 

[Hector]

Hector's brow quirked. "Fighting them?" his lips slanted lopsided. Weight of his sword at his hip, all to felt then and there.

"Did she stutter, half-ear?" Rimebol stared down at dawnling. How he managed that when he was just a few inches shy of being taller than Syr Rookheart, well, that was a mystery.

"No Syr, I," he shook his head. Looked to the other. "Is there no other way?"

Rimebol's tail twitched. From left to right. Right to left. "You would spare them, when they would not do the same for you?"

Hector cinched into himself, as he so often did. "We don't know that in true, do we?"

Rimebol smiled, a sharp toothed smile. "No, I suppose we do not." shook his head. "But you'd risk us? The town proper?"

Hector looked for answers. "I don't-"

Smile turned to grin across Rimebol's face. "That's it exactly, Syr Rookheart," showed off his claws. "There are times to think, and times to act," retracted the five sickles he always had ready. "Your superior, if by Experience alone, and a Pursuant have deemed this succh an act where your thinking is not necessary."

More the lines across Hector's face creased. "Syr," he said with a nod.

Rimebol huffed. "What will be your roll, Sworn Knight?"

"To cut off their retreat, Syr"

A nod. "See it done."

 

[Faramund]

'Looked scared shitless,' replied the Mund, 'but otherwise well enough.' The clipped horns were new, the result of getting into bed with bad people. Odd, really. Sverod was a coward, not a fool. Getting roped into shady dealings by shadier folk was just something the Mund couldn't see happening.

But then I've been wrong before, he thought, eyeing the fairest among them, a chill wind ruffling his hair like so much thatch.

'You tell me.' Hand on hip, Faramund waited for Rimebol to give the word. Being armed didn't necessarily mean they were up to no good. But then why else would Sverod be sweating buckets? No, something's got him spooked, the knight nodded, listening as Sworn and Pursuant bandied words, albeit briefly.

'Forgive him, friend Hector,' the dawnling laid a gloved hand atop his brother's shoulder as he moved to retrieve helm from horn. 'Syr Rimebol forgot to take the stick out of his arse when he woke up this morning.' The dawnling's gaze flitted to the 'kin a moment.

He had never much liked Rimebol, but the man had a point.

'"Mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent," or some such. Don't ask me where I heard that, 'cause I cannae remember for the life of me.' Scooping up his bascinet, the dawnling rejoined his companions, helm clasped between his paws.

'Guess we'd better get in there 'fore these fellahs decide to leave of their own accord,' he said, suiting up.

'Finally!' Syr Lethram drawled. 'Thought he'd never shut up.'

Flicking his chin in the dusker's direction, Faramund drew his blade, and turned to face Cyd.

'After you.'

 

[Cydonia]

After you.

Surely, Faramund meant that she take lead in a metaphorical sense, seeing as Cyd was always support. She'd have teased him about it, but they'd already disagreed in front of the saplings enough as it was. So she only drew her own sword and motioned Rimebol to move forward. Stuck close to the broad-shouldered felonin as he stalked round the side of the inn. Missed every twig and patch of loose gravel, keen as a coyote at dusk.

Cyd nearly stepped on his tail though, as Rimebol came to an abrupt stop. His hackles were raised, and his ears pivoted forward. The entrance of the inn swung open, light pouring from the parlor out into the frosty night. One man with an axe at his hip stumbled forward, looking to take a drunken piss.

There was absolutely nothing between them and the blackguard. If he turned around, he would see four Knights of Anathaeum with their swords drawn, half-crouched in the eves of the building.

Instead, he let out a squinty yawn, unbuttoned his trousers, and released a steaming, sour-smelling stream into the grass.

Dawn and Dusk moved as one. Long, stalking steps took Cyd forward quick and quiet. Rimebol drew his claws, and scratched a spell into the air. A rune of dormancy and stasis. The same sign flashed briefly against the man's forehead. His eyes rolled back, and he fainted mid piss.

Cyd barely got there in time to catch him and cushion the sound of the fall.

"Heavy," she breathed, barely audible, straining under the weight of the slumbering body. Managed to flip the man around, and took to dragging him behind a nearby cart. Propped him against a wheel, and patted him on the cheek. Sleep it off, she said inside her head as she retrieved that axe. You won't feel better in the morning.

---

Meanwhile, around back.

---

"This is rancid," Innis complained as soon as her whisper was out of earshot of the others. "We're going in completely blind. Don't even know who these people are, or what they want with Sverod. And then we get blamed for being the irresponsible ones--!"

She squat down on one side of the kitchen door. Motioned for Hector to wait a moment while she listened through the crack in the frame. It was merely a formality. Innis could already tell that there was no one on the other side. The cookfires were cold, and the windows dark. Still, she made sure. When she was sure, she gave the signal, raising fingers in sequence.

All clear.

The door was locked. Innis pressed the fingers of her scarred hand against the batten planks. Then, her fingers were disappearing, a thin silver line of frost eating away at her skin as it slipped through the poplar. A knocking sound from the other side as the lock came unlatched, and the door swung inwards. Innis' hand slipped free just as easily, her skin returning to its usual rich hue.

Something she couldn't do before. A magic trick she'd picked up during her time away, serving the til Clemondes.

 

[Hector]

Hector raised his bevor into its fixed position. The steel brim of his kettle helm shading his eyes.

"This is rancid... and then we get blamed for being the irresponsible ones--!"
​

"We'll see it through, Innis," Hector hushed back, expressionless behind the steel he wore, watched her move to position. Each second that bled behind them only had him feel more the pump of his heart. The lightning betwixt his ears. The fire in his gut.

There was the sign. A simple trace of a circle, and the swipe of bladed fingers.

All clear.

Hector pressed up. Half kitted. Cuirass and pauldrons worn, helmet and bevor in place. But his legs moved unplated. Boots soft leather. Not silent, but quiet still as step went over step. Heard the knock of the lock come loose, then the groan of old hinges bearing a heavy door's weight. He was glad to have his sworn Kin returned to their number. More so that she had refined some of her skills.

In they went. And he would be first through the door. Eyes scanning through armor's measured gap. With no fire burning, the room was painted in ebon shadow and muted blue light from lamps too far off on the way. He could hear voices pouring through the door which lead to the next room over. Could see the orange flicker and dance of fire's light, rippling beneath the door as tall shadows moved about in a drunken sway.

"So's I told em, Lerri, I damn well told em,"

"Go on, what did you tell the bastard, Hemock?"

"I told em, you look right here, you Arshakan dog shit! You go and take your gods damned Sun loving ass, and stick it where the moons don't shine! I got a kid to feed! I got a wife who'se expectin' I bring back the bloody bacon, so you take your sorry ass and get the hell out! I ain't losin my job, my good payin, company contract work, cuz you decided to go and beat gods damned one of Sitha's own to the Broken Mirrors and back on account of some extra parts you weren't expectin'!"

"Oh, you really go and say all that?"

"Fucks no I didn't!"

The lot started laughing. Loud and boisterous.

"Have you Seen Kilhara? The bastard is built like a toils damned pillar he is! As if Harunh himself put him together to hold the rest of us up."

They all started busting up.

 

[Faramund]

Handing his sabre to Lethram, Faramund rushed to assist his Dawn sister as she dragged the unfortunate lump out of sight, hoisting the man up by his arms whilst Cyd handled his legs. Faramund did him the favour of tucking him in. It was cold out, after all, and no one deserved to wake up only to find their knackers had frozen off during the night.

'Here's hopin' the rest of 'em are just as sozzled,' the Mund whispered, turning to find the duskers stacked by the doorway.

Syr Lethram passed Faramund his weapon as Syr Rimebol silenced the hinges, a line drawn twixt the tips of thumb and pinky finger. The dawnling made sure to hang back a few steps. Raised voices came from within the tavern as Rimebol finished his work.

The beastkin was the first through, with Faramund following close behind. Lethram and Cyd brought up the rear, quiet as church mice.

The bruisers didn't notice them to begin with. One of them had just finished telling a particularly hilarious joke. A real knee-slapper. Faramund almost felt bad for them. Laughter was the best medicine, or so they said, but he was pretty sure it couldn't fix blade wounds. Sverod seemed to be able to read minds, for no sooner had they entered than the deva ducked out of sight, sheltering behind the bar he could so often be found at.

Plucking a discarded cup up off the ground, Syr Rimebol took a moment to weigh the situation, smiling viciously to himself as he brought the cup down, hard, on the nearest surface.

The laughter died almost immediately. Reality slunk back in with its tail between its legs.

The mercenaries eyed the knights warily, surprise and uncertainty making for a heady mix, holding them rapt.

For half a dozen heartbeats, it seemed like that might be it. Like they wouldn't come to blows. The dawnling could tell from their expressions alone that they had no inkling as to just whom they were facing. Not that it mattered, he would think, later, once the dust had settled.

Alcohol was an excellent servant, but a terrible master. And blades oft turned to rust when left undrawn.

Gazes locked. Nods were exchanged. Axes slipped from belts as cudgels seated themselves in opposing palms.

'Still think this was a good idea?' Faramund asked, dispersing the foe with a hurled chair as Lethram summoned Hector and Innis into the fray.

 

[Cydonia]

All that sneaking around, moving in unison, silencing the hinges on the door, making sure the breeze stilled along with the noise, fox-walking on the balls of her feet until they were close enough for ambush. Cyd had to look at someone's willy, and for what? Only for Rimebol to change his damn mind as soon he saw the kind of opposition they were facing.

Maybe he'd get called a cat less if he didn't act so much like one. Knocking something off the table the moment he got bored.

Glass pieces skid across the floor, tinkling to sharp stop in the dull, confused silence. It took much too long for the ocupant of the inn to set to motion. Hearts would have stopped before the sixth beat, had Rimebol not been feeling magnanimous.

Still thinking this was a good idea?​

Cydonia let out a belabored sigh and sheathed her sword, the opposite action of the men who'd just started scrambling about to find their weapons. "I'm thinking a bad idea can still get the job done," she responded.

"Cyd, what're you doing--"

Lethram got startled by the chair flying, and didn't finish. Panicked and called the squires in too early. No, not squires anymore. Cyd really needed get that out of her head.

Her Dusker was grinning like a ghost as two broad-shouldered goons rushed him. One raised an axe high, and the other swung a broadsword, also high. All of a sudden, Cyd was between them. One foot hooked round the axe man's ankle. The other planted firm, a fulcrum to her momentum as she slammed her hip into sword guy's leg. Axe man stumbled forward, axe head landing ka-thUNK into Sverod's nicely polished walnut countertop. Sword guy carreened backwards and, to his credit, didn't lose his weapon. He gripped with both hands and swung it round to reclaim his balance, aiming for Cydonia's midsection.

A tingle crawled out a spiral between her eyes, and a crack grew in her psyche from which bled sharp-toothed giddiness. Pull of shroud and push of pressure, and just like that the bruiser was swinging blade through syrup. Cyd ducked lazy, and twirled behind. Kicked a boot right into his ass and had him stumbling all over again.

"What did you do to me, you damned witch!" His muscles froze up bad, and he couldn't get a grip on the ground.

A third challenger came into their corner of the inn, swinging nothing but his meaty fists. Rimebol let him get a hit in. Relished the confusion in the man's eyes as his knuckles met with what felt like a brick wall a few hairwidths away from Rimebol's whiskers.

Crack went another heavy-bottomed cup against the man's skull, weilded by Cyd this time. Chipped a chunk out of his forehead and knocked him clean out.

 

[Hector]

A clack against wood loud enough to have the armored Hector flinch back from the door as he watched the shadows shift with sudden jerks and draws.

A quick check to spy Innis. A nod. An unsaid, ready. Breath pushed out.

Another crack and splinters set the whole room to rumble. A loud whistle that whined out like a diving falcon. Action.

Hector slammed through the door with a kick. Thwunked one guy who's head was still realing to catch up with what was going. Brows screwed, and lip scrunched. Who was he he supposed to thawck? The pretty lady? The big cat? Or the other two sods that looked- Clunk. Went the door and he bobbled and cursed, turned to find flat of blade crack hard against brow.

Stars in his eyes. Hector rushed to grab wrist for grapple. Ankle drove deep tween legs. Momentum did the rest and the man was on his ass.

Another yelped. More a fighter than a flighter. Rushed at Hector. Slammed him from the side. Solid as the Dawnling was, he double stepped to find his balance. An axe swing already coming down on him. The head cracked hard against the plate of his pauldron. But Hector knew his advantage. Pressed into the man the more. Drove armored elbow across the man's skull.

Felt something crack.

Saw the hurt in how he wobbled. Floaty. But the grip on the axe was still tight. He wrapped his arms about Hector and tried to wrest him to the floor. Only a quick shift of his balance, and spread of his base had Hector stay on his feet, grappled with the man who tried to drive him to the floor.

 

[Faramund]

Too soon, the signal went out, summoning the newbloods into the fray. With no need to pick and choose, Faramund surrendered himself to the churn, blade flicking out to crease a face from earlobe to jawbone. The man gurgled and wheezed, club clacking against the floorboards as he rushed to stem the bleeding, both hands pressed against the wound, as if touch alone might render it fixed.

Cydonia had gone on the initiative by then, her dusker grinning like the cat that got the cream. Though blood had ever been more to Syr Rimebol's taste, felt Faramund, diverting a thrust with the weak of his sword.

The sabre licked up and in, slicing through fabric and fur to skewer muscle. The foekin roared in pain and anger.

Lethram silenced him with a charm, fingers flexing, longsword resting against his shoulder whilst the brethren wrestled and fought amongst themselves. He heard more than saw some big fellah rush Hector; a few quick strides brought him up behind the bruiser. A boot to the back of the knee, a pommel to the crown. Lethran felt his skull crack like an oversized walnut. A nod and he was off to the next.

The group thinned.

Heeling weapons away from wounded hands, Faramund whirled, and waited.

A young half-elf had tucked himself into the far corner. Pale as death, he had brought up most of his liquid dinner during the interim, the booze having failed to dull the sudden violence unfolding around him. Stepping closer, the dawnling eyed the elf warily. The guy still had a blade tucked through his belt.

'Use it or throw it away!' Seax skittered against wood and was plucked up. A nod. 'Come on over here,' said the dawnling, 'nice and slow.' He glanced over to ascertain how the rest of the band were fairing.

 

[Cydonia]

It was a mess of steel and fist, thrust and swing. One ruffian lost a boot as Hector upended him. Another sloshed beer out of the mug he still grasped, as he stumbled toward Rimebol with sword drawn in the other. The broad-shouldered felonin still had a cat's grace to him as he side-stepped away. Downed the man with a single claw to the back of the neck.

Innis hung back, stayed too long in the entryway. Seemed to be fiddling with some gossamer-thin spool of thread, and then...

The stink of a sweaty underarm too close to her face pulled Cyd back into the fight. She couldn't figure out what Innis was doing, as some oafish brute back stepped his bulk right into her. She ducked away and ended up having to roll over the bartop to avoid being squashed.

On the other side, there was Sverod, clutching a very expensive looking bottle of brandy. They locked eyes. Sverod gave a single, curt nod in recognition.

"Evening, Miss Cydonia," he said.

"Evening, Sverod," she replied back. "That a bottle of Aembra's Kiss?"

"Might be."

It was Cyd's turn to nod. More expensive than this whole inn, she thought. Wondered how he'd gotten his hands on it, but didn't have much time to follow the thought through. They were still in the middle of it, after all.

Cyd heaved herself back up into the fray. Out in the dining room, there was significantly less of the gang standing, and even fewer chairs left unbroken. It looked like the fight was solidly in the knight's favor, but then one last contender entered the fray. Hard-booted steps lumbered down the staircase of the inn's second floor. Glass bottles on the shelves above Sverod's head rattled.

"What's all this racket about!" Came a voice low and angry with interrupted slumber. Innis glanced up the dark stairwell, saw something she didn't like, and took a hop-skip through the doorway away from whoever was coming.

A trunk of a man appeared right behind her, with a bristly mustache the color of straw and pants hiked up to his bust. He stood in the doorway, and surveyed the messy scene. Shoulders so broad, he was definitely going to have to lean sideways to get through. Looked like he could take seven armed men at once and not break a sweat. There was only six of them.

"I told ye not to start anything without me." It wasn't that he was shouting. He just seemed the sort of person who should be allowed to talk, because if he wasn't talking, he was going to start hitting. "Now someone explain this mess here."

 

[Hector]

Breath pushed out, a nod given brief salute to Lethram. Hector's eyes fell to the man cracked across the skull. Noted how the man's limbs twitched and spasmed. Something sank inside the young knight. His eyes cast about the settling chaos.

How many were left bloodied?

One sabred across the face. Most put to sleep. The one he had cracked first, then was cracked again in the scrum of it all. Hector felt his mind racing.

It wasn't until Faramund's voice brokered commands to one cornered combatant that Hector's thoughts popped out of the ash that was so quick to bury them. He pushed a breath out, already sheathing his sword, and moving to the aid of the man who seemed the worst for ware.

"Hark ye fallen, stay unto those mirrors still unshattered," he bade the bleeder, his lips whispering strings of soothing syllables there with his hushed breath as he set an open palm down unto the man's split open head. He could already see the swelling. The streams of dark red spidering through sweat stuck hair.

His eyes caught with the light of Flame, and the edges of his hand hummed with the shimmering heat of a bright day's haze. He placed the soft of his palm there against the skull, and poured what woven shroud he could into the wound. His own vision blurring about the edges as that wound he set to seal struck sympathy inside the Knight of Dawn.

Come the shake of the bottles, and the buzzing rattle of the uneven table's feet, and Hector would feel it all the more. Buzzing and rattling as he set his works unto the cracked man's skull.

Boom the voice, and Hector felt it as a hammer blow. He grit his teeth. Shook his head. "Please!" he called out. "I cannot help this man, if you go on as you are!" Hector urged.

The giant of a man blinked. Bright dark eyes hidden behind a curtain of pouring curls that hung loosely about his brow. "Help a man?" he itched the piddly scruff about his chin with but the end of a massive digit. He set his eyes unto the scene that was Hector tending to the fallen mercenary. "Who did that to Boltero?" heat rumbled from his throat as he looked to the others. Weapons upon the floor. Some blades still drawn.

Hector clicked his teeth. "Twas I,"

His whole face scrunched. "Well, that doesn't make any sense." the giant man confessed.

A hard held breath steamed out the gaps of Hector's teeth. His hand still about the man's skull. Fire lit eyes, so often the color of umber and deep honey, scrunched to narrow and pained points. Yet his lip curled up at the end of it. "No, I suppose it does not," shook his head. Took in another lungful. "All the same, I would prefer to save him from the shimmering currents, if that's alright with you,"

Low was the rumble that shook through the giant man's throat.

"Kilhara! Just get them! You can take them!" one of the disarmed and prone mercenaries threw in.

 

[Faramund]

Catching the elf by the scruff, the dawnling frogmarched the youth to where Lethram had the rest corralled, a sword's point serving to prod the more bovine among them into place. 'Don't try it!' The dusker warned one cruel-eyed thug, sensing his intent. 'Stick me, go on!' The man spat. 'I'll shove that pretty blade so far up your arse you'll be-'

A grunt as the flat knocked the thought from his head, and the fool to the floor.

In between the wavering violence and restless movement, Faramund heard Syr Hector call for an end to the hurt. Surprisingly, very few had actually ended up with blade-wounds, though a number of them sported fresh bumps and bruises courtesy of Cyd and Rimebol. The dawnling hadn't seen Innis involve herself at all, but then rarely did anyone recall these moments with much clarity.

'That fellah a friend o' yours?' Mund asked the elf, directing him toward where Hector knelt. 'Uh-huh,' he nodded, 'his name's-'
'Got anythin' else on you? Blades? Knuckles?'
'N-no, I swear!' The elf shivered in his grip. 'Is he gonna be okay? Can I...'
'Aye, but behave!'

Letting go, Mund planted his palm in the square of his back, gave the elf a polite shove. Rimebol watched the scene unfold, disgusted. The Pursuant didn't even bother to hide his derision as he turned to Faramund. 'You soft in the head, Syr?'

Before Faramund could answer, someone heavy shuddered down the stairs to join them.

'What's all this racket about!' Exchanging a look with Rimebol, Faramund took a couple steps forward as Innis appeared from behind the scenes in a hurry, the doorway she passed through filling in the time it took her to skirt around to join them. Why, if that ain't one of the biggest, meanest bastards I've ever lain eyes on. Stepping into the light, Kilhara glowered down at the knights, hamhock hands curled into fists, ready to smite all and sundry for interrupting his slumber.

Hector tried to smooth the situation over. Did a fair job, too, until some loudmouth tried stirring the pot.

'Shut up.' Lethram took a boot to the speaker as Rimebol stepped up to face the giant.

'You know who we are?' The cat-kin inquired, claws bared, eyes full of menace. 'No,' the big bruiser rumbled. 'Should I?' Someone chuckled and was silenced with a boot. The Pursuant fixed Kilhara with his gaze, unrattled.

'Has your band ventured into the Vayd recently?' He asked.
'What business o' yours is it where we've been?'
'Answer the question, please.'

Faramund's gaze flitted to the other mercenaries as the two traded glares. The big guy might've been able to hide it, but the rest of them had been sinking skins for a good while now, if the empty tankards were any indication. Celebrating something? He wondered, pausing briefly to check on Hector, before turning back. 'Bastards're 'ere fer the prize,' someone slurred. 'Aye, 'an the purse.'

'Quiet.' Faramund felt his diaphragm shake as Kilhara ground closer. 'Youse vultures 's too late. We already shifted t' stone. Find yer fortunes elsewhere, 'fore I'm forced t' throttle ye.'

Out of the corner of his eye, the dawnling glimpsed Sverod trying to slink away.

 

[Cydonia]

This Kilhara fellow wasn't too kind on the eyes, and he seemed the sort who'd never been wrong about anything in his life. Cyd was of half a mind to let the boys handle him. And then Rimebol went and prodded the brute further, and that made up Cyd's whole mind.

If he needed her help, he could ask for it.

Boots scuffed against wood rungs as Cyd scooted herself up onto one of the bar stools. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey and picked up a cup that looked free of glass debris. Peered at the grimy rim of the cup, sniffed her nose a couple of times, and then thought better of it. That must have been what Rimebol had noticed, earlier. A felonin's sense of smell was keener than other kith's. She uncorked the bottle and drank straight out the top instead.

Cheeks puffed as Cyd keeled towards the floor and spat it out immediately. Poison round the rim of the glasses and in the bottle. The innkeeper had been very thorough.

"Sverod!" Cyd stopped the man slinking away in his tracks. Tail twitching, he turned slowly, a guilty look on his face. "What did you put in this?"

"....Belladona¹," he admitted. "I-I tried to warn ye lot earlier, but it's not like I could say it outright."

Raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips approvingly, Cyd gave a little nod. "No wonder Rime could put them to sleep so easily." She pushed the glass towards the far end of the table. "Pour me something something fresh, would you?"

The devahni's sense of self preservation didn't win out against his pride as a barkeep. He slunk himself right back behind the bar and pulled out a clean glass from underneath. The garnet glass bottle of Aembra's Kiss was still couched in his arm like an infant, no intent there to disturb its slumber.

---

¹Belladona, more commonly known as Deadly Nightshade, was one of the more infamous poisons. In smaller doses, folk used it as a sleeping aid.

 

[Hector]

Twas the noise the other lot made that buzzed and rattled against his skull. Made him feel the split of skin, and crack of bone all the more against each cord of his own mortality. Still. He saw with eyes of Flame. Those countless fibers, like so many fine hairs of linen spooled together and woven there and there again.

A breath pushed out from his lungs. And all he heard was the fire's crackle. Hiss. Pop. Thump. Thump. There with the beat of this other man's heart.

Let the others worry about the Giant. Whose voice still rumbled and threatened. And those still who bade they spur back unto violence. Till dull thwack and thump found them. And from the frayed ends of his raw being, Hector could feel their sharp hurts too.

The feintest licks of their resentment as they grumbled and ground their teeth together.

Just let these bloody vultures go. Just let them move on by. So what if they had the drop on others. So what if-

A breath drawn in to the Flame lit Knight's lungs. Pushed out. Crackle and reformation. Hands smoothing one way, then the other. Fingers curling, as if each digit need squeeze together to bring something shut. But the pain. The sharp hurt where the wound lay. Just there at the side of his head. Just above the ear. Only fractions shy of the temple. How it split. Like spike driven through by hammer's blow.

And the noise.

"Toils preserve thee, Bakhrum, yer head's right cracked," the young mercenary let see the work done unto his friend grieved with sharp anxiety.

It was a cold lance through Hector's head. Still, he heald the woven shroud there twixt him and the fellow he now knew as Bakhrum. "Please," he croaked out. A whisp of steam curling from his lips. "You needn't worry," voice was but a murmur like too little water sizzling against hot iron.

"Oh, don't go and die on me, Bakhrum! Don't go and die on me!" the youth was overcame with uninhibited emotion. Bulled forward. Knocked Hector, shoulder bumping to shoulder.