The Sixth

The Sixth

Bladedancer
Character Profile
Profile
The Dragon's doors parted as a bloodied figure stumbled into view. She managed three words before breathing her last:

"A Fool's errand."

Thirty minutes later a rapid succession of knocks woke the Sixth from a very inebriated slumber. The tavern boy nearly shit himself at the Sixth's bleary-eyed annoyance. He maintained just enough composure to repeat the same fateful trio of words. Dancer remained dangerously silent before letting out a long sigh. "Find my fourth brother, tell him to meet me at the Dragon." The mercenary handed the lad a few extra coins for his trouble before descending into Crorefell's alleys.

What awaited the Sixth was a corpse and a perturbed innkeeper. The sellsword knelt by the still warm body and took a hard look at her face, recognition finding him moments later. "Shit." The odds of this all being a mistake had fallen off a fucking cliff. Faiven was a 'Runner, a member of the Selvari courier elite; not the type to die easily. More importantly, a person with favors owed.

A debt owed, was a debt to be paid as far as the First and Last was concerned.

He pulled his dagger out and made a cut on the inside of the woman's cloak. Reaching into opening, the Sixth pulled out a thin piece of vellum. The mercenary glanced over the message quickly as he heard steps behind him. He held the note out to his brother who had just arrived.

"What do you make of this?"

@The Fourth
 
He had always been a light sleeper. Before he became the Fourth, before he became the Undying, he had always possessed the innate ability to wake up just in time to avoid any unwanted surprises. Now was no different.

Huffing, puffing, he sensed the small presence at his door moments before the sound of knocking rang out in the silence of his room, disturbing what little peace remained to him in this life. 'Mister Fourth! Sir!' The knocking came again, more insistent this time. Slipping silently from his bed, a thin stiletto dagger appearing in his hand, the Fourth padded over to the door.

With a whisper of well-oiled hinges, he cracked it open, glowing eyes appearing in the gap so suddenly the tavern boy flinched.

'Yes?' Brother Fourth asked calmly. 'What is it?'

'It's-' The boy took a second to compose himself. 'It's the Sixth, sir! Y-your brother.' As if he needed reminding. 'H-he told me to tell you to meet him at the Dragon. Sir. With all haste.' He gulped. The last part had been a lie. Even so, few men kept a member of the First and Last waiting long.

Unless they happened to be a member themselves.

'Hmm. Wait here.' Easing the door closed, the Fourth padded back across the room to his chest. Kicking it open, he grabbed up a heavily-laden coin purse, undid the drawstrings. A few coins landed in his upturned palm. He returned to the tavern boy. 'Here. For your troubles.' Handing them over, he sent the lad away with an upturned chin.

Getting dressed, he left Liliya's via the back entrance. Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Dragon. The Sixth was already there.

Taking the roll of vellum from his brother's hands, the Fourth read the contents scribed therein. 'Not much,' he answered truthfully, his comrades' business of little concern to him so long as it didn't interfere with his business. 'Must be of some import, though, since you saw fit to rouse me.'

@The Sixth
 
"Your apathy truly is unrivaled brother," the Sixth said with a sigh as he retrieved the note once more. Well, he wasn't wrong, it was important. Dancer stared at the Selvari's corpse for a moment in some vain hope that an answer would find him. Aside from the pair of stab wounds, there was nothing else out of the ordinary. Something told the Sixth he was about to wade neck-deep into a pile of shit.

"But I wouldn't have called for you otherwise." His fellow mercenary had a reputation for being quite selective when it came to work. The usual fare did not suffice. A trait shared among many of the First and Last throughout the years. "Only an idiot would attack a 'Runner."

Or someone powerful enough not to care...

The Selvari couriers were often treated in a similar fashion to the Boneknitters. They provided a needed service for all and thus were considered something of a neutral party. Didn't make much sense to harm them. More importantly, each and every one of them was half-mad. To kill one would have you run down and trampled by the rest. If you were lucky, you'd die there. If not, you'd be pulled apart by the very same horses.

Usually the Sixth would just send word to the prairie and let them go on their rampage. However something in the note had him worried. The mercenary finally got to his feet and saw the same boy who had woken him earlier. "You interested in making some more coin lad?" The kid looked hesitant but knew the Eight paid well. "Good, then find us a cart, we're taking our cold guest here to the 'Ward."

He needed an expert's opinion before making any further decisions, he needed a Boneknitter.

"Heard you had some trouble on your last job," the Sixth said to his brother as they winded through Crorefell's dark alleys towards the territory of another Storied.

@The Fourth
 
The cart rattled on along beside the Fourth as, together with the Sixth, he navigated the murky waters of Crorefell in search of a mender or two. Dawn was a ways off yet, and the enforcer patrols tended to stick to the livelier parts of the city during the wee hours of the morning.

Less chance of getting shivved that way.

'Did you now?' Step by step, alley by alley, the mercenaries grew closer to their goal. A short span, in the grand scheme of things. But still long enough for the Sixth to start wagging his crooked tongue. 'And what, pray tell, have you heard?' Glancing sidelong at the Bladedancer, the Fourth guided the mule-driven cart down a side passage to their right, a cut through rarely travelled for fear of what might linger in the shadows.

At the sight of two glowing eyes in the dark, those shadows quickly emptied themselves. A glimmer of steel, the crash and clamour as figures fled.

Smiling, the Undying stared at his brother, curious, if not so pleased to find his business being discussed by others outside the fraternity. 'Go on. Talk.' Alone now, they were safe to do so. It wasn't like the dead Selvari in the back was like to chime in anytime soon.

@The Sixth
 
"Oh I heard all manner of distastefulness but I'll save your delicate sensibilities from the details." His brother could be a bit too serious at times. One needed to be flexible in this business. On second thought, maybe that wasn't entirely true. Being unyielding in your way may bend others to match. 'Course, they could just get annoyed and shiv you. A delicate balance in a profession that was anything but.

He looked to the Fourth once more and sighed. "Word is you got on the wrong side of the 'Twins, or their second should I say. Man's a snake. Sounded like he caused you a bit of grief, and might be planning on more." It wasn't unusual for cadres to run afoul of each other during contracts but usually serious disputes were mediated by the Rabble. Some sellswords simply weren't that patient, or forgiving. Face-down in a ditch with a knife in the gut was a common fate for many in the City of Fools.

All that to say the Sixth wasn't too concerned. 'The Undying', a name earned a few times over. Bought and paid for in blood.

"Well if it comes down to it, you'll not be alone. Not me mind you, can't stand being near that bastard."

Probably because we're too damned similar.

@The Fourth
 
'If by a "bit of grief" you mean he tried to have my wings clipped, sure, he did.' Give the bastard that much, he was ambitious. But in the City of Fools he was nothing special; just another cutthroat with big dreams and a lack of brainpower. The Fourth would have pitied the man, had he not attempted to double-cross him. But he had.

Now, all he felt was cold rage and a tingling in his fingertips.

'I doubt the Twins had anything to do with it. Just another lackey overstepping the mark and making a mess in the process.' Retribution had been swift: four dead swordhands and a scar that would make even a blind man cringe to look at. So far, the Twins had yet to respond. 'I appreciate the support, brother.' The Fourth replied, deadpan as always. 'The matter will sort itself out before long. A word from the Greatest Fool will have them bowing their heads in shame, I do not doubt.'

Trundling along, the cart took another corner leading into Clapper's Lane - a notorious stretch of taphouses and brothels known to cater to the exotic, as well as the absurd.

'Hmm. Forgive me, brother, but we seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Last time I checked, this is not the way to the Mender's.'

@The Sixth
 
"True, our sister's words are not to be taken lightly," agreed the mercenary. It wasn't uncommon to be struck with a bout of ambition in this business, but like so many other things in this city, it was a roll of the dice. Sounded like his brother had taught a harsh lesson. Things were likely to be fine as long as the Twins didn't take it too personal. Neither of the Eight was particularly worried so the Sixth figured it was best to just leave it at that. There were more pressing matters to deal with in any case.

"It's a wonder how you make it back to your cot each night." They'd somehow wandered into Clapper's Lane, which scythed through the heart of the Ember district. All manner of debauchery occurred here in perpetuity. One certainly did not lack for choice, no lecherous stone remained unturned. Which was to say that its popularity was unrivaled in the City of Fools.

The Sixth ran a resigned hand through his mottled-black hair. "A straight shot through the 'Lane will get us where we need to be. Just don't get distracted." It wasn't clear if his last words were for his brother or himself.

Oddly enough as he nudged the cart forward, it felt more dangerous than walking into the heart of the Scar itself. The mercenary invoked a silent prayer to his goddess in the hopes that no dances were needed tonight.
 

'And therein lies the trick, Sixth. It doesn't have to be your cot.' Glancing up and down Clapper's Lane, the Fourth helped coax the mule on. The place wasn't exactly the friendliest, despite the colourful lanterns and promises issuing forth from painted lips. People still got shivved here from time to time, though, he had to admit, they usually deserved it.

Dead bodies were bad for business, but if you let your liberties lead you too far down the rabbit hole, you'd wind up lost all the same.

'Don't look now but I think we've grown a tail.' Fondling the blades at his hips, the mercenary smiled as he counted the figures ambling up the lane behind them. Dark vests, hooded cloaks, clubs and cudgels and pig stickers aplenty. Looked like someone was about to have a party. 'They've been on us since the Dragon. Friends of the dearly departed, do you reckon?' Fixing his gaze on the road ahead, the Fourth kept a weary eye on the buildings to either side, on the doorways and balconies of establishments both old and new.

'Can't tell if they are affiliated or not. Not that it makes a difference anyhow.' He had no intention of leading them to the Sixth's contact. An ally worth having, the First and Last looked out for its own. Putting them at risk was a big no-no, especially so early in the game.

'Want to have a word with them first or shall we just skip past the pleasantries?'

@The Sixth
 
"Not the sort of friends I'd keep," he said with a glance back at the cart. If the mercenary needed any confirmation that the matter was not settled with Faiven's death, this was it. The Sixth could only guess how many more surprises awaited him in the coming days. Best to deal with what's in front of you, or behind them in this case. He mindlessly tapped the pommel of his blade as he considered his brother's question. "They don't strike me as the conversational type. Maybe if there's a breather when alls said and done we can try talking."

The unwanted admirers continued to follow, closing in with each subsequent step. Dancer counted five paces before he swung around and let dagger fly. His shortblade caught one of the bastards in the throat. He clawed at the blade futilely before hitting cobbled stone. Dead as the body in muled cart.

Pretense of secrecy wantonly cast aside, the others sprang forth. The Sixth drew his blade and cut down the nearest idiot trying to bash his head in

Pleasantries had well and truly been skipped.
 
'Alright, then. If anyone asks, it was your idea.' Walking on, the Fourth counted down the seconds. In all fairness, they would have been forced to get rid of them sooner or later. No point in waiting around. Laying a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, the mercenary about-faced, throwing his pursuers off balance and causing them stumble over each other in order to get at him.

Three-on-one. An unfair fight.

'Poor bastards.' Smiling, the Fourth went to work, putting the first man in line down with a draw cut. The follow through took the second man in the neck. Blood spurted, blinding the third attacker. It had been sheer dumb luck rather than by design. But a win was a win.

Stepping in close, the Fourth's fist caught the attacker beneath the chin, knocking him to the ground. He hit the cobbles hard, his head bouncing, bludgeon rolling from limp fingers to wind up in the gutter. Looming over him, the Fourth watched as blood began to pool in the crevices, deep and dark and smelling faintly of iron. The man's chest had stopped moving, and his eyes had rolled back in his skull, showing white.

The Fourth sighed.

'Fuck.'

@The Sixth
 
The Sixth stepped to the side as blade passed benignly by. His palm shot out, catching his attacker in the side of the throat. The other man stumbled backwards as he struggled to catch his breath. This bought the mercenary precious time to deal with his remaining foe. His blade met the haft of the cudgel and shore clean through the wood and into flesh. The man cried out as tendons were released from their bodily burdens. Dancer spun back and ran his blade through the other who'd yet to recover.

He stepped towards the remaining attacker who clutched pitifully at their mangled arm.

"I'll not tell you miserable cunts anything!" he bellowed at the mottled-hair mercenary. The Sixth stepped forwardly calmly, wiping his blade on the injured man's tunic before returning it to sheathe.

"Guess it's a good thing we'll not be asking the questions." A small, satisfied smirk crossed the Sixth's face. His fist shot out and caught the unsuspecting attacker in the face. The mercenary added one more for good measure just to make sure the bastard was properly out.

"Let's throw this bastard on the mule, Faiven deserves better company," he said to his brother. There were a few prying eyes but none keen on getting involved, not yet. Few would openly mess with the First and Last, but down in the 'Lane all bets were off. Best not to give folks the chance to make bad decisions.
 
Cleaning his blade, the Fourth nodded, his gaze fixed on the bodies at his feet. These blokes -whoever they had been before fate caught up with them- sure hadn't amounted to much. Street toughs, hired for a fistful of silver before being thrown to the wolves, oblivious of just how deep into the shit they had gotten themselves until it was too late.

'Wonder who sent them,' the mercenary spoke softly, putting his steel away and squatting down to take a closer look at the deceased.

No brands, no ink... not even sashes to mark affiliation. Glancing up at the Sixth, the Fourth drew his dagger and cut a few strips from a dead man's tunic. 'Bind his hands and feet, and stuff some in his mouth so he doesn't try to bite his tongue off.' Rifling through pockets, the Fourth found a necklace and tossed it into the shadows.

The beggar sitting there flinched as it landed squarely in his lap. Drawn by the silver chains and garnet stone set into the disk, it took him a handful of seconds to realise he was being stared at.

'Just another night in the Lane,' intoned the Fourth, feline eyes boring into the beggar's.

'A-aye, Lord... J-just another night.' Snatching up the necklace, the beggar watched as the brothers departed. Half a minute later and the vultures descended to strip the dead of their valuables, cutting away fingers to get at rings and slicing open boot heels to uncover hidden coins.

Just another night, the beggar grinned, blackened teeth clamping down on the necklace to ascertain its quality.

@The Sixth
 
Prisoner firmly bound and gagged, the two mercenaries set off once more. This time they received a few lurid glances but nothing more. The 'Lane apparently exacted its pound of flesh and was sated for the moment.

The Painted Ward was not entirely unlike the duo's recently visited locale. One could easily catch a whiff of alcohol, though this particular blend was best not consumed. Then there were the occasional curses that punctuated the night's air. A toss of a coin whether it came from the mender or the one being worked on. Pain and healing came hand in hand, or so the mercenary'd been told during many a stitch.

They passed numerous doors before the Sixth spotted a familiar sign. Before approaching he took a moment to ensure there was no unwanted attention this time around. He then stepped forward and wrapped knuckles against wood. Silence followed until the shuffling of footsteps could be heard from the other side. Door creaking open, the two were met with the sight of a haggard, but otherwise normal-looking woman.

"Rashmi," stated the Sixth by way of greeting.

"Sixth," was the curt response. She looked first to the Fourth and then the cart. "Bring them around back." She said after a few moments.

Faiven's body now sat safely on a table as the knitter began her initial inspections, no explanation had been required from the mercenaries.

"Come back in a spell, I'll have what you need." That is what the Sixth loved about the cutter, she knew her business like no one else.

"You got room for a guest?" Dancer inquired.

"How's he to be treated?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Unwelcome." The Boneknitter gestured to a side room and with the help of his brother, the unconscious thug was bodily deposited. Work done and nothing left to do for the moment, he looked to the Fourth.

"Fancy a drink?"
 
The Boneknitters were a scary bunch, and it paid to keep them sweet. When you got hurt, face all mashed, guts pulped, it was the 'knitters who put you back together. There were other Menders in the city, of course, but they did not share the same reputation as their contemporaries. Nor did they possess their talent for healing.

Or harming.

Dumping the thug in a cold cell, the Fourth followed his brother out into the hall, careful to close the door behind him. 'Twist my arm, why don't you.' Locking it, he gave the iron bars a rattle. Secure. Shrugging, head canted to the side, he tucked the key away someplace the diminutive doc could find it.

A drink sounded like just the thing right now. What else was there to do in this godforsaken city?

Leaving the Boneknitter to it, they hit the bricks. 'Got anywhere specific in mind?' The Fourth asked, walking alongside his brother, all easy steps and confidence born of experience. 'The Broomhandle is just around the corner, as I recall. And last time I checked, you didn't owe the gaffer money.'

@The Sixth
 
"The 'Handle it is," agreed the mercenary. The Sixth felt it best not to mention that his ledger had only recently been squared with the tavernkeep. Now was the time to incur entirely new debts. Such was the life of a sellsword, or at least any worth their salt. This was the business. A life lived on knife's edge, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Well, a heavier purse on occasion wouldn't go amiss. There wasn't an ounce of charity in this damned city. Fall behind and you best grab a shovel.

A short walk and fewer words found them at their destination. The 'Handle was busy as ever despite the late hour. Not much of a mystery considering their swill tasted better than the usual piss. The sights weren't half bad as well. A good spot all told. Little pricier than most but also meant the company was less...volatile. Not the worst idea considering how the night had been going.

He spotted a pair of seats and motioned for his brother to follow.

"You best have grease, son." The Sixth looked up to see the old tavernkeep. "Hard ore, no promises." Dancer tossed a wry look at the Fourth before giving the aged man a placating gesture. He brought purse to table for the three to see.

"See? Proper scratch. So get us some proper soak." The proprietor gave a huff before heading back towards the bar. "So, brother, notice anything about the bastards who tried to do us in?"
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom