The thing about fame was that it followed you everywhere. As soon as they walked into the bar, Fourth could feel eyes on them. Glancing around, he saw heads turn away, cups hovering 'neath chins. The conversation in the place didn't so much die as take a breath.

Pulling up a chair, the mercenary sat down. The temptation to kick his feet up on the table was tempered only by the fact that he might be needing them soon. Perhaps sooner than either of them expected.

'Other than they couldn't fight? No, not a thrice-damned thing.' They had been rent-a-thugs, he knew that much. Mercenaries only in the sense that they sacrificed their morals for coin. Whole lotta good that did them, he thought, staring across at his dusk-skinned brother, wondering if they weren't bound to meet with the same bloody end. Probably. Likely.

Drinks arrived in record time. The result of paying one's dues, figured the Fourth.

'Rashmi will find us the answers we seek. That, or more questions.' Someone within Crorefell was playing a very dangerous game, that much was clear. Unfortunately, the First and Last had as many enemies as they did friends, and most of the latter were far from true. Fucking mercenaries. 'Faiven was a good Runner. Real good. Whoever managed to bushwhack her must've had access to her timetable.' Or they had gotten incredibly lucky.

Personally, the Fourth had his doubts.

'Imagine, the Selvari letting slip information on their runners' routes.' It was almost laughable. 'Still, stranger things have happened.'

@The Sixth
 
"Exactly, and that's got me a bit worried." The mercenaries, well thugs, showed no signs of affiliation. That was a rarity in this city. Enter the gates and you're bound to be snatched up by one cadre or the other. Unless you were working in the administration, but he doubted the attackers could tell sky from ground. The First and Last had a storied history which meant some friends and a lot of enemies. Yet few tried to bury them directly and definitely not within the city walls. They'd earned at least that over the years.

This is exactly why he was on edge. Whoever sent them was dumb enough to make an attempt in the city, yet cautious enough to send outside hands. The Sixth was finding it difficult to get a read on their opponent. His brother seemingly had the right idea, best not to dwell on it. Answers would find them, one way or the other. "Let's hope its not more questions. Otherwise I'm not likely to have any favors left to call after the curtain comes up."He took a heavy swig of ale to ease his nerves.

"Happening too damned often for my liking." Dancer's fellow mercenary hit on the most troubling aspect of all. The Runners' kept tight ranks. However the simplest explanation was Faiven had been sold out. That was an entirely different shitheap, one far bigger and deeper. The sort you usually didn't crawl out of.

He allowed himself a resigned sigh. "What're the odds we make it through the night without spilling anymore blood?"
 
'Slim.' Staring unblinkingly at his brother, the Fourth shrugged, took a sip of beer. Rashmi would send for them soon enough, no doubt. All they could do until then was keep their heads down and try to stay out of trouble.

Stretching languidly in his seat, one eye on the smoky passage leading to the kitchens, the other on the patrons, the Fourth let the silence lengthen. He had never been a big talker - he left that to the First and Seventh. Silver-tongued devils, the pair of them.

'Broomhandle's busier than usual,' he said, after a time spent watching the world go by. 'New ownership, or so I heard. Wonder if one of the cadre's bought it?' Or took it. Sure, there were rules and laws against such things, but they only ever mattered if you got caught.

Blackmail. Extortion. Murder. The latter was of the most consequence, and yet here they were, laying low after an attempt on their lives.

Poor Faiven. 'Always was fond of the Selvari.' The Fourth confessed, drinking deep. 'Someone somewhere must've greased the right palms, t' leave them compromised so. We're talkin' very deep pockets.' Coin and influence were the currency of Crorefell. Both could be spent or traded away, as means to ends.

It was how the First and Last had stayed on top for so long, besides deft bladework. But then every 'cadre had its Fourth, every band its Sixth.

'This'll be... interesting,' the Fourth grinned, dagger for a smile. 'Hope you keep your blades sharp, brother.'

@The Sixth
 
"If I didn't know any better I'd usually say the Cabal but I think it's a mite out of their territory," admitted the mercenary. It could still be, just not directly under their name. That was how the more clever types went about their work. Law says that no current member of Empire nobility can own or run a business within Crorefell, yet somehow their grubby hands seem to be over everything. Oh, every couple years the Rabble makes some noise and there is a big cleanout. But coin has a way of making memories short, real short. Well, the Empire was an old-hand at this sort of thing so the Sixth simply saw it as the cost of doing business.

Some, though, had gotten a little too bold in times past. Those were the contracts upon which the First and Last was built and maintained. There's a thought, he mused. A group with deep pockets and an old grudge against the Selvari. Too early to say at this point. Even the mercenary had to admit not everything bad was due to Arshakan nobles, just most things.

A few drinks later, a shifty-eyed servant boy emerged from the kitchens and approached their table. "The mender says she's ready for ye." The Sixth gave the lad a study before tossing him a few coins. He tossed a pointed glance at his brother before heading for the 'Handle's exit.

The cool night air was not the only thing that greeted the pair. There was in fact one horribly scarred man flanked by a trio of unwelcome looking bastards.

"Don't suppose this is the overstepping lackey who currently seems quite keen on making the same mistake once more?"
 
'I thought he'd be bigger,' the Fourth replied, a blade already sitting pretty in his hand. His lips curled upwards, the distraught expression on Scar's face a rare delight indeed. 'Well. Are we fighting or fucking?' He demanded, the three stooges sharing nervous grins.

'You'd like that, wouldn't ya, ye dirty prick ye!'

Laughing, the scarred man stepped forward and clasped the Fourth's wrist. Waving his brother down, the mercenary kept hold of his dagger as he returned the gesture, unsure of the man's intent, but sure he would sell his own mother if it meant turning a profit.

'Grekyl. Lads. Glad to see there're still some Redjacks swanning about the place after last year's kerfuffle.' Grinning, Grekyl let go of Fourth's wrist, his grip leaving an impression. The Redjacks were an old cadre. Respected, but far from liked.

They were responsible for policing the Ashen District, one of Crorefell's less civilised locales.

Heavy-handed with it, the Redjacks imposed some modicum of law and order on the population there. Of course, the Ashen being what it was, they were fighting an uphill battle. But at least they were getting paid.

'Bit far from 'ome, ain't we?' Grekyl asked, scratching his cleft chin, a finger tracing the jagged scar that had left him blind in one eye. 'Almost like ya ain't 'eard the news!'

The Fourth glanced at his brother.

'Oh? And what news is that?' He replied, picturing in his mind's eye how best to kill Grekyl and his buddies before they killed him. The Redjack smiled, the spaces between missing teeth as black as pitch. 'Why,' he said, 'only that someone went and tried to clip the Eighth! Nothin' too serious, 'course, since yer boy managed to fight 'is way out. That's what I 'ear, anyhow.'

The Fourth blinked. Slowly, he returned his dagger to its sheathe.

'Hmm.' He acknowledged Grekyl's words. 'Thanks.'

'Yer most welcome!' Grekyl smiled wider, before brushing between the pair and on into the Broomhandle. The other Redjacks followed, less cocksure than their leader, the Bringer of Bad News.

'Seems our mystery killer's struck again,' the Fourth remarked, waiting until the door had closed to speak. He didn't show it, but there was a feeling in his chest akin to concern. He blinked again. 'We should go see the mender. Now.'

@The Sixth
 
The Sixth's hand rested gently on his blade's pommel and remained there until the trio disappeared into the 'Handle. He'd worn a bemused look during the entire interaction between his brother and the 'Jacks. Dancer knew they were the type to fly off the handle at a word so this was a welcome outcome. His expression remained passive at news of the Eighth. The First and Last earned their grudges, and they stacked higher than a temple spire. Still, this wasn't exactly the sort of news he was hoping for tonight.

"Be nice if it is the same person. Two debts with one strike sounds like damned good business to me."

Once again they found themselves at Rashmi's infirmary, her expression as they entered was characteristically unreadable.

"It was Duskmane," she stated without preamble.

"Fuck."

"Indeed." All the sympathy he would get this eve.

Duskmane was a concoction, more specifically, a poison used in assisting the passing of Selvari steeds. It was considered a sacred rite and as such the recipe was closely guarded even among their own people. Near three decades ago a vial found itself outside the blessed prairie. Never since had another been leaked again. The mercenary didn't need to be told the fates of those involved.

"Fuck," he repeated.

"Your guest should be gaining lucidity at any moment now. He may be somewhat pliable but might require more encouragement."

Dancer itched his scalp as he ran a hand through his long mottled black hair. The mercenary gave his brother a pat on the shoulder. "Well, you're apparently the amiable one."
 
'Don't know where you got that idea from.' Nodding to Rashmi, the Fourth followed his senses to the room where the thug was being held. Bound hand and foot, he wasn't in the best of moods when the mercenary found him. The colourful vocabulary he used to describe his captors' love lives would have made even the most vulgar of sailors blush.

Of course, he shut up right quick when he saw who was standing just beyond the bars to his cage.

'Nice nap?' The Fourth asked, recovering the key and letting himself in. The cell -like most cells he had ever had the pleasure of holidaying in- had a single, barred window set high up in the smooth brick wall opposite the cell's door. Moonlight, red and silvery, illuminated a patch of floor just beyond where the thug lay. Dust motes swam in the air, parting only when he placed a stool down in said spot.

'Up you get, now. You have visitors.' Forcing a smile, the Fourth helped the thug to sit. The fabric used to bind his feet and wrists came loose with ease, once he ran a blade through it.

Rubbing at sore joints, the thug coughed, beady eyes darting hither and yon in search of escape.

The Fourth slapped that notion clean out of his head before it could take root. Then, a smile, cold as steel. 'I have some questions to ask you,' he said, looming over his prisoner, eyes unblinking. 'Answer truthfully, and I might just let you walk out of here, your hide intact. Each lie earns you a cut, each subsequent lie two cuts.' The Fourth flashed fingers, to make sure he got his point across. The thug gave a nod.

'What... what do you want to know?'

-----
​
'Amaryk.' Joining the Sixth in Rashmi's kitchen, Fourth took a seat at her table. The Boneknitter had brewed herself a pot of tea whilst he'd been working, a pot the grey-haired mender was willing to share, it seemed. Steady hands set a cup and saucer in front of him, poured til he was content.

'Is your business in the other room concluded?' She asked, filling the Sixth's cup with amber liquid. A courtesy.

'Yes,' replied the Fourth, knowing better than to refuse her.

'Good,' she said, setting the teapot down. 'Drink up, and be on your way 'fore dawn finds us.' Aye, the mercenary thought, breathing in the scents of honey. Wizened, she may be, but Rashmi still possessed all her faculties. She knew as well as they did she could not been seen entertaining guests of their stature after hours. It would raise questions, draw the wrong sort of attention. Fourth sipped his tea.

'About the body-'

'Do not fret,' she cut him off. 'I will dispose of it. Just see to it that you do not end the same way he did, my boy.' Nodding, the Fourth glanced at the Sixth.

@The Sixth
 
"Should've known that slimy bastard was involved." The Sixth nodded his thanks for the tea before taking a sip. It wasn't exactly his usual drink but was welcome nonetheless. The brew had a calming effect, seemingly perfect for the hangover to come. Hadn't taken long to get the name they needed but that was to be expected. Their captive was even less than the normal hired-hand. A mere throwaway, exactly the sort Amaryk preferred.

Still a name was a name, they had their next target. "Pleasure as always, Rashmi." He got a scoff in return. "I'll still be expecting payment." The Sixth gave her a respectful nod. He'd send someone tomorrow to see that accounts were settled. Dancer may not always be timely with his other tabs but this was different. A mender shutting their door on you could mean death.

"What's say we head back to the Dragon? Thinking we might need to get ourselves centered before paying Amaryk a visit."

They'd learned a few things since visiting the Boneknitter, damned troubling things to be precise. Taking some time to regroup and plan their next steps seemed like the smart play. Even still, the mercenary couldn't help being pressed by a sense of urgency. Something telling him if they didn't handle matters quickly, it
 
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'Yeah.' Staring straight ahead, the Fourth sipped at his tea. It had been a long, eventful night already. Roused, forced to fight, made to question. A dead Selvari and an attempt on a brother's life. What is this world coming to?

Finishing their drinks, they left via the front, slipping into the early dawn like phantoms. Cat's eyes lit the darkness through which they flowed. The City of Fools slept fretfully, unsure of its fortunes, but eager to pursue them all the same.

There were men waiting for them at the Dragon. Old hands, welcome faces.

'Looks like Sister First has shored up the defences in our absence.' It was rare for the First and Last to hire extra muscle, save those already on the payroll. 'Lends some credence to the tale the Jacks spun. Bit concerning, considering Grekyl's a born liar.' The Fourth knew; he had caught the bastard out more than once.

Pausing at the door, the mercenary cast a glance over his shoulder. The skies above the Ember district had lightened in the time it had taken them to make their journey from Rashmi's. The streets remained quiet, but the Fourth couldn't help but shake the feeling they were being watched.

'One step behind, same as having one foot in the grave.' Smirking, he shook his head, made his way inside. If it came down to it, he would just have to dig his way out.

Again.

@The Sixth
 
"Least one of our lot has a decent head on their shoulders," agreed the Sixth. That hasn't always been the case with the First and Last. The chronicles of their predecessors was storied but messy. More than a few times had their cadre simply ceased to exist. All eight being caught up in seemingly idiotic circumstances. A bloody wonder they'd manage to last this long. Guess that's why folks sometimes said they embodied the city itself; Fools one and all.

A wave of exhaustion struck the mercenary as he took a seat. They'd been running cross the city not knowing where the next blade was coming. Wasn't entirely out of the norm but the stakes felt different this time round. Part of him wanted to sleep the newly rising morning away but that just didn't seem in the cards.

Surely a bit of ale wouldn't go amiss. Fortunately the Dragon was theirs so both drink and talk came easy.

"Amaryk's a greasy prim but not a complete fucking half-wit. He's got to figure we'd find out who hired those useless bastards, or maybe I've just given him too much credit." They both knew he didn't have the stones or means to off a 'Runner. "He's acting like a man not worried about the consequences..."

It takes a powerful persuasion to make that leap, especially when dealing with the First and Last.
 
'You know what they say about assumption being the mother of all fuck-ups?' The Sixth was probably right. Amaryk had taken a huge gamble, sending clippers after them. He'd probably gone to ground by now, or else fled the city until things died down. Unfortunately for him, the Fourth had a long fucking memory, as well as a reputation for bearing grudges. It was one of the reasons so few people chose to fuck with him.

'Lady Luck has favoured us so far,' he said, ordering some watered-down wine. Now was not a good time to overindulge. 'For all we know, the slimy bastard's still swanning about the Gold quarter, a fat purse riding at his hip.' The mercenary wouldn't put it past him.

Drink and vittles arrived along with a message from the Eighth.

'Seems Grekyl wasn't lying,' the Fourth growled, eyes aflame as he deciphered the Eighth's message. 'Attacked by unknown assailants. No survivors. First also attacked. Again, no survivors. Regrouping at the Spear and Stave, midday. Be there.' The Fourth blinked, peepers narrowing. 'Yours truly, Brother Eighth.'

He scoffed, grinning as he passed the letter across.

'Funny fucker, ain't he?' Still, there was no news like good news. Spirits lifted, the Fourth supped in silence, cutlery clattering as he sliced and skewered. The food in the Dragon was... passable, at best. He'd have to do something about that sometime.

But first: a score to settle.

@The Sixth
 
The Sixth looked to the letter and it was certainly the Eighth's handwriting. Like his brother he shared a moment of relief. They'd had differences but this was the First and Last. He'd not take any pleasure in learning of his siblings' death. Well, maybe the Seventh, but that's cause he was an odd bastard. Never seemed to have time for the rest of them. "Wouldn't be Storied if some cunt or the other wasn't trying to have a go."

He took to his meal with some fervor, the night' festivities had left him famished. The mercenary chewed on food and thoughts as he let the wine soak. His brother wasn't wrong, luck had been on their side. So why not press the advantage?

"I think you've got the right of it. Amaryk likes this city too much, got interests not easily abandoned..." The Sixth then came to a revelation. "Not long ago there was rumor he owed the Steel Reserve a fair bit of coin. Never heard about that debt being settled not that I think on it."

Finishing off the remaining wine, he looked to his brother. "Thinking it's time for an audit, a loud and thorough one at that."
 
'Shake the nest and see what falls out?' I like it. Finishing his meal, the Fourth sank the rest of his wine, eager to set things in motion, though wise enough to realise results would take time, if indeed a thorough audit turned up anything to begin with.

'Never did take Amaryk for a fool,' he spoke softly, white-gold eyes flaring briefly as a stranger stepped into the 'Dragon. One of the hired hands, he deduced, spotting familiar threads and a tattoo on the side of the man's neck. 'Either he's taken leave of his senses completely... or someone's got something on him.' A wheeler-dealer like Amaryk always had some dirt under their fingernails. Still.

'We'll bounce the idea off Sister First, see what she has to say.' Maybe their brothers and sisters would turn up fresh information come the midday meet. Assuming no other fucker tried their luck in the meantime.

'Feels to me like someone gave our dear friend a push, made him show his hand before he was ready.' The Fourth shrugged. 'Guess we'll know for ourselves soon.' Pushing back his chair, the mercenary stood, wiping his fingers clean on a napkin left by the server.

'Gonna go get some shut-eye,' he said. 'Come wake me if you need help killing somebody. Otherwise, fend for yourself.'

@The Sixth
 
"Fair point," he admitted with regards to consulting their siblings. A second opinion could go a long way in a situation like this. Keeping matters at an arm's length was the way in this business but wasn't always easy. Spilling blood had a way of turning things personal real fast. This also wasn't the usual contract. A friend of the First and Last had turned up dead at their doorstep. No begging, no bartering; just a cold corpse. And that wasn't sitting right with the sellsword, even if he wasn't keen on admitting it.

"Think I'm good on killing for the night but your concern is always appreciated. I'll be not long behind in any case." He watched the Fourth leave the inn and the Sixth left soon after. The mercenary did not head towards his room however but made his way to the Gold quarter. A second wind hit him after scarfing down that plate earlier. Figured a little reconnaissance before the night was out couldn't hurt.

Didn't take him long to find Amaryk's 'office'. The Sixth stayed to the shadows as he looked for anything out of place. He felt a slight unease, but not from what he saw. This reminded him of old days, a spider's life which could never totally be forgotten. He lingered for another twenty minutes or so but eventually decided to call it a night.

The sun had risen for quite some time by the time the Sixth awoke. Gave him just enough time to see to Rashmi's payment before heading to the Spear and Stave.
He entered the tavern, expecting to see his brothers and sisters.
 
It was busy inside the Spear and Stave. Practically heaving. Punters crowded the tables, talking and drinking, arguing and gambling. Pint-pullers flexed their pouring arms, passing mugs of froth and fancy to the buxom wenches waiting on standby beside the bar. It was an hour past midday. Lunchtime, or close enough as for folk to start growing peckish.

And thirsty, apparently.

Up on the first floor, the Fourth watched through vacant eyes the events unfolding in the common room below. A pint of beer rested on the table by his hand, next to a bared dagger and a dried bloodstain, neither of which was his.

'Is something wrong, sir?' Blinking, the Fourth pushed aside his burgeoning thoughts, long enough to address the serving girl hovering just inside his cone of vision. 'No, nothing's wrong,' he assured her, passing the girl his mug. 'Fetch me another. This one's grown warm.' Taking the mug from his hands, the girl bowed, before turning towards the nearest stairwell.

She nearly tripped when she recognised the figure marching up the stairs to meet her.

'Sir! I- my apologies, sir! I did not see you there.' Glancing over, the Fourth snorted, hand slipping to the dagger on the table as the Sixth wandered into view. 'About time you arrived,' he grinned mirthlessly, putting the blade away. The Fourth stood to shake hands with his brother. 'Late as always. I swear, you'd like as miss your own funeral.' It wasn't a joke.

'Slept well, I assume? No nightmares to haunt your sorry excuse for a soul?'

@The Sixth
 
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