The Prince of Tatters

The Prince of Tatters

The Killing Shade
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Lightning flashed across the sky and his cloak blew in the wind as he leaned off the edge of one of the tall towers in the City of Fools, looking down on the streets below. He must have looked akin to a demon to those with keen enough eyes to spot him above the winding streets. The heavy rain fell across metal and the veil that hid him from prying eyes. It made him feel heavier, but his vigilance remained an easy thing to carry. Tetron had led him here, he knew. Tetron knew that his instincts would win the day and he would find someone who was familiar to him. When he was still Quintus, he hadn't known the man's true name. All he knew was The Sixth's reputation. Where he'd come from and what he'd represented. He remembered sharing a drink or two with the man when he could still smile and wasn't consumed with who it was he had become now. When he wasn't consumed with all of the things that drove him. What led him to claw himself out of the shallow grave the Empire had dug for him.

When lightning flashed again, the light would not find him.
​
Only a fool would choose to stay here if he had the choice.
I had been one once. Back when I couldn't find common ground with the wraiths that haunt my memories.
Wraiths that I would give anything just to see smile again.
To tell them I regretted all the terrible things I said and thought about them.
Is it strange that it feels so long ago that I can't even remember their faces?
I remember how it felt to see them happy and yet their form eludes me.

What am I fighting for? The honor of those I can't remember?
​
The establishment he'd followed the Sixth into was lonely. Full of men with swimming vision and hazy memory. The perfect place to come and talk to him. It was said that the Sixth danced with spirits and carried his enemies gracefully to their graves. He would make a useful ally in the crusade to come, but first he needed to be measured. The Prince had learned to cling to the corners that none paid attention to. The Prince was assailant in one's peripheral that evaporated when faced with the light of one's gaze. Yet he would not evaporate here. Not now. There was purpose to be found.

"The Sixth, I presume..."​
 
Dicing done and pockets fuller, it was time for a drink; just not here. He didn't like to gamble and drink in the same place. Something akin to avoiding mixing business and pleasure except this was pleasure and pleasure. Most folks weren't humble in victory and gods only knew they weren't in loss. A little distance was good for all parties involved.

The streets were slightly less-crowded than usual as rain fell heavy across the city. Dancer barely noticed, still reveling in his earlier winnings. It was only when lightning flashed next did an odd sensation overcome him. The all too eerie feeling of being watched. He took a moment to canvass his surroundings but spotted nothing amiss. But that meant little when steel sat at the hip of every fool in this damned city.

He shrugged off any lingering paranoia and found himself a quiet seat at the Mangled Root.

A shift of movement made the mercenary look up from his drink. The man before him was...hazy, seemingly out-of-focus from everything else. Dancer could only suspect sorcery of some kind. His initial reaction was to shiv this creepy bastard and be done with it, yet the mercenary made no move for his blade.

"Don't strike me as the type whose after my coin. So if you're looking for the Sixth, you've found him."
 
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"No, Bladedancer. I do not seek your coin. And yet, we are all after something are we not?"

The man's face was familiar. He wanted to tell him. To remind him and perhaps even jog his own memory as to what conversations they might have had in the past. That they might have fought side by side on some distant field or perhaps one not so far away. Yet the words eluded him like the ghosts he fought for. Maybe to find them would have been too painful. Maybe he was attempting to think of something that never existed. Grasping at memories to tie him to something other than this mission that death itself had sent him upon.

The Prince stepped forward and the shadows seemed to shrink back a bit. He stood before the mercenary all steel and black cloth. His blades were hidden well, but torches and candles made his masque shine brightly. Steel glimmered a bit to give shape to what might have been otherwise formless. And one could look into the holes in his masque and know that whatever was in that abyss was staring back.

"...I've much coin of my own. Coin that would be much better castoff if I could make use of your sword. And your voice."

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a worn pouch. Tossing it onto the mercenary's table, gold showed itself in a number of faces. Imperial currency and Altalusian. The head of The First Mansa stared up at a Miradi son. And silver and more.

"May I sit?"
 
"True enough," mused the mercenary. Most in this city, however, just wanted a warm bed and some company to share it. He suspected that was very much not within the scope of this man's ambitions. Well, that wasn't for the Sixth to judge. He was a mercenary and talk of coin wasn't to be ignored, unnerving though the bastard may be. And there was apparently much coin to be had. The sight of Miradi's mint made for a moment of pause but the Sixth hid his discomfort well. There were old memories and even harsher grudges fashioned in that circular piece.

"By all means," he said with a motion to the opposite seat. "I've had many requests to the former, as to the latter..."

The Sixth left the obvious unsaid, instead indicating that his robed guest continue with the matter at hand.
 

"I am certain there is much to be found in the latter."

A gloved hand moved to pull the chair away from the table so The Prince could take his place. The Prince moved gracefully like a shadow on the wall or a shape in one's peripheral. Like the wind could blow and carry this wraith away somewhere on a distant wind. He watched the mercenary through the voids of his enchanted steel visage. A single black finger moved to drag a single coin from the pouch on the table. He toyed with it, almost as though he were pomdering what it was he wanted to say next. The candles and torches created an orange light that made his masque glow eerily.

"The City of Fools hosts someone I've been watching for some time," he said calmly, tapping the coin three times before he took his hand off the table and folded it in his lap.

"In the Ember District, the former Kshatrii Prixmo Chopra has made himself quite comfortable. The fringes of the Arshakan Empire offer little in the way of luxury in the way that the City of Fools does. He is responsible for a number of crimes that I have no wish to bore you with."

He waved a hand slowly across the air and leaned in to speak nearly in a whisper, the echo of his masque creating something sinister in the air. As though his voice might have come from every direction and perhaps none at all. A voice one might hear from their bones.

"But he has commited them all the same. I must see an end to him."​
 
"His crimes are all too familiar to me and most. Yet he still remains, a curiosity which surely hasn't escaped your eerie gaze." The name spoken brought no joy to the mercenary or any fucking individual. Chopra was a snake-no a slug with serpents at his beckoning. A sort who caused trouble but wasn't worth the trouble he caused. A dangerous mark. Seeing a Khasatrii dead didn't sound bad but this bastard was different.

"I'd see him sleeping with the worms just like anyone else but it's just not that simple," the seasoned mercenary explained. Dancer looked around to see if there was any unusual curiosity but saw nothing. This eerie bastard clearly had a way of avoiding unwanted attention.

"The Cabal's no friend of any Empire dog, least not loyal ones here for a spell. Problem is he's tied in close with the 'Herds, and their numbers aren't something to scoff at." He wondered if this stranger understood the insane intricacies of this city. The coin was good but a horde of bleating bastards after him made it all moot.

He gave the cloaked man a hard look as he recalled his final worlds. "Since we're asking odd questions, who exactly is going to do the killing?"
 
"I have not come here to kill off his numbers, Sixth. I've come to see the end of one man," he responded calmly.

"Make no mistake, Fool. I have not come here to raise swords or to bring others into my conflict. Mine is the only blade I will need... But you know this city. You are one of the more respected figures within it. My coin is to buy your knowledge, a thing that can be as quiet as kept."

And he had covered his tracks as best he could. The Masque of Tetron had made him more shadow than man. Everytrime he slipped it on his visage, he grew closer to something deeper and more obscure than he could ever hope to understand. It pressed at his soul and fed the fire in him. How long would it be until he was spent and given to the ether?

"I have need of spies here. Resources. People who can get me closer to him so that I may know his movements. I've connections in many other places, but this city?"

They'd all died with him...

"Are you capable of assisting in this?"
 
Respected figure, huh. That didn't sound half bad. Was it the name or the man? Did it even matter?

"The thing is, 'Fell doesn't much care for folks intent. You're hardly the first to want a man dead in this city. Usually when a body drops, another dozen follow. That's doubly true for someone like Chopra." There was a bit of edge to the mercenary's voice, he wasn't exactly used to be talked down to on his own turf. Sure, he was used to weathering the condescending gazes when visiting nobles' estates or some pompous merchant's emporium.

The Sixth allowed himself a moment to calm down. There was a lot of coin at stake and this man was offering to kill one of 'Fell's many stains. "Well, you seem to have a way about you," he said with a resigned sigh. "Maybe things will go as you say." The mercenary was skeptical.

He relaxed his posture slightly. "I can get you what you need, up to a point that is. Chopra's a bastard but he's not stupid. I'll need some time." It'd been awhile since the Sixth had done something like this. A job more akin to his days as a servant to the trickster god. The usual contract in the City of Fools didn't call for much discretion. "Where are you currently staying? I'll send word in a few days."
 
One of his few connections in the city owned a white villa overlooking the city. Away from prying eyes, not because he had anything to hide but because he grew weary of the presence of others. An old war veteran that wanted to find peace overlooking a city of people that were just like him. Warriors addicted to the flow of battle and coin, a story as old as time. Sometimes he wondered if the old man ever truly knew there was a phantom in his home. A voice spoke to him and he spoke back. And he knew that voice was supplying him coin to remain out of sight just the way he had. And just maybe, there was a part of him that knew why that tattered ghost was there. Warriors could sense ambition as it was often what inspired them to raise their swords.

"There is a small, yet prominent villa that sits atop Declan's Bloody Hill. You will know it when you see it. When the sun is high, it stands out from the surrounding structures. It is one of a kind."

He rose from his seat, his shadowy form growing taller as his hands fell to his sides. Slowly, he approached The Sixth and looked him in the eyes before offering a cloaked hand to shake. Something to seal the little deal they'd made.

"The guard at the front door will speak words to you. He will say 'The Sun is beaming.' You will say 'Yet the rain still falls'... He will know you have come for me."
 
"Don't think I've ever heard of the old man hosting guests, seems I'm learning a lot of new things today," said the mercenary with a shrug. The villa was hard to miss and something of a legend within the City of Fools. The rumors ranged from disrespectful to outright fantastical. Not exactly a surprise considering this city was full of mostly idiots who were only good at one thing. Well, it could certainly be entertaining from time to time.

He shook the other man's outstretched hand, thinking this whole passphrase thing was a bit paranoid. The Sixth kept his thoughts to himself as he was getting paid good coin. He'd bark like a bloody 'Shakan hound with a purse this heavy.

The mercenary took some time to finish his drink before finally heading out. Best to leave a bit of air between him and his eerie employer. He now had to make a few stops before the night was out. Keeping an eye on Chopra was not exactly a one man job. The Sixth was a fair hand at this business but he couldn't be everywhere at once. Since coin wasn't a problem this go round, he could afford to hire out some sharp eyes.

Dancer wound through the city's streets until finding himself at a nondescript door in the Gold Quarter. Two knocks in rapid succession, a delay, followed by one final heavy wrap of knuckles. The door creaked open just enough for thin hand to reach out, palm waiting in anticipation. Sighing, the mercenary placed a small piece of parchment on worn skin. Hand retracted and for a moment there was only silence.

"Won't be cheap." A raspy, but sure tone.

A not insignificant purse materialized from the sellsword's robes, before being greedily snapped into the door's void. "Two...no three days."

---

"Yet the rain still falls," said the Sixth, just three days later. The guard didn't say anything else and simply motioned for the mercenary to follow him.

"I'm thinking I may have asked for too little," remarked the Sixth, looking noticeably worse for wear. The last few nights had not treated him kindly.
 
The guard leads him through the villa. Women clad in in airy fabrics that showed their carnal treasures beneath eye the Sixth as he enters. They smile as if they know who he is and their fingers are the instruments of temptation as they brush past his passing form. The ceiling in the room is high and made from imported marble. Perhaps from the mines near Naya Vapna. Who is to say? A eunuch approaches the Sixth with a tray of dates and small cups of brandy as they enter a room with a pool and columns that reach toward the impossibly high ceiling. A large man with jeweled fingers mutters to a shadow adorned in steel and what can only be malice. He sits in the pool clutching a silver goblet and looks to see the Sixth enter. A smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes cuts across his fat face.

"You brought me someone prettier than half the bitches I keep in here, Prince," he laughs, but his movements are amicable. He directs the nearest man to get the merc captain a drink and maybe some Ring Dust for an upper. "Come, come. Sit with me, you pretty Bladedaning motherfucker. Don't think I don't know who you are either. Everything reaches me here. Anyone worth anything reaches me here... My friend here says you're helping him, hm?"

The Prince, for a time, says nothing. He watches the Sixth maneuver from the darkness behind his steel visage, his thoughts his own. Perhaps he pondered the game that they were playing or envisioned the Kshatri's bedsheets pooling with blood when he finally met him with shadow and metal. He glides across the floor and sits in a chair by the pool, gesturing to a seat near him, the abyss beckoning company to chat for a while. There was much to discuss.
 
The Sixth wasn't sure if he'd walked into the villa or the next bloody life. Dancer was starting to understand the rumors about this place. Wouldn't be good for the owner if word got out this place was dripping in coin...among other things. He figured a few bastards in the past had given it go regardless. The fact it remained untouched said something about the old man. Afterall, holding your own was a daily struggle in a city of sellswords.

Dancer wasn't even surprised by the time he laid eyes on the large pool.

"Pretty's better than what I usually get called," remarked the mercenary upon taking the silver goblet. He raised the cup in a small toast of the 'compliment'. It hadn't escaped his notice that another delicacy was offered alongside drink. Dancer made a point of avoiding Dust these days. It...blurred his connection to many spirits while others fed on it eagerly. Spirit-dancing was a delicate balance of control, any stumble could see you falling into your grave.

He cast a glance at his veiled client but eventually took the offered seat. "I've got a bit of a rep," he acknowledged. "Helping is a generous word. Doing business, plain and simple." The shit he'd gone through these last days wasn't easy but the Sixth kept that to himself. Dancer took an absentminded sip of brandy. "I've got to wonder. If 'everything reaches you here', why bother coming to me at all?"

A question for neither and both at the same time.
 
"Because for all we might have heard of you, you've returned with the information requested all the same haven't you?" The Prince responds as he crosses one leg over the other. The eyes beneath the eyes of his visage narrow upon the Bladedancer as his metallic voice seems to resonate through the bathhouse of the villa. Fingers adorned by brutal steel tap against the chair he say upon. "You are not simply a mercenary. Or simply a Fool. And you did not come to this city for no reason at all. You left something behind, something that left you with skills and marks that make you more valuable than you care to admit."

"Heh. Ain't that the fuckin' truth?" the Big Man cackled into his cup and looked over his shoulder at the two men seated behind him. He turns as three of his servants enter the pool behind him. Two beautiful women and an alluring eunuch. Practiced hands find his shoulders and weave through the hair on his chest as he fixes his gaze on the Sixth. "And those fuckin' skills were needed so that Chopra doesn't see us coming. You have no love for the Empire twice over, my boy. Way I see it, you're the perfect person to pick out in this city of fucking idiots."
 
Bemused, he sipped brandy once more. "Even Ember's finest don't fluff me this good. Which is odd since I'm the one making coin. Who does that make the whore then?" It was probably still him, but why admit it.

The Sixth left flippancy aside for the moment as he cast a glance towards the mask. Vague words spoken like an alleyseer yet ringing with truth. He knew their game and played it himself before when needed. Any idiot could find meaning in simple conclusions. Yet Dancer got the sense that his client was speaking from knowledge not mysticism.

He placed the goblet down with muted regret. This were a brothel, you'd take coin knowing you'd be fucked. That's not what the Sixth signed up for, yet he was getting the distinct impression of being bent over.

"I'd shit twice on the Empire if I could but our mysterious friend has it wrong, I'm a hardhand through and through. Chopra's just business so I'll tell you what I know and be on my way as agreed." His hands rested casual as a cat on ledge all too eager to pounce should he be provoked.
 
"None shall stop your departure, Sixth."

The Prince sat back comfortably in his seat. He could see the subtleties in his muscles. The thought that he might be provoked. The Big Man in the pool was wise enough to read the room and yet, there was daring in his eyes. The sentiment that if a man was bold enough to draw blades in his estate. they might see the cruel result of their folly. Tatters had merely raised a subtle hand from the arm of his chair to still his pride. His visage never leaves the Sixth's own. He knew that what he said had found some manner of purchase. No matter how the other man reacted...

"Hardhand through and through... Very well, Sixth. Very well. Come, tell me what news you bring."
 
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