Solo Letting go of the Past

[Wrenmae]

Fall 35, 512 AV


He haunted the alleys with muscle memory, moving without knowing. The Pig’s Foot Tavern reared like a beast in frozen surprise, regarding him with rheumy recognition against the pallid sky. Once, he had smiled at the door, a ritual born of habit for a doe-eyed girl who lingered near the window. She’d been a tavern wench then, bound for Zeltiva. She sought opportunity, fat on with the stories of callous-skinned sailors and the blue of Zeltivan sails. She claimed to be from Syliras, a maiden fleeing arranged marriage to a knight whom she did not love. Once upon a time, he would have nodded with her, smiled where he was supposed to smile, frowned where he was supposed to frown. She smelled of the allies, her skin was smeared with dirt. She smiled with a missing tooth, misadventure with an abusive father. The girl had never seen Syliras, its soaring buttresses, the massive gate. She was born in Suberth and dreamed of being more than she was.

And every night he spoke to her, she ended the evening in the arms of Mok, cooing against hard muscles as Wrenmae kept the watch. Then, he did not hate her for it. It was enough to know that his power could claim her whenever he wanted. Back then, the unspent power made much of his inaction seem justified. The Sunberthians howled for mage-blood…there was a time when bodies swung from gallows every few days, a sign around their twisted neck. MAGE, painted in tar. Sunberth was never surprising, not if you understood the nature of fear.

Stepping through the doors, he took a seat at the bar. Soured hops, sweat, and dried blood filled the tavern with a caul of nostalgia. The bartender glanced at Wrenmae sidelong, cleaning out a mug and filling it with grog. He pushed the clay mug across the table to bounce off of Wrenmae’s elbow, nearly tipping. Catching it, Wren raised an eyebrow, but the barkeep was already stepping over, pausing only to fill another mug before coming to rest in front of the hypnotist.

“Been awhile, Wrenmae,” The bartender said with a notable drawl, “Took you for a dead man.”

“Do I look so bad?” Wren joked, shaking his head, “No, left the streets for a spell. I hear the Crimson Edge never came back.”

“Nope,” The bartender confirmed with a firm shake of his head, “Not a one. Word was you were running the gang before they vanished. Couldn’t keep them together?”

“My head wasn’t in it. Too few to hold the territory we had and most jumped ship.”

“Sailor phrase. Tried your luck in Zeltiva?”

“Picked it up off of that?”

“I’m in the business of knowing my customers. You learn a thing or two from guessing year by year.”

Wren nodded again, bathing the back of his throat in the watered grog. The bar stool next to him held vigil over a minor dent in the wood surface beside his perspiring drink. Once that dent had been a head, smashed down and cracking against the weight of the half-myrian above it. The blood had long since been cleaned, but a memorial of the violence remained. In a way, the Crimson Edge was as immortal to Sunberth as any of the other gangs. Those who had painted their symbols on sagging houses, left mars of once violence on the surface of the city…these men and women, though nameless in all but the most conflicted memory, retained a sense of belonging to a town that thrived off its lack of order.

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m not. I have a boat out on the morning tide tomorrow.”

“Back to Zeltiva?”

“Sahova.”

A pause. Looking over the table at him, the bartender frowned. “Not a place the living usually go.”

“Circumstances too tempting to pass.”

“Suite yourself. I’d leave sooner, rather than later. Word is the Daggerhands are looking for you.”

“I have no argument with the Dagger Hands, what does Robern want with me?”

In response, the bartender pointed toward the poster hanging near the door. Clustered there were a nest of old and torn paper, ink likenesses scrawled across them with neither care nor skill. One caught his eye. In what looked like tar, the name Wrenmae, was scribed under a poor interpretation of him.

The reward was not listed.

“I heard your boss crossed them. Daggerhands aren’t patient folk nor the forgiving type. They took your friend off the streets earlier, Mok, and I expect the next eyes to pass through my door to be looking for you.”

“What?” Wrenmae looked up sharply, nostalgia banished with the mention of a single syllable. “Mok?”

“Aye,” the bartender nodded gravely, “They took him some time ago, Robern’s called for the lot of you to be cleaned off the streets.”

“Where?”

Looking up from the bar, he nodded to the space behind Wren.

“I expect you’re about to find out.”

[Wrenmae]

Twisting in his seat, hand to his dagger, three Daggerhands stood quietly in the doorway. Not a one of them smiled, their eyes on Wren and Wren only.

“Do me a favor,” The bartender said, “Take it outside. I’ve had enough damage from the petching storm two seasons back that I’m still repairing.”

“Business as usual,” Wrenmae muttered, slipping off the seat and taking another gulp of grog, It was thick in his throat, like the premonition of blood. “I’ll be back to pay for the drink. Keep a tab open.”

The patrons moved away from the lanky murderer as he stalked toward the door. One hand on the hilt of his dagger, his fingers beat a rat-tat against the hilt and pommel. He drew up short before stepping into their range, regarding each with the same implacable expression they levied in his direction. The three might have been brothers, built solidly of Sunberthian ordered chaos. Their bodies were lattice-work of scars and lines that chronicled their difficult lives in the streets. Built like the mines, cut of stone and back-breaking work, one alone would be enough to subdue the hypnotist. They did not need to come armed, but they did regardless. A set of daggers, a sword, and a crossbow still clipped to its belt. There was no need to draw weapons in the establishment.

“Wrenmae Sek, Lieutenant of the Crimson Edge?”

“I don’t think even the members of the Edge called me that. Strange I should receive honorifics from my enemies.”

The brute sneered, “We are not hear to reminisce on your failures, we are here to make you answer for them.”

“And what failures are those?”

“You ran under Cade, a man who crossed us. Robern will have his head, or the heads of those who worked with him.”

“Exacting fellow,” Wrenmae muttered, “Blood for blood, or…in this case, blood and blood for blood.”

“We can cut you down here.”

“No. No. I’d rather not add any more mizas to my tab for repair. If you’re intent on beating me down, we’ll do it outside.”

“Surrender your weapons.”

“Take them from me.”

Both men stared at each other, a quiet battle waged between gazes rather than of muscle or mind. Each tried to dominate the other. But what the thug did not know, could not know, was that Wrenmae was no ordinary Sunberth rat. Coiling a spool of Djed into his eyes, he lanced out a sudden attack of chilling fear on his opponent, on all three of them. It was an emotion that ebbed against the shoreline of their confidence, eroding their discipline and encouraging paranoia instead.

One of them drew one of his daggers, the other unclipped the crossbow from his belt. At the lead, however, although his hand strayed to the sword at his side, he nodded once.

All three men stepped out of the tavern, leaving Wrenmae momentarily unmolested among the sea of stares that followed him to the door. He paused, hand on the handle, turning back. Perhaps he’d always felt this way, he with a hand on the door and all the rest of Mizahar behind him, staring as though he were petching insane. Sheep, cattle, the lot of them. The whole of the continent was frozen in the mourning period of their lost society. Now, five hundred years after, they had only managed enough gumption to throw together a series of city-states. Was the world so dangerous? Was mankind so weak? Was there nothing ingenuitive left in these shambling husks? One city so radically different from another, it was almost as if each had forcefully chosen to differentiate from each other, as if a council had been summoned on exactly how the proceedings would be.

Now what were they? Scattered savages clinging to ruins.

Was he to die here, in the worst of them?

[Wrenmae]

Pushing open the door, the street was a cold antithesis of its daylight alter ego. Not a soul stumbled along the sides, using walls to substitute for empty air. Instead, three men stood quietly, awaiting him. By now they’d all drawn their weapons. The brute with the crossbow trained it on the hypnotist as he walked towards them. Of yet, he had not chosen to draw his own blades. It was painfully obvious they did not intend to make a fight of the encounter. Even given his stature and reputation, three enforcers had been sent to ensure there were no mistakes, no errors.

“The Daggerhands,” Wrenmae breathed, “Frightened of me?”

“Thorough.” The first said swiftly, “Robern wanted this to be swift.”

“Fair enough,” As he spoke, the mage gathered res into his palms, soaking his fists in the solid djed. “Here? In front of the Tavern? Careful, if your enemies see how many of you were needed to kill one unarmed has-been, you’ll lose your respect here. If I might choose a place to die, let it be where we once made camp, to the South of the city. There’s a clearing. It should serve…you won’t need to worry about cleanup.” Lashing out into their personal auras, Wren spun confidence through them, replacing the fear he’d only moments before pushed into their minds.

What will it hurt? He projected into their thoughts, The Crimson Edge are gone. He has no back up, could not have prepared for us. He’s a coward, wants a chance to break into the forest.

“Think you can escape us?” The first sneered, bouncing the flat of his sword off his shoulder, “Talma has impeccable aim. You won’t get more than five paces before he drops you.”

Wren’s face fell, as if they’d spied out his plan, robbed the last vestige of confidence he had.

“Very well then,” He sighed, “Might as well make it now.”

“No.”

The other two nodded their ascent, moving to either side of the hypnotist.
“A body would be troublesome, no need to make this public. I know the spot you speak of. I wouldn’t let my dogs sleep in such squalor, a fitting place to leave your corpse.”

Wrenmae marched between the men weakly, head down, feet trudging.

You have a plan?

One that relies on you.

Where would you be without me?

Let’s not pat ourselves just yet. You can boast after we survive.

Wait, wait, wait, Chuckles…let me guess what you’re thinking. Hmm…ok. So, I attack Mr. Crossbow first, mess his aim or get the weapon away from him. Killing is a priority and then we make it a staggered two on two slugfest.

Well said.

We going after Mok?

Do you have to ask?

What if he’s dead?

We’ll kill the petcher that did it.

Sunberth really brings out the worst in you.

Try not to sound so excited.

Ok. But I doubt I’ll be convincing.

“I heard you took Mok…” Wrenmae murmured quietly as they approached the site, “Did you do the same to him?”

“Petcher killed a friend of mine, took three of our number down with him. We haven’t made it easy on him. Kilko lost a brother to that skyke. He’ll make his passing slow.”

“Where is he?”

“You’ll meet him soon enough, boy,” Grunted the crossbowman behind him, “You’ll all see Daddy Lhex soon enough.”

One alive, huh?

Read my mind.

That’s my job…well, apart from being cooler than you, boyo.

“What did Cade do?” the hypnotist pressed, “Why so much effort?”

“It’s the principle of it,” said the first, obviously the more intelligent of the bunch, “Cade crossed our gang and got away. We would have dealt with it directly, but we never found an opportunity. Now he’s gone off and gotten himself killed by those damn monkeys…we’re left with a stained reputation and no recompense. When we finish with you, we’ll take your head and stake it up as an example.”

“Aye, real pretty head of hair you got, boy, you’ll be popular.”

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae shuddered, dragging his feet as Sunberth faded behind them and the former camp of the Crimson Edge rose before them. The night made phantoms and monsters of every shadow, twisted remains of camp and torn ground reminded Wrenmae that, once, this had been a motley crew of Sunberth’s rejects…

To his mind’s eye they lingered here, caught in the frozen eddies of time. Cade sat, a grim king on a throne of bones. Mok drilled the new recruits…Zandelia and Wren stood to one side, playing more games with their minds than they did with their assignments. Kalila, Robert, Ana, Xavior, Kreig, Roka, Musca…once they were going to strangle Sunberth, make a piece of it their own.
Now what?

Ghosts and shadows…nothing more.

Zan dropped silently to the ground, slithering behind the bowman. In the night, he was water-slick, otherwise a pointless feature of a desolate place to die.

“Stop.” The command came from up front. The smarter of the three turned and drew his blade, bouncing it off his shoulder again. By now, the res was thick in both hands, aching to be released, screaming to converted. Wrenmae held it back. He was to use magic.
No man would leave here alive.

“Any final words?”

“I’m granted those?”

“Let it not be said of us that we don’t respect the dead. You are human, that is enough for final words.”

“A rare gift,” The hypnotist said with a small smile, “May your killer extend to you the same.”

He received only a snort in retort.

“Very well,” Wrenmae said, “Let it be known that I, Wrenmae Sek, did not choose how I was born into this world. My father worked as a tradesman, he provided. So it was with a heavy heart that I slew my family to save my own skin…years ago in the Kalea mountains. To this day, I regret those lives I took, the first I ever took. No doubt you men are killers…were all your first kills so perfect? Did you feel stronger after them? A piece of us dies when we slay. That part of us that believes in the goodness of man, the hope of our race to truly carry on and rebuild what was lost…we sacrifice that when we take lives. None of us are redeemable. I only ask you forgive me, and wait for me to join you when I pass to Dira…and we will cross blades fairly then. But…” He paused, bringing up his hands, “I am not ready to die yet.”

Wrenmae did not turn to hear the strangled scream of the crossbowman as Zan engulfed him and floated into the air. Instead, he thrust both hands out from his body, pushing the res away from him in two bursts of shrieking wind. Both men, unprepared and horrified were thrown off their feet by the resulting blast of reimancy. Turning sharply on his heel, Wrenmae drew his rapier and thrust it through the hovering Zan, impaling the crossbowman in his throat, twisting the blade, and then withdrawing it.

Zan let the body fall, transforming into a copy of Wren even as the hypnotist drew his second long dagger and tossed it to the familiar. Both broke from each other, twin shadows of death, and approached their respective victims.

Wrenmae menaced the man with two daggers, waiting for him to take his feet before pacing around him. Through it all, his face held the slight smile, a tiny flicker of confidence and unrelenting resolve. Perhaps that was what the dagger man saw in Wrenmae. He saw his own death, merciless and swift.

And when he attacked, it was not as a soldier of Robern, a feared merchant of pain and extortion. It was as an animal, desperately backed into a corner against a force it could not bring itself to understand. Prey had become predator in such a short period, he struggled to grasp how the scales had really changed.

With a roar, he threw himself at the hypnotist, thrusting toward his chest. Dancing back, Wren brought his rapier up against the dagger, redirecting the blade from his chest and harmlessly to his side. But the first blow had only been foreshadowing of raw, Sunberthian desperation. Up came the next dagger, and the first again, slashing, gouging, swiping. It was all Wrenmae could do to use the rapier’s range to his advantage. Leaping backward, pacing, twisting, stumbling, the hypnotist found himself ill prepared for the ferocity that survival instilled within a man. Yes…this was something of what Vayt had hoped for. Through desperation, there was strength. Those resigned to die would do so, but those determined to live would fight to their last.

This was the strength he wanted his soldiers to have, the will to live beyond any complication.

To be strong in the face of certain death, laughing brazenly as the final blow was struck.

Disease was about culling the deadwood.


Up came his rapier, slapping away a dagger thrust, twisting his body sideways and hissing as a blade sliced the skin on his stomach. Had he taken it directly, he’d have been impaled. But ferocity also made his opponent stupid, sloppy, crazed. Wrenmae only needed to retreat several paces before the fellow stabbed both daggers forward, thrusting and slicing in one blow. Pushing Djed into his legs, Wrenmae grasped on the basic mechanics of flux for a moment, pushing himself into speed he would not ordinarily have, stepping around the two blows and flowing in behind his attacker. Drawing back his rapier, he thrust it through the brute before he had time to turn. His momentum held him exposed for just long enough.

He did spin, but only when the end of the rapier burst from his chest in a spurt of blood. Wrenmae let go of the hilt as the brute turned, drawing back his fist. When his opponent turned to face him, Wrenmae rammed his fist into his face, bringing up his knee into the dagger man’s groin. Overcome by agony, he collapsed to his knees.

Wrenmae brought his knee up against his chin, crushing teeth in a fountain of blood, knocking the dying man onto his side.


Through his shared link with Zan, he already knew his familiar was struggling. Of yet, their bond was not perfect. He could not learn through it and it through him. Knocked sprawling, Zan rolled to avoid the long sword that crashed into the dirt beside him. The familiar had lost his blade and even as he threw himself to his feet, the first brute was bringing his sword down toward Zan’s skull. But the blade never made contact. A long dagger thrust itself in the way of the sword, catching and holding the longer blade. Beneath them, Zan’s form lost distinction and he was water once again.

“As I said,” Wrenmae hissed, “I am not yet ready to die.”

“Never wanted to escape, did you?”


“No. But I made you believe I did.”


The brute grunted, tearing his sword away from Wrenmae’s dagger and circling him. “A mage…petching mage.”


“No one is who they seem these days, friend....”


“Tullok. Should have shot you down in the streets.”


“Better you didn’t. I’d have to kill anyone who saw. This makes it quieter, personal. I promise my friend won’t interfere.”


“You’re dangerous,” He grinned, stepping forward and bringing his sword down. Wrenmae pivoted on a foot, leaping away. The sword bit dirt and grass, but the thug was already moving after him, “Did your gang know?”


“The Crimson Edge?” Wrenmae pressed in, minimalizing the area the thug could swing his sword, he received a blow for his trouble, his opponent switching from two to one handed combat in an instant and slugging him in the chest with a fist that landed like stone. Gasping, Wrenmae fell away from him, throwing himself back as he tried to catch his breath and keep his distance. “No…” he gasped, “Not all of them.”


“No wonder you fell apart,” he sneered, “No trust.”


“You expect me to believe you trust Robern and the Daggerhands? Trust? In Sunberth?”


“You’re an outsider, a petching foreigner. Might as well be Zith. You don’t understand us at all.”

“Enlighten me.”


They circled each other, testing their range, conviction. Nothing stood between them now. There was no assurance of number on the part of his opponent, but Wrenmae was already tired and wounded from his first attacker. In some aspects, they stood as mismatched equals.


“Sunberth is free. We have no liege lord, no government telling us what to do…but the gangs maintain the order. We need to, otherwise we’ll have nothing. But neither are we the government. We’re hard petchers that know how to get shyke done. We do it to keep the city in line. We’re not savages. You and your petching high horse, standing there like you’re better than me? Well? Whose gang is gone and whose is standing strong? You’ll never have power here…as long as you see us inferior, you’ll never be one of us.”


“Fair enough,” Wrenmae agreed, testing him with a thrust. He intercepted the blade with a clang, knocking Wrenmae’s hand away. Numbness threatened to overwhelm the hand carrying the dagger, but will kept it gripped in his fingers. They circled again. “Where are they holding Mok?”


“Best me and I’ll tell you.”

[Wrenmae]

Giving Tullok the time to talk and regain his breath had not been the best laid plan. He came upon the murderer like starlight, a blinding swing, stab, and slash. Wrenmae flattened himself beneath the swing, bringing up his long dagger to intercept the blade and push it aside and then finally throwing himself backwards and across the ground to avoid the tip of the blade tracing lines of death in the air before him.

Need any...help?

No. I can handle this myself.

Yes, yes, marvelous job. Let me know which part of the dance it is when you start fighting back.

You did just as poorly!

Oh! Gods! You're right! Oh no, forgive this poor native of a plane in which hands don't exist for not understanding the finer points of using them.

Just stay out of it.

Very well Captain Bravado. Let me know when you're done being cut to ribbons.

Twisting, Wren leaped forward again, right into the brute's charge. The blade passed against his shoulder, slicing skin and muscle before Wren was close enough to bring his dagger up.

It would have been a perfect blow, straight to his throat, but Tillok took a hand off his blade and intercepted the long blade in the palm of his hand, thrusting it down to keep it from taking his life.

Shocked, Wrenmae fell back, giving Tillok the time to reassess and attack again, his blade swinging in from the top. The murderer leaped away from it, rolling across the ground again, but slower to rise. Tillok was above him, thrusting his blade down at Wren. In a desperate gamble, Wren brought his fist across the space between them, smashing it into the flat of the piercing sword and jarring it away from him. As the thrust passed him, up came his dagger, cutting deeply into Tillok's fingers and hand, robbing him of his ability to hold the blade.

It dropped from his mangled fingers and as it did, Wrenmae raised the hilt of his dagger and crushed it into the Daggerhand's groin. A sound escaped his mouth like the mewling of a child before he dropped, thrashing on the dirt.

Wrenmae was on him before he could recover, blade at his throat.

Tillok, strangely enough, did no appear afraid. His face, once drawn in the rigors of battle was relaxed, almost serene. "Mok is held in a warehouse near the docks, the fifth warehouse of the abandoned district. Only two men are watching him, you killed his torturer already. They expect his return in the next bell or they will send for reinforcements."

"You would betray the people you swore to me were family?"

"I am a man of my word, besides, you will not let me live."

"No." It was almost a hard decision, but necessary. He had seen too much, heard too much. In another life, they might have fought together in these blood soaked streets, now they stood as enemies, fate-struck to kill each other. "But I will grant you a last request."

"You are not a man accustomed to such kindnesses."

"No. But you offered me last words, I want to return the favor without seeming unoriginal."

Tillok laughed, a strong and vibrant sound, every bit the music that might emerge from an instrument. Was it sorrow-sweet now? Was it the looming presence of death that made it so melodic?

"My wife and daughter live in a slum district protected by the Daggerhands. Her name is Moanna and my daughter is Kala. I had a son, but he was lost to me against the Nighteyes." Despite the pain, he talked clearly, rare intellect glinting from his savage eyes. "I do not blame them for protecting their own, but I miss my son. I do not fear death. Perhaps the Lady will let me see my son before I am to stand before Lhex. If you could, deliver the items on my person to my family. They will keep some, sell the rest. Life is hard in Sunberth, you know this. I can die content if you will give them something of me."

Wrenmae nodded, weighing the moral ramifications of leaving another fatherless child in the world. Again, he found himself against a wall. The man knew entirely too much.

But somehow, in their short exchange, even when he'd been ready to pluck the life from Wrenmae not moments before, he felt for this man something he had not felt for the many others he'd killed...not since he was a boy, fresh to the horrors his gnosis would bring.

Regret. He felt the churning spindle of regret coil around his resolve.

"The Daggerhand will see that they are protected from harm, but they cannot cut hunger, they cannot kill cold. Swear on your name and I will be grateful, as one man to another."

"I swear on my name, Egyptus Murdock," he heard himself say, unable to keep the words from springing, "But if you were to promise to keep my secret, to leave this place. I know of a home in Zeltiva I cou-"

Tillok frowned, shaking his head, "Don't go weak on me now, mage," He hissed, "You brought this on yourself. You'll need your resolve if you intend to face what we've done to your friend Mok. Take my life. Fill my request and take my life. Leave me and I will tell all of Sunberth what you are. This is my home. You are not my family. This is the Sunberth way, boy. If you ever hope to understand us, understand this." He reached up with his ruined hand, grabbing Wrenmae's own and forcing the dagger to bite into his throat. A small trickle of blood fed the flush of his skin.

"Never leave an enemy alive. Never break a promise sworn by name. Never give an inch. Never surrender." Wrenmae twitched, shoving the blade into his throat.

"Always..." Tillok gasped out, grabbing at Wrenmae's shoulder, holding him there as the life left his eye "Be...free."


And he was alone, holding a body amid a field of the dead.

Silence climbed in to claim the rest.

[Wrenmae]

You ok?

I’m fine.

Can’t fool me, Wren, I feel you.

Unnecessarily disturbing.

Can’t let yourself get so rattled up. You usually just shank and move on, why’d you feel the need to talk him up?

He gave me last words.

So that’s all a thug’s gotta do to make you do them a favor these days, huh? Give you something you didn’t need.

Did you have any friends in Fyrden?

Plenty. You don’t just have winning personalities like mine and NOT have fans.

Any of them ever die?

…

Zan?

Yes.

What about enemies. You hate the Irylid, right? Darkside and Lightside…and sometimes not even all the Lightsiders.

Pascids can go petch with a Gordios.

Any of them ever mean something to you? You ever kill one of them?

Why so curious?

Just tell me.

Yeah.

What was it like?

I…I dunno, man, you just love to bring out the serious stuff after a killing. I ended some guys, ok? They were bad dudes, just, let it go. I try not to let them ruffle my feathers…if I had any.

A good man died today.

The one that tried to decapitate you?

He was doing his job. I don’t begrudge him for being attached to family.

Fine. Fine. But are we really gonna do what he asked?

Yes. Mok would do the same.

Fine…fine. Let’s be quick about it.

Wrenmae stood and stripped all the things of value from the corpse of Tillok. When he’d finished, he gathered the bodies together and let his res fall out upon them. He took the extra daggers and crossbow for himself, along with any extra mizas floating through their pockets. They didn’t have much, traveling light for a quick job, but it was better than nothing. For a few minutes he simply let the res fall upon them, immersing them, soaking them.

Stepping away he snapped his right fingers, and a conflagration of hissing flames rose toward the night sky. Shadows danced with sudden writhing glee upon Wrenmae’s face, the void of blood splattered places on the ground. The spirits of this place remained silent, or perhaps spoke through the fire, a gibbering of sizzling flesh and cracking bone, a language none but the dead would understand.

He stood there for another chime, tearing his shirt and binding the wound on his shoulder. The one across his stomach had already slowed bleeding to the point of a sluggish crawl. Only a chime of time was what he could spare the dead, turning with his new gear and heading back into Sunberth. The Daggerhand would be looking for him, or at least have been told to keep an eye out. As he neared the city limits, his face began to change. His hair shrunk into his scalp, receding and turning a brilliant red. He grew taller, fat retreating into his body as Djed pulled his cheeks taught and painted exhausted circles black beneath his eyes. He lost his healthy vibrancy, replacing it with tallow signs of illness. His torn clothes needed no alteration, and neither did his wounds. No more than two steps into the city and he was invisible, just another poor wretch on the wrong side of a gang’s viciousness.

[Wrenmae]

Finding the warehouse wasn’t much trouble. A man stood outside, arms crossed. He was bored, certainly, staring out into the black water, only loosely aware of the situation around him. As Wrenmae approached, he reached out with his mind and tampered with that aura. The feeling of aloof indifference intensified, flooding the fellow with withered ambitions and careless indolence.

So he didn’t do more than glance up languidly as Wrenmae approached him, did not go for his blade when the hypnotist stepped within three feet of him, and only began to force himself out of his lethargic slump when the hypnotist drew his rapier with a silent hiss and plunged it through the guard’s chest, clamping a hand over his mouth. Panic overrode his manipulation and the guard clawed at him, weakening as his hands beat uselessly upon Wrenmae’s shoulders. He winced, pain in the wounded shoulder apparent whenever weight was brought against it, but held the man against the door until his struggling ceased and he slipped toward the ground. Withdrawing the rapier and sheathing it, the last of the Crimson Edge pressed his ear against the door, listening. He had a chime, maybe two, before the guards would be switched and they’d know there was trouble. Time was of the essence.

Zan, slink in there and spy out our obstacles. If there’s one man, take him.

To dinner? To a dance? To a celebration?

Out. Take him out.

Outside? Out to dinner? Out and in?

Kill him.

Alright, alright…you cute lil bloodthirsty monster, you.

Slipping away from Wren, the familiar slid beneath the door and into the warehouse. Outside, Wrenmae quickly dragged the corpse of his victim into an alley adjacent to the warehouse. Best not to leave him in a puddle of moonlight. Leth had an uncomfortable penchant with exposing the unseen. Better to leave the god with little opportunity.

Through Zan’s perceptions, Wrenmae could see the inside of the warehouse. The familiar slithered along the ground, passing the first guard who looked toward the center of the room. There, Mok hung from a makeshift set of planks, stood up straight to accommodate the wide framed half blood. He was crucified to the boards through his hands. His feet, they dangled uselessly beneath him, shattered by one too many blows. Even set free, he would need to be carried in order to escape the Daggerhands.

A lump of emotion settled somewhere in his throat, poignant and sudden as he looked upon his once friend. Here there used to be competence, strength, ability beyond the normal dregs of Sunberth community. Now he hung with only a basic suggestion at purpose. His chest rose and fell with a wanton defiance, but little else about him suggested anything of a warrior. In the time Wren had been gone, they’d turned Mok into a shell of himself…a prisoner.

[Wrenmae]

One other stood with Mok, taking a small metal instrument and shoving it through his flesh. Mok hissed, but made no other indication of the agony. Smiling, his torturer shoved it up farther, twisted it, and small spines lanced from Mok’s skin near the head of the torture device, pulling out a low growl. There was little fight left in him, just enough to elicit a shudder of life. It was enough.

Handle the guard at the door, the torturer is mine.

Ooooh. Someone put on their big boy pants.

Now is not a time for jokes.

I’m not joking. You ever see a child try to wear your pants? Like swimming in fabric. Fatty.

Enough, Zan. This is important.

Right, right. All work and no play makes Wren a bit grumpy. We’ll have to do something to turn that frown upside down…in a non-creepy way, after this.

Standing near the door, Wren drew his rapier again, looked at its glimmering blade and, finally, sheathed it. He watched through Zan as the familiar pooled around the guard. The poor fool had no idea what was happening. In a moment he was engulfed in burning water, floating up off the ground and struggling, grasping. Wrenmae shoved the door open, stepping in and drawing his dagger, stabbing the thug in the throat through Zan and sheathing it again. The torturer fell away from Mok, going for a cutlass at his side. His eyes told a different story, however. They were narrowed, darting. He was looking to run the moment Zan had appeared. But Wren wouldn’t let him.

As he turned to run, the mage held out his hand, pooling his coiled Djed like a whip and lancing it from his body on his tongue.

“Stay.” He commanded, bombarding his victim with the imperative to freeze. The torturer swayed there, unblinking, wide eyed, sweating. Internally he waged war against the crashing might of Wrenmae’s own influence. Circling around him, Wrenmae drew his long dagger, tapping it against the torturer’s throat. The feel of metal seemed to jar him out of his command, but the Daggerhand could do no more than gulp. He had already felt the hypnotist’s power.

With a jerk, his hand went to his cutlass, to draw it from its sheathe. Down went the long dagger, impaling his wrist to his waist. Screaming, the torturer fell to the ground, writhing, tugging in vain at the blade which bound his arm.

“You Daggerhands made a grave mistake,” Wrenmae started, leaning down and planting a foot on the struggling torturer. “You petched with my family." He paused, letting it sink in, twisting the blade, "You petched with my family and you didn’t kill me first.”

He was blind in rage, beyond reason. So he didn’t see the guard above them, perched on boxes, aiming the crossbow at him.

But Mok did.

With a roar the half-blood forced himself off his perch, tearing through his hands at the moment the crossbowman released his quarrel. Wren looked up, shocked, as Mok fell into the line of the bolt, taking it in the chest and tumbling away.

“NO!” He shouted, tearing res from his body and hurling it up toward the crossbowman. Already, he was loading another bolt, but the fireball prompted him to leap from his perch, cracking hard into the warehouse floor. Zan caught him before he made his balance, a watery figure engulfing the man, pulling him toward the sprinting Wrenmae. Out came the rapier and he plunged it into the thug again and again and again, tearing him from Zan and dashing his head against the ground.

“PETCH! PETCH! PETCH!” His opponent was dead long before Wren was finished thrashing him, he almost didn’t hear Mok call out to him. Not till the rattling cough shattered his concentration.

He let the body drop from his rage-numb hands, turning to Mok. The half blood was laughing, blood gushing from his chest. His breathing sounded wet, as if he did so underwater. Wrenmae had never trained in medicine, but he knew the sound of death rattles. He was at his side in an instant, taking the half-blood’s hand.

“No. Petch. Gods…damn it. Petching…”

“Shut the petch up,” Mok gasped, weakly smacking his friend across the face, “Shyke happens, got the petcher that did it, I’m not complaining.”

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” Wren said, tears held back by will alone, brimming in his vision, “I was supposed to get you out. We were supposed to restart the Crimson Edge! We were-“

“Petch the Edge,” Mok spat, laying back on the ground, “Cade couldn’t run a goddamn gang if it did it for him. You and me, brother. You and me. Nobody else petching matters. Us against the streets, right? Shyke. Don’t be such a bitch.”

Mok tore the bolt from his chest, hissing, and skewered his thumb with its point. Taking Wren’s hand, he did the same to one of his thumbs, pressing both together. “My blood is your blood. Petch. Always talkin about being a badass mother petcher. Go prove it then. Shyke happens, I’m gonna go spit at Dira…show that bitch I don’t go out like a mouse.”

He grinned at Wrenmae, the light flickering in his eyes. Even now, here, he had more backbone than Wren ever mustered. He went into death willingly, prepared to spit at a god.

Mok died smiling.

Wrenmae turned to the torturer, dragging himself toward the door. He might have been crying, or gasping. But he left a trail of blood behind him. Standing, Wrenmae felt the sorrow leaving him. What was there to cry about? Mok was gone, this husk was no more him than a box was. He’d gone to better things, to try his fate in the beyond and it was time for Wren to move on too.
He walked over to the torturer, painfully slow, stood in front of him as he tried to escape.

“Mercy.” He said, didn’t ask, said. He didn’t expect it…and wouldn’t have given it if the situation was reversed.

Wrenmae said nothing, gripped the hair on the back of his head, pulled it up and cut a red grin with no more than a glare.

With the blood he drew the symbol of the Crimson Edge across the ground. He paused only long enough to take both Mok’s hands, stuffing them into his bag before calling forth res and pouring it on the corpse.

He burned Mok till only bones remained, charred and twisted. Let the Daggerhands try to say this was Mok once. Let them try to gloat with nothing but ash.

He left before the change of guards, stepping out into the night, Zan at his side. By dawn he’d be on a boat to Sahova.

There was only one thing left for him to do…and he could wash his hands of Sunberth, the dead streets and the desperate people, the culture he didn’t understand and the people he would never rule.

Mok had taught him something. Never fear Death. Dira came for them all and to fear her was to deny one’s life. Mok never cared because he lived his life forward, never hesitating, never surrendering. From this day, Wren would live uncompromised. Let caution and fear fall to the cowards and the slaves…he was Wrenmae. He was Vayt’s Chosen. He was the Crimson Edge and if he wanted Robern dead…it would happen.

But that tin king wasn’t worth his time.

Let him rot. Let them all petching rot.

He had bigger plans to accomplish.

[Cloud]

XP Reward!

From the sky falls your reward!

PC Name: Wrenmae

Skill	XP
Dagger (Long)	+2
Unarmed Combat	+3
Rapier	+3
Acrobatics	+1
Reimamcy	+3
Flux	+2
Familiar	+4
Rhetoric	+3
Intimidation	+2
Interrogation	+3
Subterfuge	+1
Intelligence	+2
Tactics	+3

Lores :

Knowing Fear
Coordination With Zan
Returning A Favor
Understanding Sunberth
Mok: Blood Brothers
Never Fear Death

Notes: While reading this tthread I found dark humor with Zan, which you played out quite well. A very good thread and a job well done! If you have any questions or I happen to miss anything pm me and we can clear it up.