Fall 2, 514 AV
It had been nearly three and a half years since he had murdered his parents. He had survived on his own thus far, and while struggles had not been nonexistent, he thrived through them. Vaylen, while lacking skills and knowledge of experience, considered himself a creature of the night. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate to put the edge of his blades to someone’s throat. If his enemies did hesitate, they would find no mercy in the eyes of the Wraith. Vaylen was beyond the cold-heartedness of his father and mother. He was a new instrument of death on the streets of Sunberth, but only in emotion. He did not have the skills, nor the fame yet.
The autumn season had just begun in Sunberth and Vaylen, more than anything else, needed his name to be thrown through the rumor mill of the city. He wanted to be known. He wanted to be feared. That is how he met Irith Baughn of the Storage Houses. He was frail beyond comparison, all skin and bones. To Vaylen’s steel-gray eyes, Irith would like nothing more than a common slave if it weren’t for his embroidered apparel. The withered man stood no higher than five feet and five inches, leaving him largely below the average height of a human male. The fragile muscles of his petite form almost wailed defenseless—and that is why he required Vaylen Stroud’s help.
While the beginning mercenary was nothing more than a novice fighter in practice, Vaylen’s demeanor often scared off any unwanted customers for Irith. His death grip of a stare was unavoidable and terrifying to many. On this particular day, however, trouble was brewing in the twisted streets of the Storage Houses.
Irith Baughn shouted his normal identifiers akin to his displayed stall. “Jewelry, trinkets, baubles, clothing! Everything you need, Sir Baughn has!” The incessant calling of the trivial man’s voice annoyed Vaylen more than anything else, but the weak man did have coin that he wanted, and a way to spread his name throughout the city.
The afternoon was fairly temperate, not too hot or cold. Vaylen was comfortable to say at least, but two thugs approaching Irith Baughn’s stall were not. Vaylen had picked them out from the crowd, their eyes determined and narrowed as they flowed through the throng of people. They were clad in leather armor, brandishing longswords at their waists. “Today’s not your lucky day, trader,” one of the thugs proclaimed, a grin stretching across his rugged countenance. It was a frequent happening in the Storage Houses. It was expected for at least one merchant stall to get raided and robbed throughout the course of a single day. It just so happened to be Irith’s stall—Vaylen’s stall.
“Today will be your last if you do not leave immediately,” came a voice from the thug’s right-hand side. The grisly man scanned his eyes horizontally until they met with the unblinking glare of Vaylen Stroud through the Mask of the Wraith. While the thug stood half a head higher than the mercenary, the stare and visage of the mask brought discomfort to the man. But he had pride on his shoulders and a need to satisfy his own small gang.
“Oh yeah?” The thug said, elongating the syllables as he came toe-to-toe with the hired mercenary. The outlaw stared down at Vaylen, that idiotic smirk still stamped across his face. “And you’re going to be the one to make it my last I’ll bet. Right, short shit?”
Just as Vaylen had promised, it would be the thug’s last day. In an instant, two kukris were at the man’s throat. The curved dagger in Vaylen’s right hand had already pierced through the bottom of the thug’s jaw, tearing apart his skin, his tongue, and breaking some of his teeth. Blood spewed forth from the thug’s mouth as the left kukri cut a straight line across the thug’s neck, forcing his gore to spill out over his leather breastplate without relent.
Gurgling through blood, the petty criminal tried to search for air, but there was none to be found. Twisting the kukri within the thug’s mouth and then tearing it out, Vaylen brought a leather boot to the thug’s abdomen, blasting him to the cobblestone lifeless. Of course, at this point, the thug’s partner had already drawn his longsword and was charging Vaylen. It wasn’t really unexpected, but Vaylen wasn’t near as experienced as his father with fighting techniques yet.
The mercenary stepped slightly to the left, evading the downward diagonal slice of the second thug’s blade, but a muscled, leather-padded shoulder drove Vaylen’s lithe form into the stone wall behind him. His bones groaned in protest as they cracked against the wall, but they were not severely harmed. The most injured area of his body was the back of his head, for it had bashed directly into the stone behind him, rattling the mask upon his face. Vaylen’s eyes dizzied, but he had been trained by his father. He could battle through injuries.
Gritting through his teeth, the second thug grabbed Vaylen by his neck and hoisted his small form higher upon the wall. Taking a step back with his left foot, the criminal went to slice open Vaylen’s belly with a horizontal slash, but the mercenary was the quicker. With both of his arms still free from the thug that had so foolishly hoisted him upward, Vaylen brought both kukris down on the back of the hand that gripped his throat so tightly. The curved daggers tore through the man’s hand, splitting apart his fingers and allowing a river of blood to pour onto the stone beneath them.
There was no better sound to Vaylen’s ears—the sound of a man’s scream due to his attacks. Obviously, the thug released Vaylen and the vicious fighter was upon him in an instant. Vaylen knocked the longsword from the thug’s left hand (yes, he was a lefty) and brought both kukris up through his leather armor. He felt them pierce through flesh, split through the man’s ribs, and then poke at something oh so soft. It was his heart, and the masked Vaylen watched with sheer pleasure as the life faded from the thug’s eyes.
With that, Vaylen unsheathed his kukris from the poor man’s body and let his limp configuration collapse. Wiping the blood off of his curved daggers on the first thug’s boot, he then returned his prized weapons to their scabbards. Vaylen hadn’t even had to use his throwing daggers, and that influenced a small smirk beneath his mask. His steel-gray eyes eventually found their way back to Irith Baughn.
The pale man stood, shocked. While death was a common occurrence on the streets of Sunberth, brutal deaths were not as much. Clean throat cuts were frequent, but men with destroyed jaws and hands were less seen. A crowd of observers had gathered by this time, and they whispered amongst one another. “I would pick up sales tomorrow if I were you. Two dead bodies might not bring customers,” Vaylen said with a chuckle, though his eyes were beginning to blink slowly. A pounding headache was creeping into his mind as well. The second thug had bashed his head fairly well into the stone wall, and he would probably need medical assistance soon.
Finally able to focus on his employer once again, Vaylen watched him nod at his statement. “I… I will return tomorrow,” Vaylen said, blinking his eyes apathetically once more before nearly falling down, but catching himself roughly on the side of Irith’s stall. The frail man went to help him, but the mercenary only growled and pushed him away. “I’m fine,” Vaylen muttered through gritted teeth as he blinked again and again, slowly standing back to his feet.
The fighter forced his way through the crowd, his peculiar mask and weapons causing some eyes to be casted upon him. The trek from the Castle Commons to the Sunset Quarter slums was horrible. He held back vomit around every turn, and his eyes struggled to focus on anything and everything. He felt like he was in an unbreakable daze. It was terrifying.
Vaylen, despite his medical condition, knew he was too unknown to acquire any medical assistance outside of the Sunset Quarters. From his year of stay on the streets of Sunberth, a few names of talented healers had reached his name. One was Kechaiya, and he found her performing some less than significant duties on an orphaned child, in Vaylen’s opinion at least. Though force probably wasn’t the best option, Vaylen did not care at that moment in time. Gripping Kechaiya’s arm tenaciously and pulling her attention away from the child, his steel-gray orbs of vision stared into the black vortexes of the mysterious Chaktawe descendent. “I… I need y-your help,” Vaylen mumbled through his mask.
This was the first time he had ever experienced a concussion.
.
It had been nearly three and a half years since he had murdered his parents. He had survived on his own thus far, and while struggles had not been nonexistent, he thrived through them. Vaylen, while lacking skills and knowledge of experience, considered himself a creature of the night. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate to put the edge of his blades to someone’s throat. If his enemies did hesitate, they would find no mercy in the eyes of the Wraith. Vaylen was beyond the cold-heartedness of his father and mother. He was a new instrument of death on the streets of Sunberth, but only in emotion. He did not have the skills, nor the fame yet.
The autumn season had just begun in Sunberth and Vaylen, more than anything else, needed his name to be thrown through the rumor mill of the city. He wanted to be known. He wanted to be feared. That is how he met Irith Baughn of the Storage Houses. He was frail beyond comparison, all skin and bones. To Vaylen’s steel-gray eyes, Irith would like nothing more than a common slave if it weren’t for his embroidered apparel. The withered man stood no higher than five feet and five inches, leaving him largely below the average height of a human male. The fragile muscles of his petite form almost wailed defenseless—and that is why he required Vaylen Stroud’s help.
While the beginning mercenary was nothing more than a novice fighter in practice, Vaylen’s demeanor often scared off any unwanted customers for Irith. His death grip of a stare was unavoidable and terrifying to many. On this particular day, however, trouble was brewing in the twisted streets of the Storage Houses.
Irith Baughn shouted his normal identifiers akin to his displayed stall. “Jewelry, trinkets, baubles, clothing! Everything you need, Sir Baughn has!” The incessant calling of the trivial man’s voice annoyed Vaylen more than anything else, but the weak man did have coin that he wanted, and a way to spread his name throughout the city.
The afternoon was fairly temperate, not too hot or cold. Vaylen was comfortable to say at least, but two thugs approaching Irith Baughn’s stall were not. Vaylen had picked them out from the crowd, their eyes determined and narrowed as they flowed through the throng of people. They were clad in leather armor, brandishing longswords at their waists. “Today’s not your lucky day, trader,” one of the thugs proclaimed, a grin stretching across his rugged countenance. It was a frequent happening in the Storage Houses. It was expected for at least one merchant stall to get raided and robbed throughout the course of a single day. It just so happened to be Irith’s stall—Vaylen’s stall.
“Today will be your last if you do not leave immediately,” came a voice from the thug’s right-hand side. The grisly man scanned his eyes horizontally until they met with the unblinking glare of Vaylen Stroud through the Mask of the Wraith. While the thug stood half a head higher than the mercenary, the stare and visage of the mask brought discomfort to the man. But he had pride on his shoulders and a need to satisfy his own small gang.
“Oh yeah?” The thug said, elongating the syllables as he came toe-to-toe with the hired mercenary. The outlaw stared down at Vaylen, that idiotic smirk still stamped across his face. “And you’re going to be the one to make it my last I’ll bet. Right, short shit?”
Just as Vaylen had promised, it would be the thug’s last day. In an instant, two kukris were at the man’s throat. The curved dagger in Vaylen’s right hand had already pierced through the bottom of the thug’s jaw, tearing apart his skin, his tongue, and breaking some of his teeth. Blood spewed forth from the thug’s mouth as the left kukri cut a straight line across the thug’s neck, forcing his gore to spill out over his leather breastplate without relent.
Gurgling through blood, the petty criminal tried to search for air, but there was none to be found. Twisting the kukri within the thug’s mouth and then tearing it out, Vaylen brought a leather boot to the thug’s abdomen, blasting him to the cobblestone lifeless. Of course, at this point, the thug’s partner had already drawn his longsword and was charging Vaylen. It wasn’t really unexpected, but Vaylen wasn’t near as experienced as his father with fighting techniques yet.
The mercenary stepped slightly to the left, evading the downward diagonal slice of the second thug’s blade, but a muscled, leather-padded shoulder drove Vaylen’s lithe form into the stone wall behind him. His bones groaned in protest as they cracked against the wall, but they were not severely harmed. The most injured area of his body was the back of his head, for it had bashed directly into the stone behind him, rattling the mask upon his face. Vaylen’s eyes dizzied, but he had been trained by his father. He could battle through injuries.
Gritting through his teeth, the second thug grabbed Vaylen by his neck and hoisted his small form higher upon the wall. Taking a step back with his left foot, the criminal went to slice open Vaylen’s belly with a horizontal slash, but the mercenary was the quicker. With both of his arms still free from the thug that had so foolishly hoisted him upward, Vaylen brought both kukris down on the back of the hand that gripped his throat so tightly. The curved daggers tore through the man’s hand, splitting apart his fingers and allowing a river of blood to pour onto the stone beneath them.
There was no better sound to Vaylen’s ears—the sound of a man’s scream due to his attacks. Obviously, the thug released Vaylen and the vicious fighter was upon him in an instant. Vaylen knocked the longsword from the thug’s left hand (yes, he was a lefty) and brought both kukris up through his leather armor. He felt them pierce through flesh, split through the man’s ribs, and then poke at something oh so soft. It was his heart, and the masked Vaylen watched with sheer pleasure as the life faded from the thug’s eyes.
With that, Vaylen unsheathed his kukris from the poor man’s body and let his limp configuration collapse. Wiping the blood off of his curved daggers on the first thug’s boot, he then returned his prized weapons to their scabbards. Vaylen hadn’t even had to use his throwing daggers, and that influenced a small smirk beneath his mask. His steel-gray eyes eventually found their way back to Irith Baughn.
The pale man stood, shocked. While death was a common occurrence on the streets of Sunberth, brutal deaths were not as much. Clean throat cuts were frequent, but men with destroyed jaws and hands were less seen. A crowd of observers had gathered by this time, and they whispered amongst one another. “I would pick up sales tomorrow if I were you. Two dead bodies might not bring customers,” Vaylen said with a chuckle, though his eyes were beginning to blink slowly. A pounding headache was creeping into his mind as well. The second thug had bashed his head fairly well into the stone wall, and he would probably need medical assistance soon.
Finally able to focus on his employer once again, Vaylen watched him nod at his statement. “I… I will return tomorrow,” Vaylen said, blinking his eyes apathetically once more before nearly falling down, but catching himself roughly on the side of Irith’s stall. The frail man went to help him, but the mercenary only growled and pushed him away. “I’m fine,” Vaylen muttered through gritted teeth as he blinked again and again, slowly standing back to his feet.
The fighter forced his way through the crowd, his peculiar mask and weapons causing some eyes to be casted upon him. The trek from the Castle Commons to the Sunset Quarter slums was horrible. He held back vomit around every turn, and his eyes struggled to focus on anything and everything. He felt like he was in an unbreakable daze. It was terrifying.
Vaylen, despite his medical condition, knew he was too unknown to acquire any medical assistance outside of the Sunset Quarters. From his year of stay on the streets of Sunberth, a few names of talented healers had reached his name. One was Kechaiya, and he found her performing some less than significant duties on an orphaned child, in Vaylen’s opinion at least. Though force probably wasn’t the best option, Vaylen did not care at that moment in time. Gripping Kechaiya’s arm tenaciously and pulling her attention away from the child, his steel-gray orbs of vision stared into the black vortexes of the mysterious Chaktawe descendent. “I… I need y-your help,” Vaylen mumbled through his mask.
This was the first time he had ever experienced a concussion.
.