Fall 23, 514 AV
Waking up to the bare ceiling of his private room on the Cheap Side of the Sunset Quarters, little did Vaylen know the true outcomes that this day held. It was a day that would truly test his brawn, his stamina, his agility, and his overwhelming will to survive. No such test had been put on his shoulders until this day.
Shrugging off the depths of sleep, Vaylen stood forth from the small bed and began to assemble his gear. The black leather armor of night, the kukri and throwing dagger scabbards, the fur-lined cloak, and finally, the Mask of the Wraith—his most prized possession. With all of his necessities collected, the mercenary set out from his private quarters toward the Storage Houses of the Castle Commons, the location of his new employer.
Vaylen had recently become a freelance mercenary, offering his services to any willing to pay. Irith Baughn, his previous employer, had been bold enough to yell at him for killing the teenagers in Cheap Side. And for his outburst, the Wraith ended the merchant's life.
The trek from Cheap Sided to the Storage Houses wasn’t too far, and Vaylen’s mask alone usually parted the crowd for him. The Mask of the Wraith was not a beautiful piece of apparel; it was a grotesque piece of craftsmanship that had benefited his father and his attempts to impose fear and intimidation into the hearts of others as he ascended the ranks of the Daggerhands. Now, bared on the face of his son, the mask was the tool Vaylen would use to identify himself as the Wraith of Sunberth, a renowned alias that he was in the process of building ever since he slaughtered his parents.
As the excited, merchant eyes of a new employer caught the sight of Vaylen Stroud making his way through the throng of men and women, the man’s face lit up like a cluster of fireworks. He ushered the skilled mercenary closer, and by the way the shady merchant’s eyes darted about, almost as if he were looking for anyone who may be spying on him, Vaylen could tell it was an important task that the freelancer had this day. "Sir Stroud," the merchant greeted, "git closer." When Vaylen was nearly toe-to-toe with the man, he looked directly into Vaylen’s eyes—a bold move—and continued his whispers.
“About a hunnerd or so yards down de road, dere’s nudder tradesman. Six foot, gilded black robe, big gold and black hat, dark eyes. Can’t miss ‘em. He’s been toyin’ with me shit for weeks, and I know ye’ve been busy, but I need ‘im taken c’er of, ye understand?” The merchant explained, his eyes staring dangerously. It was one of the few times the mercenary actually respected a merchant. One did not glare at Vaylen simply for the hell of it. It was an act that had to have meaning behind it, or Vaylen wouldn’t think twice before severing one’s throat in a flash.
“Don’t worry good merchant, this rival of yours will see the gates of Lhex soon enough,” Vaylen whispered back, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Just as the murderer was about to add another tally to his victims, the merchant’s hand gripped Vaylen’s right bicep fierce, letting loose the demonic eyes of the killer upon himself. Before Vaylen could react, however, the trader spoke. “Dis tradesman Sir Stroud… he has consi’erable coin. Sometimes I see ‘im wif a giant purple beast, an’ me thinks he plans to send him af’er me. If ye see ‘im Sir Stroud, ye gotta promise that ye’ll kill dat monster.”
A giant purple beast? Vaylen had heard of the creature. It was not human, and it was a mercenary like himself, though there was one difference—the beast was giant. He had never seen him in the flesh, but Vaylen could only imagine the man’s size. The Wraith nodded at the freelance employer, this time the fury in his eyes not directed at him. A challenge was ahead, a challenge to take out the mighty Akalak of Sunberth.
With nothing on his mind other than the job at hand, Vaylen nodded and turned swiftly on his heel. His hands fell to the hilts of his kukris as he worked his way through the crowd and the twisting street. Men and women moved at the sight of the mercenary’s mask, many wide-eyed. But as Vaylen moved farther and farther down the street, he soon came upon the visage of Dor’gen of the Tempered Steel. While his back was facing him, Vaylen could see the thick leather armor that encompassed his configuration. He saw the mane of white hair that trailed down his spine and the near-ebony, dark purple flesh that covered his bones. Elongated ears perched out from his head, and he towered over everyone in sight. The Akalak stood at seven feet and five inches, riddled with dark muscle.
Vaylen stopped for a moment, taking in this new adversary. While he knew this would be his toughest task yet, and deep within himself he almost thought the job too much for even him, Vaylen only found himself smiling beneath his mask—that sadistic, ever-bloodthirsty smile. The inferno that had grown in his eyes on the day he murdered his parents and the day that he had slain the Dhani with Kaie now blazed in the steel-gray eyes of the killer.
And so the Wraith approached the Giant, his kukris coming forth from their scabbards as he quickened his pace toward the target.
.
Waking up to the bare ceiling of his private room on the Cheap Side of the Sunset Quarters, little did Vaylen know the true outcomes that this day held. It was a day that would truly test his brawn, his stamina, his agility, and his overwhelming will to survive. No such test had been put on his shoulders until this day.
Shrugging off the depths of sleep, Vaylen stood forth from the small bed and began to assemble his gear. The black leather armor of night, the kukri and throwing dagger scabbards, the fur-lined cloak, and finally, the Mask of the Wraith—his most prized possession. With all of his necessities collected, the mercenary set out from his private quarters toward the Storage Houses of the Castle Commons, the location of his new employer.
Vaylen had recently become a freelance mercenary, offering his services to any willing to pay. Irith Baughn, his previous employer, had been bold enough to yell at him for killing the teenagers in Cheap Side. And for his outburst, the Wraith ended the merchant's life.
The trek from Cheap Sided to the Storage Houses wasn’t too far, and Vaylen’s mask alone usually parted the crowd for him. The Mask of the Wraith was not a beautiful piece of apparel; it was a grotesque piece of craftsmanship that had benefited his father and his attempts to impose fear and intimidation into the hearts of others as he ascended the ranks of the Daggerhands. Now, bared on the face of his son, the mask was the tool Vaylen would use to identify himself as the Wraith of Sunberth, a renowned alias that he was in the process of building ever since he slaughtered his parents.
As the excited, merchant eyes of a new employer caught the sight of Vaylen Stroud making his way through the throng of men and women, the man’s face lit up like a cluster of fireworks. He ushered the skilled mercenary closer, and by the way the shady merchant’s eyes darted about, almost as if he were looking for anyone who may be spying on him, Vaylen could tell it was an important task that the freelancer had this day. "Sir Stroud," the merchant greeted, "git closer." When Vaylen was nearly toe-to-toe with the man, he looked directly into Vaylen’s eyes—a bold move—and continued his whispers.
“About a hunnerd or so yards down de road, dere’s nudder tradesman. Six foot, gilded black robe, big gold and black hat, dark eyes. Can’t miss ‘em. He’s been toyin’ with me shit for weeks, and I know ye’ve been busy, but I need ‘im taken c’er of, ye understand?” The merchant explained, his eyes staring dangerously. It was one of the few times the mercenary actually respected a merchant. One did not glare at Vaylen simply for the hell of it. It was an act that had to have meaning behind it, or Vaylen wouldn’t think twice before severing one’s throat in a flash.
“Don’t worry good merchant, this rival of yours will see the gates of Lhex soon enough,” Vaylen whispered back, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Just as the murderer was about to add another tally to his victims, the merchant’s hand gripped Vaylen’s right bicep fierce, letting loose the demonic eyes of the killer upon himself. Before Vaylen could react, however, the trader spoke. “Dis tradesman Sir Stroud… he has consi’erable coin. Sometimes I see ‘im wif a giant purple beast, an’ me thinks he plans to send him af’er me. If ye see ‘im Sir Stroud, ye gotta promise that ye’ll kill dat monster.”
A giant purple beast? Vaylen had heard of the creature. It was not human, and it was a mercenary like himself, though there was one difference—the beast was giant. He had never seen him in the flesh, but Vaylen could only imagine the man’s size. The Wraith nodded at the freelance employer, this time the fury in his eyes not directed at him. A challenge was ahead, a challenge to take out the mighty Akalak of Sunberth.
With nothing on his mind other than the job at hand, Vaylen nodded and turned swiftly on his heel. His hands fell to the hilts of his kukris as he worked his way through the crowd and the twisting street. Men and women moved at the sight of the mercenary’s mask, many wide-eyed. But as Vaylen moved farther and farther down the street, he soon came upon the visage of Dor’gen of the Tempered Steel. While his back was facing him, Vaylen could see the thick leather armor that encompassed his configuration. He saw the mane of white hair that trailed down his spine and the near-ebony, dark purple flesh that covered his bones. Elongated ears perched out from his head, and he towered over everyone in sight. The Akalak stood at seven feet and five inches, riddled with dark muscle.
Vaylen stopped for a moment, taking in this new adversary. While he knew this would be his toughest task yet, and deep within himself he almost thought the job too much for even him, Vaylen only found himself smiling beneath his mask—that sadistic, ever-bloodthirsty smile. The inferno that had grown in his eyes on the day he murdered his parents and the day that he had slain the Dhani with Kaie now blazed in the steel-gray eyes of the killer.
And so the Wraith approached the Giant, his kukris coming forth from their scabbards as he quickened his pace toward the target.
.
