Solo As the Wind Blows

[Andar]

The 2nd of Winter, 514 AV

A stand of fruit toppled over, juice from a ripe melon painted the air where Andar's head had been a fraction of a second earlier. Scimitar steel caught a glint of sunlight and momentarily blinded the kelvic rogue who had just ducked into a somersault and passed through the swarthy mercenary's bowed legs. Springing up on the other side, he looked over his shoulder and barked a laugh that got quickly muffled with the impact of colliding into a dark haired hefty woman directly in front of him. He teetered for a moment and the woman let out a grunt of surprise followed by a groan of frustration as she lost hold of packages which rained down all over the filthy mucky bazaar ground. "Pardon!" Was all he managed to say before he was moving again, leaping over boxes and away from pursuit.

He weaved in and out of droves of people; some were hawking wares beside various stalls, others bargained vehemently, still more simply followed the current of humanity, too busy getting to wherever it was that they were going. If a few Sunberthians gawked and muttered protests at Andar's passing; they cursed and straightened their wrinkled garments indignantly at the more forceful - and decidedly less agile - meanderings of the paid brutes close behind.

"Get back here you cur!" One man cried.

The heady aromas of the market (exotic spices, baked pies and sundry perfumes), quickly dissolved into less pleasant odors (soiled refuse, sewage from slime encroached drain grates, and stinky laundry hanging out of open windows), as the Seaside Market receded into the distance. Andar raced around a bend in the road that took him out of momentary view of his assailants. Heavy footfalls splashed down the rather dank side street seconds later. They passed right by a heap of mildew stained cushions along the way. When the labored curses had softened to a faint murmur on the wind, said cushions sprang to life; spitting out a rather relieved thief.

Hours later, that day.

"God's damn it!" Andar lounged on a scarred wooden chair, bare feet propped up on an equally scratched table, legs crossed at the ankles. He sucked in a frustrated breath along with a good mouthful of red wine from a clay jug. Upon the table sat a rather small puddle of coins (mostly copper), a vial of cloudy liquid, four wooden figurines, and a brooch of dubious worth. His tunic was partially open at the chest, and he still wore his rather stained breeches. The four walls that enclosed him now were cracked and in serious need of paint. The room was sparsely furnished ( only a creaky wood bed and chest at its foot of note beyond the table and chair he currently adorned). There was a single window to the left of the bed that offered a view of the alley behind the building in all its glorious shades of squalor.

"I cannot live like this. I just can't," he said. There was no one in the room but him, and as usual, no divine messenger materialized magically to tell him: "Do not fret mortal, the tide ebbs and flows, the wind stills and blows, and here's how it will all change....."

That never happened though. Just silence and him feeling tired and spent after a hectic day of robbing folk. Today's daily disaster had been the result of a failed lock box attempt. A foreign merchant selling copious amounts of alchemical devices and potions as it were. Andar had watched the man set up and with a few inconspicuous strolls, had noticed a rather promising lock box tucked away in a secret wooden compartment facing the merchant.

It all should have gone down to plan. Would have too, if not for an alchemical alarm (or so he guessed by the plume of blue smoke that expelled from the box). Things unraveled rather quickly from there. Angry yells of "Stop! Thief! Get him!" Followed by muscled help charging him with clubs and curved blades. A merry goose chase throughout the bazaar ensued, and finally, him barely escaping with his life. If it wasn't for that alchemical trap, he would have had a considerable take today. He wouldn't even have minded the investment of a few silver coins given to an urchin to conveniently distract the merchant just long enough for him to get the job done.

All he managed to take was one measly vial of.....whatever it was. Andar plucked up the vial from the table and shook it, watching the cloudy liquid inside film over the glass and bubble slightly. I could always fob it off as some precious elixir of youth, he thought with a chuckle.

Despite having very little to show for his efforts, Andar leaned back and smiled after a time, raising his jug for another taste of fermented fruit. "Have a care. The night is still young and I, foolishly devoted to her sins."

[Andar]

Night came to Sunberth. The moon goddess enveloped the world in her mystical veil. Intrigue and shadows were her domain and this night carried a bitter cold. If the day had been slightly chilly, the night left no mistake that winter's mantle had come. Snow fell lightly around Andar as he walked the streets of larceny. All around him, the city was alive with the exchange of money - he could smell it.

Whores hollered invitingly from open doors, granting a few lucky passers by a sneak peek of the goods. A man was casually beaten by a gaggle of Daggerhand toughs in the mouth of an alley. When one could not afford to pay a debt, there followed a swift and painful law of recompense in Sunberth. He saw a mysterious robed man make a surreptitious exchange with a brawny tattooed den fighter. Despite the cold coming on, nothing halted commerce in Sunberth.

An old beggar approached him, proffering a chipped pot. "A few coins my dear boy? I've not eaten in days," said the man with an obviously well pitched groan of hunger.
Amber eyes scanned intently beneath a gray cowl. His nostrils flared in what was a habit he did not soon forget upon being a man. There was no one else around the old man. No partner hidden in shadow, waiting to pounce him once he had opened his purse. He nodded, fingers delved into the folds of his cloak to retrieve two copper mizas from a pocket sewn into the interior. The coins made a soft 'clink' as they disappeared into the beggar's cup.
"Oh Kihala be praised! Long life to you sir," said the beggar with a raise of his cup.
"Think nothing of it," he said.

Andar had rather hoped he had Ovek's blessing instead. Not that he really believed in it. He considered the gods for a while as he walked northward. The Kelvic thief was never really smitten with the divine. Everything that happened, did so for a reason. Cause and effect, probability and all of that sort of shit. If you didn't consider something well and hard; the rest was up to chance and chance was such a whimsical creature at the best of times.

The Castle Commons opened up before him. In the light of day it was a vast market place of vendors come to set up their merchandise for sale. At night though, in this cold especially, it seemed an entirely different place. Only a few souls could be seen traversing the cobbles in the inky cold gloom. Those whose presence remained were usually there for a reason. Posted outside a shop or waiting conspicuously under a gazebo, pipe smoke filtering out. Andar strode pointedly toward a building with a weathered old sign that proclaimed it: The Pig's Foot Tavern.

Once inside, he felt immediately warmed. A boisterous fire flickered in the hearth, his eyes quickly adjusted to the room's ruddy light. The tavern was filled to capacity this night and the sounds of music, laughter, speech, and clanking crockery assaulted his ears. The air was thick with pipe smoke and lingered also with the smell of spirits, sweat, and greasy food.

Andar managed to find a berth at the bar betwixt a sailor with gleaming metal studs in his ears and a gaunt man with a shaved head and a tear drop tattoo aside his left eye. Behind the counter stood a fossil of a man. His face was a road map of wrinkles and his beard gray with age. Despite all that, beyond the pouches lay eyes both fierce and sharp. His name was Merv, owner of the joint. "What'll it be?" asked the man gruffly, resting hands on the wood.
"Mug of ale," said Andar in a neutral tone.
"Aight. Two copper." Merv collected the money with old scarred hands and pushed off the bar, barking the order to a plump dark haired woman who quickly tended to his order.

Half a mug of ale later, Andar had a chance to relax a bit and glean some information from his neighbors. Apparently a plump Zeltivan brig had encountered some pirates on the way over and lost everything she had in her hold, according to the sailor. The rather suspicious looking fellow with the tattoo spoke very little by contrast. Andar did catch him say in low pitched words, "That don't put bread on the table now do it? Lay with th' bastard. Me and the boys will be 'round." Andar noticed a short woman with a full mop of curly brown hair flounce to the door, pulled tight to her figure was a patchwork of furs.

Nothing particularly promising thus far. He needed to find somewhat wealthier company. A proper pigeon to pluck. With that intent, he finished his ale and slid away from the bar. Meticulous eyes roved over the crowd as he walked. "I shall not leave here tonight with empty pockets," he vowed under his breath.

[Andar]

(Continued)

A great disturbance caught his ear and he made steps toward it, politely sidling around people clustered about the right corner of the tavern. The interposed wall of cheering, jeering, laughing, and screaming humanity watched some matter of discourse. One woman stood on a man's shoulders and pumped her fists to what Andar's ears detected to be a man's deep drawl: "....fancy words only make a man sound pretty 'fore he gets 'is throat cut."

Andar managed to see the speaker between the gap of limbs. Supporters of a brawny bastard echoed praise for his clearly potent threat. He was a tall muscular fellow with short-cropped jet hair, dangerous looking dark eyes, and a shadow of tuft beneath his lip. There was also a ragged scar across the man's forehead. Andar didn't spot any gang affiliation in plain view. He was clad in leather armor and wore a conspicuous scabbard at his waist whence a broadsword hilt lay within easy reach of hand.

"Your witless tongue only condemns you, Jarlaza. Your prowess with a blade, I do fear, is limited to very very short strokes just behind your victim's backside," said his adversary with a lewd pelvic motion to which his supporters laughed heartily and a man just in front of Andar spat his drink out in boisterous agreement.

Andar could see plainly this other individual had a refined look to him. Long brown hair cut short on the sides, and a neatly trimmed goatee. Not near as tall nor strong of build as his rival, but seemed to carry himself much the taller. He was dressed in a burgundy tunic of quality material, trousers and boots of equal measure, and draping the man's shoulders, a blue coat. He reminded Andar of the oft boasting Sun's Birth and their ilk.

The man he had heard called 'Jarlaza' advanced a step and was quickly restrained by his comrades. His face had turned red with anger and spittle issued from his mouth to the floor where the other gentleman stood. "I will have your petching blood!" He said with the promise of death shining in dark pits.

Andar suspected there would soon be a fight to settle the matter once and for all. But that time was not then. The other man, he heard called, Trin, laughed and waved a dismissive hand as he went back to his table to drink among friends. Jarlaza, much the slower to part, left the establishment with brethren in tow. Andar could not understand why a fight did not break out. Perhaps the conflict was gang related and this turf was neutral ground. Mayhap they did not wish to disrespect the proprietor of the Pig's Foot. Whatever the cause for discretion, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, this score was far from settled.

He decided to dig a little deeper in hopes a lucrative angle might present itself. When most of the crowd had dispersed and returned to their seats, his amber stare latched on the man who had lost half his drink with Trin's quips. He was alone and sat far enough away from the others that it was unlikely they would be overheard. He was a red cheeked man with a bulbous nose, greasy looking hair streaked with gray and a decidedly toothy looking smile. Looks friendly enough, he thought and sat down across from him.

Andar lowered his grey hood and hailed over a waitress he had seen doing the rounds and deftly avoiding the majority of playful slaps the more rowdy patronage had to offer. "An ale for myself and another of whatever this gentleman is having," he said with polite nod to the stranger.

The man studied Andar for a short time before smiling amicably and loosed a good-natured chuckle. "The same," he said and raised his cup in salute before draining it. "And who do I have the pleasure of thanking for this kind gesture?"
"Name's Korbin," said Andar with a proffered hand.
"Pleasure to meet you then, Korbin. I'm Beldris Blackstone," introduced the man with a strong clamp of a grip. He went on to divulge much about himself without any prompting whatsoever. Andar learned the man was a miner. He liked precious metals, brunettes, and smoked pheasant, and those in no particular order. This carried on for a while without any forthcoming news that might prove useful nor anything about the feuding fellows. It was obvious this Beldris liked to hear himself talk.

They were well into their drinks when Andar managed to broach the subject. "I don't wish to stick my nose in others business, but I could not help but notice those two men earlier. What in Nikali's tits was that all about?" He asked softly, leaning over the table so that his words were understood.

Beldris leaned two large elbows on the table and lowered his voice as well. "Bah. Nothing. Those two have been trading insults for years. Trin," he said with a nod of his head toward where the man sat with his friends laughing and talking of grandiose battles, "has ties with the Sun's Birth. Ain't wise for someone like Jarlaza with naught but minor reputation in the pits to carry on like he has. Mayhap he could give Trin a good fight - hell maybe even defeat him. But even if he did, word would get around and he'd end up in an alley somewhere. That's the way of it."

That made logical sense to Andar. He had no such interest in the political maneuverings of the major gangs in Sunberth. At least not yet. It was a messy affair to say the least. He knew if his own deeds began to carry weight, soon he would be on their radar and things would get tricky. Then you either joined them, or paid coin to appease them. There was no middle ground. You were a dead man walking if you ignored them.
He sighed and offered a nod of his head in understanding. "I see," said Andar quietly, leaning back in his chair. "It would have made for a good show, though," he found himself saying wistfully.

"Oh Aye. Now if you're looking to gamble on fights, best place to go is Tall Johnny's over on the bay front. 'Course you can bet coin at the Pits. But you'll find naught but the dregs. You're like as not to be robbed of your winnings before you made it out," said Beldris distastefully.

That gave Andar an idea that he really hadn't thought of yet: wagering on fighters. He wondered if he could fix fights in order to get rich or simply find a really good one to tie his fortunes with. He knew Johnny's was a place to gamble at cards and fights and other amusements - had even been in the smoky place a few times. But had always considered such activities out of his range of expertise. He preferred to burglarize houses and pick pockets. Perhaps he was limiting himself though. Maybe he needed to expand his horizons to such possibilities.

Andar politely excused himself from the table, citing sleepiness and a long day's work on the morrow. He patted the man on the shoulder as he passed, deftly maneuvering his other hand to the man's belt, within its grasp a miniature tool for severing drawstrings. In a quick movement that barely lasted a heartbeat he had cut, caught Beldris's pouch, and stashed it beneath his cloak. He heard no yells of "thief!" this time around and left the place to its merry making.

He had work to do and a great fighter to find.

[Andar]

Later on that Night....

Andar slipped from one shadow to the next in the hueless gray of night. The chilly air and icy cobbles made sneaking a bit more treacherous and unpleasant, but he carefully made progress, nonetheless. He crouched behind a heap of rubble along the side of the street, scanning the area. This place was known as The Den. Infamous for its inhospitable treatment of outsiders. He had heard stories of people, not disappearing, as was the case for many a'place in Sunberth, but simply falling where they stood only to have their naked corpse found the next morning, looted of every last vestment they possessed. Even a few organs were known to go missing, some said. Whether to be eaten or used in experiments, who could say? Andar's eyes immediately fell on a building midway down the street. He thought he heard tortured screams coming from the broken windows as he crept out from the mouth of an alley.

The Clinic. That's what the horrid place was called. Andar had no desire to visit it. Some people claimed the rumors were started by Doctor Petricious himself as a means to keep would be thieves at bay. That the place itself was nothing unusual and the doctor himself was useful to have around if you happened to get bloodied in the pits. Others maintained the belief that it was all true; that Petricious did indeed have people kidnapped for vile experiments. Whatever the truth of the matter was, Andar would give that place a wide berth. He did just that too, slinking over to the other side of the street, deftly avoiding dark piles of the gods knew what that lay on the roadside.

Andar noticed two men creeping down the other side of the road. Peering back the way he had come, he soon spotted what had attracted their attention: a drunkard swerved in and out of the lane, tunelessly singing. He didn't envy that man's future. Still, he couldn't afford to stick around and help the man lest he himself end up in the gutter as well. He continued north until the warren fell away, and a well lit space opened up.

Andar adjusted his eyes to the raging firelight, shading his gaze with raised hand. At first he felt a bit disorientated, wondering how he had ended up at the Slag Heap. But he quickly realized this fire was simply a bonfire of sorts. The flickering light outlined figures huddled together, keeping warm and shouting encouragement. Their dark shapes loomed over a recess in the ground itself. Andar slipped inconspicuously into the throng, finding a crack in the exterior of humanity and promptly poking his head in to peer down into the depths.

The sour smells of body odor mingled with the acrid stench of whatever they used to fuel that fire. The kelvic thief wiped a hand over his teary eyes. The blurred image of two individuals locked in combat came into view. There were torches down in the pit, and he could see the excited faces of more spectators down there. There wasn't any barricade that he could see to divide the viewers from the combatants. Although, he did see a few burly men with cruel looking cudgels along the perimeter, taking bets and occasionally beating anyone in the crowd that got a little too over exuberant.

This was is 'it', he thought happily. Now all he had to do was place a bet and rake in the mizas! Peering more intently at the combatants now, he discerned the larger of the two seemed to be winning. He had a tattoo on his cheek, long black hair, matted with blood. And currently had the other in a headlock. The leaner fellow's choking grew quite audible whilst he slapped his arms ineffectually upward at his assailant. Andar doubted he would be allowed to place bets now that the fight was nearly finished. He would have to wait for the next bout to start. In the meanwhile though, there were plenty of folk here with coin. They would be far too busy observing the spectacle below, to notice a few missing purses, right?

Andar grinned, and went to work.

[Andar]

Two pouches with a few measly copper mizas each, a ring, and a half eaten apple to his name so far. He bit into the 'good' side of the apple while he stood amid the expectant Sunberthians. The fellow who had been in the fatal headlock was now being hauled off by two large men with a lot of body art. The victor roared triumphantly around the pit and folk cheered him for making them richer. He saw one dirty-faced woman step forward out of the crowd to give the winner a hearty smooch on the mouth. This brought more cheers and leering hoots as well.

Andar took another bite of apple, tossing the core and sullied part onto the snowy earth. He wondered who would be next to fight as he idly spun the ring around on his finger. The hollering reached a deafening roar. Andar raised his eyes to peer down into the pit and see what all the racket was about. He didn't see anything. But he heard the boom of a door closing and saw a rather large brute of a man appear down the left passageway. People parted quickly and those who did not, the brute punished with savage strikes from his fists. More people were hauled off.

Andar studied the daunting man. Besides being fairly big, the fighter had war paint covering much of his face, giving him an even more fearsome appearance. A brown beard snaked down to his chest, braided and beset with beads. The man seemed oblivious to the cold, his scarred and muscled chest exposed. He wore plain looking rough spun pants.

When Andar was strongly considering putting his mizas on the shirtless gentleman, an accusing voice in the crowd reached his ears.

"Hey that's my ring! Thief! Thief!!" Called a middle-aged man, short an eye. He pointed and grasped out for the item. Andar quickly palmed the ring and glowered back at the old guy.

"How dare you! I'm offended that you would even thin-" One of the burly sorts with a cudgel seized him by the collar.

"Thief eh? Well now. The crime for that is the pits," he said with a cruel laugh that offered Andar a sight of his rotten teeth bested only by the foulness of his breath.

"Unhand me! This is unjust! I stole nothing," Andar cried out, struggling against the strong grip of his captor as he was roughly led to a shaft that descended into darkness. He saw angry faces in the crowd, toothless and monstrous they were. They seemed to be enjoying his predicament, and he even felt himself being pelted. Did he smell apples?

"Hey what about my ring?" Called the old man who was promptly tossed aside before Andar was tugged downward into the depths of...hell.

Another of the burly fellows added his restraining mitts to Andar to expedite the situation. He could see torches spaced fifteen feet apart or so. The walls were stone and at various junctures, he spied pick axes, long since abandoned. Cobwebs covered the rusty tools and what appeared to be an old broken lantern. The roar of the crowd was growing louder now. He had to think of something fast. There had to be a way out of this mess. Hadn't he escaped dozens of life and death situations before? Andar felt his stomach churn with anxiety.

They passed through an old door in the mine shaft. The pungent odor of human perspiration and waste assaulted his nose immediately upon entering what he knew was the Blood Pits. He was shoved, prodded, and grabbed before he rebounded off a wall, barely able to keep his balance. Andar spun around and came face to face with the brutish fighter he had seen earlier. The man threw back his head in mirth, reciprocating hilarity in the gathered spectators.

A skinny man in robes stepped to the middle of the pit and began reciting the fancy words that began many a fight in the pits.
"Sunberthians! We have for you tonight, another bloody contest!! To my left, a man that needs no introduction. A seasoned veteran of the Blood Pits, behold... Tofgar SKULLCRUSHER!!"

The applause drowned out everything. Andar's eyes darted around, desperately looking for a way out. But he was boxed in by those burly thugs and the spectators. Even if he managed to get by them, there was still the matter of those doors, and those had to be unlocked. His attention returned to the announcer when he began to speak again.

"I present to you, Tofgar's challenger...." the man paused to confer with the thug that had brought Andar down here. He could hear the skinny man ask,"Who the hell is he again?" Which the cruel faced man responded with, "He ain't nothin' but a thief. Stole a man's ring."

"A thief! I give to you the Rogue of Rings," he said with decidedly less vigor. Which was followed by very meager support. Most spectators jeered, in fact.
Andar rolled his eyes at his title. They could have at least been a bit more creative, he lamented. He noticed the burly men collecting sums of coins from the crowd now. The skinny gentleman who had given him that awful name, kept track of the bets and odds on a board that he marked with charcoal. Andar didn't see anyone betting on him. He supposed he did not blame them. He'd of bet against himself if given the chance, too.

"I'm going to rip your heart out, and eat it, boy," said Tofgar, sucking his fingers.

"We don't need to do this. You want gold mizas, right? I have some stashed away. Just make it look good for the crowd and I'll go fetch it for you afterward. What do you say, man?" whispered Andar, trying his best to work on the man's avarice.

"You little worm. I don't want your gold. I want your heart, remember?" he said and spat very close to where Andar stood.

So much for that idea. It would be a sad night indeed. He never even got a chance to wish his mother farewell or dear Jemisa. He wiped the tears away. If he was to die, he'd go out with some dignity at least. Then quite suddenly there was,"Let the fight BEGIN!!" Tofgar howled and charged Andar.

Oh boy.....

[Andar]

The sight of the charging maniac paralyzed Andar with fear. He stood stalk still, wondering if it wouldn't just be better to take the fighter's best shot and be done with this. But then, just when Tofgar shot forward, aiming a fist in a wild haymaker destined to take his head off, Andar sprung to life.

It was as if some instinctual code within his mind lit up and took command. He ducked the forceful blow, and rolled to his left, gray cloak whipping out behind him. Tofgar jerked his head around just as Andar set his feet. The kelvic thief took three quick steps toward him, pumping his arms as he drove his fists repeatedly into the brute's stomach. He may as well been attempting to shape metal with his bare hands. Tofgar laughed as he completed his circuit, letting loose a vicious backhand. Andar side stepped the slap easily enough, but didn't see Tofgar's other hand. The blow buckled him instantly. He groaned, pushing off the blood stained floor, his side burning with horrible pain.

He could see Tofgar standing a few feet away, taking his time while engaging the audience. The crowd was all around them, yelling at the top of their lungs, and some shouted obscenities (mostly in his direction). Andar was awfully glad they had not been given weapons. His combat training was limited to the unarmed variety, and while he still was at a disadvantage, he believed he could stall the inevitable for quite some time. Maybe Ovek would take pity on him, and he'd somehow make it out of this ordeal. That's when someone in the crowd tossed Tofgar a wicked-looking club with spikes. He caught the weapon and slapped it against his open palm menacingly, ignoring the blood slipping down his hand as he moved closer. Andar's heart sunk. This was not good.

Andar winced, holding his side as he moved away from Tofgar. Hoping to get some help from the crowd as well, he beckoned to them, extending a hand. One woman showed him her breasts mockingly. Someone in the throng threw something at him, which he raised a warding hand to. Another apple core? Seriously?! He would never eat another apple for as long as he lived if he made it out of this. Finally, someone must have felt sorry for him and tossed a knife, which clattered on the ground, closer to the approaching Tofgar, than him. He cursed, and made a run for it.

Just when his hand was about to close over the handle, Tofgar kicked the knife out of reach. A moment later the club swung out in a low arc that narrowly missed Andar's left shoulder. Andar hopped backward into a crouch to evade the club, but Tofgar surprised him by leaping forward and clipping the side of his tawny head on the back-swing. The torch-lit pit whirled and he felt himself make impact with the unforgiving ground. Something wet trickled down his ear. Shifting his head, his eyes fell on the glinting metal of the knife some few feet away. His head throbbed with pain just to move it that much. Andar's mind screamed for him to get away as fast as he could. Danger was imminent. Despite the need, he found his limbs would not obey his instructions. He finally managed to stand upon wobbly legs. The forbidding sight of Tofgar, arms extended out wide, inciting the crowd to maddening levels.

Andar staggered toward the knife, fell, and scooped it up. He felt himself being elevated suddenly, and his hair nearly pulled from the scalp as he was yanked back by that tawny mane. Whiskers scraped over his face, and a rancid eddy of breath issued forth.

"I can hear that heart of yers. It be callin' my name, boy," he heard him whisper in a wickedly teasing voice.

He was then launched through the air. Andar tumbled over and over, coming to a bruising halt against the pit wall. He grimaced at the pain that flared up in his side. Elbows and knees were no doubt black and blue, and he had a splitting headache to boot. To make matters worse, his fingers clutched at nothing. He had lost the knife in the fall - his only hope.