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Leaning even closer to the ranger, the man's lips parted and a voice like a whisper from the grave echoed in Marcus' ear, "What I want from you is your life, and I intend to take it--Now."
Marcus kicked his full weight into the chair, sending it flying backwards. Using the momentum to his advantage, he flipped the two men holding him forward onto the table and towards the dealer. Free of the grip, Marcus took a defensive stance and drew his staff from the confines of his jacket, extending it to its full length with a sharp twist. "Might be harder to collect than you think. Surrender now before anyone gets hurt."
The dealer backpedaled as the dislodged thieves flew across the table, avoiding them with little effort. "Well, one of the high justice's boys. Marcus, isn't it? I've been hoping one of you might be foolish enough to stop by."
Marcus spared a quick glance up toward the skylight. Counting on the Calvary to be seconds away, he bravely smirked. "Happy to oblige. Life of crime getting to you? Conscience too loud to ignore? Here I am. Now be good little thieves and drop the weapons and we can start rehabilitation."
The man laughed cruelly, a sound echoed by the rest of the room's occupants, all save the woman. "You seem to be suffering from the delusion that you're in control. Perhaps you haven't fully recovered from you encounter with the demon. I understand you took quite a tumble."
Marcus spun the staff skillfully through a practiced set of maneuvers. ~~Anytime Soren, please feel free to join the party~~ he thought as he stopped the staff, pointing it straight at the dealer. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."
The man smiled darkly. "I'll keep that in mind, and I hope you're right. I'd hate for you to be at anything less than your best. I've been wanting to test the mettle of you boys for some time now. It would be a pity to have a damaged specimen."
Marcus sighed and looked to the heavens, more for some sign of help than divine inspiration. "Why can't they for once just do the smart thing and surrender? Really is that too much to ask?"
The man gestured to the two men flanking him, and they nodded purposefully, stepping towards the ranger with weapons drawn. Marcus was already in motion as they advanced. He struck the one to his left before the thief could even react, driving the staff's end deep into the thief's midsection and taking the air from his lungs. The thief doubled over and his grip went lax, sending a short sword clattering to the floor. Another strike to the back of his head deprived the thief of consciousness, and he collapsed to the floor beside his fallen weapon.
One threat disposed of, Marcus spun to face the second thief who was already rushing towards him. Marcus whirled the staff around and aimed it at the thief's head, forcing him to break stride and block. The moment metal touched metal, Marcus reversed the staff, bringing it back around and across the thief's now unprotected jaw. The impact sent the thief spinning backwards before he slumped to the ground with his companion in an undignified heap. Breathing a bit heavier, Marcus retook his defensive stance in the middle of the room. "Last chance. I hear dental work is expensive."
The dealer applauded slowly, "Impressive." He had moved during the fight, and was now leaning against a wall, next to the woman who had risen from her chair. It bothered Marcus that he hadn't seen or heard either of them move, but he didn't have time to consider the matter, for the dealer gestured again and two more thieves advanced to face the ranger--the scout, and another man who had been hiding unseen in the shadows.
The sight of the scout froze the blood in Marcus' veins, and he glanced up again at the skylight, allowing his eyes to linger there too long as concern for his fellow ranger and friend clouded his judgment. Where was Soren? The scout said they hadn't seen anyone, but what if he'd lied. What if Soren was on the roof bleeding to death or worse? What if . . . ? Marcus heard the scout's mace cutting through the air before he saw it, distracted by his concern, and he barely raised his staff in time to turn the swing from a fatal blow. He wasn't in time to turn it entirely, however, and stars played across his vision as the mace struck. His vision was still blurry as he backed away, trying to distance himself from the attackers. The scout sensed the weakness and tried to push the advantage, but he underestimated his opponent. The staff struck quickly, sweeping the scout's legs from beneath him and sending him crashing to the ground. He was momentarily stunned by the impact as the mace slid across the floor, coming to rest just beyond his reach.
With the scout out of the action, Marcus moved against the other attacker, surprising him by stepping into his swing and pinning his sword arm. Holding the thief in place, Marcus collapsed the staff back down, placed it beneath the thief's chin, and whispered, "'night," smirking evilly as he extended the staff back to its full length, catching the thief's jaw. The thief dropped silently to the ground and Marcus scanned the room for new threats. He saw the scout reaching for the mace. "No, no, no." On hearing the voice, the scout looked up in time to see the end of the staff speeding towards his head. As the scout fell unmoving to the ground a second time, Marcus gave himself some distance and slid away from the thieves. His breathing was slightly labored as he caught the dealer's eyes again. "You need to hire better help. Ready to give up yet?" he quipped, his victories giving him a false confidence.
"No, not quite." The dealer answered, with the same infuriating dispassion he had worn throughout the game. Without a signal, the swarthy man from the inn stepped forward, armed with a sword, and the door flew open to reveal two more men ready to advance. But the dealer held them back with a raised hand. He had moved again during the disruption, and was standing above the scout's mace. Retrieving it from the floor in a fluid motion, he passed it back and forth between his hands, getting its feel and weight. Satisfied, he looked squarely at the ranger, "You know, it's never been my favorite, but I think it'll do."
"If you insist. Double or nothing?" Marcus turned to face the man, again taking a defensive stance. He wasn't surprised when the master thief laughed in response.
"You can only die once, you can hardly double that."
"True. How about this? If I win, everybody surrenders and comes along peacefully?" The ranger asked, trying to call a battle of champions.
The grey eyes of the dealer answered first, in a stare so cold that the man might have been looking through Marcus, rather than at him. "That encounter with the demon must have affected you more than you think. But don't worry, it won't be troubling you much longer."
With that, the man rushed Marcus with a vicious series of blows. Marcus gave ground slightly, using the longer reach of his staff to ward off the attacks, and within seconds, the two men dropped into the practiced dance of experienced warriors--the dealer launching attack after attack, seeking a way into Marcus' guard, while Marcus parried, deflected, and struck out only when the opportunity presented itself. Marcus deemed himself to be slightly the better warrior, and given the best of circumstances he thought the fight would be his. But Marcus wasn't at his best. Sore muscles and stiff joints made the fight a foregone conclusion, and Marcus knew it. The knowledge made him begin to take chances, doing anything to end the fight quickly, and in his favor. He saw the thief's feint for what it was, but breathing was becoming more difficult, and he lashed out, hoping to hit the leader more squarely than expected.
The staff glanced off the dealer's jaw as he spun into Marcus' guard, landing the mace in the ranger's side. Marcus' ribcage gave way with a crunching sound and a flash of searing pain. The thief grinned wickedly. "I've just broken two of your ribs." Marcus tried to recover and bring the staff around, but in his state, he wasn't fast enough, and the mace landed squarely once again, sending a new flash of pain through Marcus' side. "Sorry, make that three."
The staff clattered to the floor and collapsed, followed shortly by its wielder, and still the mace struck, falling again and again and again. For countless seconds, thud followed thud, until the ranger went limp beneath the blows, unable to ward them off. In the bit of consciousness that remained to him, he had no doubt that the blows would continue until he could no longer see them, no longer hear them, and no longer feel them. But, regrettably, the dealer's skill didn't stop with cards. Each blow was carefully calculated and executed with the necessary precision and force as to cause exquisite pain without allowing the ranger the solace of death.
Mercifully, or perhaps not, the blows stopped one short of unconsciousness, when a voice, the woman's, cut above the pounding of the mace. "There's someone on the roof!" Marcus couldn't see the two men who rushed out the door, but he could hear their swords ring over the scuttling of their boots as they ran to face the new threat. The dealer didn't leave with them, however, and instead bent low over the fallen form of the ranger, whispering harshly in a bloodied ear, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be back to collect shortly." Blood ran freely down Marcus' face now, but he didn't care. Soren would get away. They wouldn't get both of them.
"There's someone on the roof!" Quaralyn shouted.
Two guards drew swords and were running out the door before Striker had even turned to face them, propelled not by fear of discovery, but by the fear of failing the guildmaster a second time. Dagen had gone with them, but Quaralyn remained in the room, leaning against the wall with an expression that fairly shouted that her earlier assessment had been correct, and that he would have been well-advised to have listened. She didn't say anything, however, prompting him to think that his luck on that front might be improving, and he almost smirked as he turned back to the crumpled heap on the floor beside him. Bending low over the broken form of the ranger, he whispered harshly in a bloodied ear, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be back to collect shortly."
By the time he rose and turned back to the door, one of the thieves who had sprinted from the room at Quaralyn's alarm rushed back in with Dagen at his heels. "She was right," the thief admitted reluctantly. "Someone was up there, but he's gone now. Tirnal and Aurin are after him. We'll find him."
Striker glared at him through narrowed eyes and a thick veil of contempt. It was a look that carried a dozen threats, but the voice spoke only one. "See that you do." The thief nodded quickly and quietly, and left in the same manner, pausing only to look at the scout who still lay unmoving on the floor, and shake his head in pity. Wiping blood, either his or the ranger's, from his face, Striker turned to the card players and Dagen. "Take them back to the guild," he instructed, gesturing towards the injured men on the floor. "We have some unfinished business here." His gaze made clear that by "we" he meant he and Quaralyn.
The statement raised both Dagen's ire and jealousy. He had served the guild far longer than Quaralyn, and in his skewed assessment thought himself to be easily her better. He could prove it too, he thought, if Striker would simply let him. But Striker refused to budge on the issue and his refusal bred only further suspicion and anger in Dagen. "Yes," he hissed too sharply in response, "there's lots of unfinished business, and I can help." He took a step closer to the guildmaster and lowered his voice. "Look at her," he started, tilting his head sharply in Quaralyn's direction, "she doesn't have the stomach for what needs to be done. Let her take the injured back and play nursemaid. You need someone here who isn't going to go soft when he starts screaming."
Striker had never suffered fools well, and Dagen's folly was beginning to try his patience. It was taking him too long to learn his place, and while the same could be said of Quaralyn, her skills granted her a certain amount of lenity that Dagen couldn't claim. But even she had never questioned an order in front of others, and Dagen's decision to do so placed him on dangerous ground. Striker didn't speak a word, not seeing the need, and instead locked eyes with Dagen and waited, "patiently," for him comply. Shifting beneath the weight of the gaze and seeing therein the peril of his action, Dagen gave way. Reluctantly, he lent a shoulder to help carry one of the wounded men back to the guild, but not before glowering at Quaralyn with ill-disguised contempt.
The door closed solidly behind him, leaving Striker alone with Quaralyn and the ranger. The latter was lying twisted and broken on the floor, not moving and barely breathing. The former was leaning against the far wall with her arms folded across her chest and an expression of displeasure across her face. "Trouble in the ranks?" he asked, tilting his head towards the door through which Dagen had just left.
She turned only her eyes in his direction, remaining otherwise unmoving and unenthused. "Nothing I can't handle."
A dry laugh echoed in return, but ended quickly as Striker winced and placed a hand on his side where the ranger's staff had landed. "I'm sure."
She didn't stir from the wall, but merely looked back and spoke without expression or concern. "You look awful."
He spread both arms and managed another small laugh. "You've got this to work with and that's the best you can do?"
"I'm sorry," she spat back with more sarcasm than sympathy, "but I don't find your little game particularly entertaining. You knew he wasn't the demon after the first hand. You could have sent him away then. He didn't know anything. Now we've got a ranger to deal with." She pushed off the wall and walked towards him, stopping a few feet away and crossing her arms once again as she looked up with a combination of curiosity and anger, "Or did you want him to be the demon? Getting tired of dealing with him?"
"You have no idea," he answered quietly, staring down at her. He looked for a moment as if he might have said something more on the subject, but changed his mind and instead added, "But now, his loss is your gain." Without further explanation, he tossed her the ebony token, a one-sided smirk twisting across his face when her slender fingers plucked it from the air and closed about it in a gloved fist. "See that you keep a closer watch on it."
Her expression changed, curiosity momentarily outweighing her anger, and she tilted her head to one side, her eyes conveying the question she didn't need to ask.
"Take him somewhere he'll be found," Striker answered. "If he dies on the way, all the better. If not . . . kill him."
The curiosity drained from her face, making room for a sudden flare of disbelief. "Damn it, he's a ranger! Do you have any idea what will happen if you kill a ranger? Do you know who the high justice is? Do you know what the high justice is? If you kill him," she pointed at Marcus, "the high justice will rain on you so hard you'll have to grow gills to breathe!" Striker didn't react to her tirade and waited patiently for her to finish. It annoyed her all the more, and she added in frustration, "Are you even listening to me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I'm listening, and I more than understand it," he answered calmly. "In fact, I'm counting on it." His smile turned dark, so dark that even Quaralyn struggled not to shiver beneath it. "When you're finished, put this on the body." He tossed her a small object wrapped in bit of green cloth. Pulling back the edges of the soft covering, she was only half surprised to find a Ravenclaw emblem swathed in the rest of the fabric. She opened her mouth to object, but closed it in mute irritation when she looked back up. He had already gone, leaving her alone with the ranger, his order, and her decision.
The ranger was heavier than he looked, and Quaralyn struggled beneath his weight as she carried him from the abandoned tavern, clinging to whatever small patches of shadow she could find as she made her way down one street and then another. "Take him somewhere he'll be found," Striker had told her. She smiled wryly beneath her burden. She knew the perfect place.
He drifted in and out of consciousness and fought against her a few times. Stubborn. But he was too weak to put up any real resistance, and they slipped, unseen and unheard, through the hidden arteries of the city. She didn't see any sign of the other one, the one she had seen on the roof, the one she knew had been there. It surprised her. She could almost understand why he hadn't intervened in the tavern. He was sorely outnumbered and even if he had made it into the room, he never would have made it out again—at least, not alive. But now? Now the odds had shifted. She was alone and severely encumbered, and still there was no sign of the fleeting figure from the roof. It bothered her, becoming a nagging presentiment that ticked away in the back of her mind, and it prompted her to keep a watchful eye and a careful step even as she pondered the matter.
It took her the better part of thirty minutes to reach her destination. It was a trip that should have taken only ten, but she was slowed by both the weight of the ranger and the need to keep strictly to the darker shadows that clung close to the walls and far away from the flames of the lanterns that danced and flickered in the growing sea wind. Stormpoint was a peculiar city and strange things were often seen on her evening streets, but some things still drew suspicion, and even the vampires rarely drug their victims halfway across the city before disposing of them. If she was seen, she would be stopped, and if she was stopped she would be . . . . She tried not to think about it as she crept quietly through the darkness, pausing only to catch her breath and her wits as she continued along the darksome road which lay before her.
Peering out from around the final corner, she felt the beginnings of a slow ache stretching through her muscles and she moaned once in both pain and frustration. The path ahead offered few places to hide, but the street looked empty and she only had to make it a short distance. Reshifting the ranger's weight, she slipped out of the alley and stepped onto the lighted street. She moved as quickly and quietly as she could beneath the dead weight of the ranger, and came to rest before a single door nestled in a shadowy alcove.
Her body sighed in tired relief as she lowered the ranger to the ground then crouched down beside him, eye-level with the man whose errant sense of duty might have doomed them both. He was conscious again, but just barely. "Kill him," Striker had said, and, "When you're finished, put this on the body." She pulled the Ravenclaw emblem from her belt and placed it on the ranger's chest. He groaned slightly at her touch and his eyes widened with pain before falling half-lidded again. "What? No more clever words," she whispered as his lifeblood flowed from his body, running in crimson rivulets onto the street below. Only another groan echoed in answer. He was too weak to beg for his life, but she doubted he'd do it anyway; and even if he did, it wouldn't change her mind.
She had reached her decision long ago, long before Striker's order, and long before the fight had even begun. She pulled a dagger from her boot and twisted it back and forth in her gloved hand, mesmerized for a moment by the pale lantern light that glinted off its deadly blade before she looked back to the dying ranger. In one swift slice she severed the bindings around his wrists, pulling them away from his limp arms as she rose again to her full height. Looking down once more at his clouded eyes, she rang the bell beside the door and faded back into the welcoming shadows of night. The door opened quickly, and an auburn-haired woman stood silhouetted in the light of the doorframe. She knelt beside the fallen ranger immediately, and struggled to bring him inside the clinic, never noticing the pair of deep green eyes that watched from just beyond the reach of the lanterns' failing light.
Cymbyliene lay gentle fingers on the throat of the man whose broken body lay at her feet. He was alive! She scanned the night's shadows warily, and saw no one. Mindful of the fact that she would never get him up the stairs without help, she agonized a full minute before calling out into the night for help. She heard her voice bounce off the walls and echo down the street. A lone head peered around the corner of the bakery down the row. A man.....she shrunk back slightly, wondering whether she might trust him. She looked down at the wounded and saw his blood pooling on the stone of her doorstep and urged the man forward.
He approached warily, as though assessing his risk in doing so. He stopped within arm's reach of her, looking down at the broken body crumpled upon the earth. She spoke quickly, and knew she sounded worried. "Please sir.....I must get him inside and I cannot carry him up the stairs. He will die if I leave him here."
He turned as if he would leave, but she reached out a hand desperately and grabbed his arm gently. "Please...I will pay you for your help. There is no one else." Her heart pounded, having just admitted that she was alone. To her relief, the man nodded abruptly and hoisted the wounded young man up in his arms with ease, bundling him over the doorstep like a sack of potatoes. With her new patient's fretful moans, she fussed and begged her helper to be careful. She led him up the stairs, amidst the helper's mutterings about foolish women, lawless towns, shadowy secrets and ruffians. She fretted as he put the wounded man upon the bed in the spare room, but was pleasantly surprised at his gentleness. She cast a troubled gaze at the wounded, bleeding man, anxious to get to work. His bright blood poured out of him, over her bright white woolen counterpane and onto the freshly swept floor. Wringing her hands, she wanted to urge her helper out, anxious to have her front door standing open at night, and anxious to have this unknown man in her home. She watched him as he stared at the wounded man's face quizically.
She tried a subtle hint. "Thank you for your assistance. He may live due to your help, but I must tend him right away. I'd like to pay you for your time, so if you'll just come with me, Mr......." She dropped off, realizing that she didn't know his name.
He spared her a vague glance. "William...my name's William. And you'd best put this one back out in the street, Miss." He plucked an emblem from the young wounded man's clothing. He waved it at her...she didn't recognize it. "It's the Ravenclaws symbol, Lady. A gang, don't you understand? He'll be likely to stab you in the back, quite literally."
She frowned, entranced by the growing image of red blood on her white bedspread and she knew she sounded tart in her reply, but she needed to get working! "Well, he won't be stabbing anybody in the condition he's in! Now if you'll just let me get to work, I shall decide for myself who will be treated in my own clinic." She was instantly penitent and gave him a wan smile. "I'm sorry, William. I'm just tense and worried for this man, as you may imagine. Now, if you please to come with me....."
He came with her patiently, refusing her money. With a smile that almost seemed soft and a firm admonition to lock her door and to discuss her new patient with Lord Ogrek's watch (whoever that was..she did not know) the next day, he left her clinic, closing the door behind him. She fastened the locks quickly and darted up the stairs.
She drew a deep breath when she spied the paleness of the young man's face. Turning his head gingerly, she cringed at the obvious head wound. Probing with gentle fingers, she located several broken bones throughout the body, not the least of which were at least two broken ribs. Soaking up the excess blood around the open abrasions..and there were so many.....she bandaged him tightly with the long linen strips she had just rolled so tidily during her workday. The blood ceased to flow after a half hour or so. She bathed the blood gently from his face. There was intense bruising at the temple on the one side of his head. Sweet heaven, what had he been struck with? And furthermore, who had left him at her door? The man was nearly dead.
She jumped suddenly as he moaned and struck out at the air in his sleep. His swing was weak and he hit nothing, but she knew he was fretful with the pain. Neither death nor unconsciousness had given him sweet relief from the agony he must be feeling. She mixed him a thin liquid with sedative properties, and got more of it on his shirt than into his stomach. Having gotten as much into him as she could and having cleaned the worst of the blood
from his body, bandaging the most dangerous of the wounds, she sat on the floor by his side. She propped him up slightly, afraid for the swelling that was beginning to appear at the side of his head. Very dangerous! He murmured in his sleep, rather than moaning. The sedative must be working. She remembered something her mother had told her....that no matter what condition a person's body was in, some part of their spirit could still feel kindness. Compassion alone kept some people alive.
Bearing this in mind, she lay her soft hand gently across his brow and leaned close to his ear to whisper. "You needn't be afraid any longer. I will look after you......" She didn't know his name. She took the Ravenclaw symbol and tossed it aside into the corner of the room.
Grabbing ice compresses from the downstairs storage, she lay them across his brow and down the side of his swollen head in hopes to reduce the swelling there. She would wrap his ribs tomorrow, when she was certain his bleeding had stopped. She pulled a rocking chair to the side of his bed and turned up the lantern. She would not leave his room this night. Examining his face, she imagined it without the wounds. He's rather handsome....she thought silently. Like Prince charming in a child's story. She reached over and placed her hand gently over his, that she may feel it if he tried to move or get up in his delirium. Drowsing off lightly, she murmured, "Sleep, now.....let me keep the dragons at bay tonight."
Lying deep within the shadows of the city, the guildmaster's office was sparsely decorated and dominated by a large mahogany desk, behind which sat a tall leather chair, the only one in sight. Although guests were received here, they weren't made to feel welcome, and never encouraged to stay for very long, not that they would want to. Maps of the city, excruciatingly detailed, hung on the walls. Most portrayed the city's current state, but a handful, obtained quietly from government offices, projected future designs both above ground and below. Well-thumbed copies of the city's laws and treaties sat tucked away on a shelf, awaiting further perusal should the need arise. Locked cases flanked the walls, holding copies of the guild's ledgers that required frequent reference, the rest being sealed away from prying eyes in a private and more secure chamber.
A dark scowl lit the face of the room's soul occupant as he sat on the corner of the desk, holding a faceted crystal sphere in a gloved hand. Giacomo had left the crystal as a way of summoning him. In his annoying style, the demon had also left a limerick. Like so much magic, Striker was sure that the rhyme was totally unnecessary. The crystal flashed steadily his grip, confirming his suspicions. As the flashes grew brighter and more erratic, the floor before the guildmaster's feet began to turn and distort, finally forming itself into a door. Striker tried not to groan. The room was marked by three visible exits and still the demon had to create another.
The door solidified and opened with a notable creek, mist spilling from its gaping maw and rolling over onto the floor as Giacomo rose from the space below. Grim-faced and pallid, the demon locked eyes with Striker and intoned in a deep, booming voice. "You rang?"
It was needless display, the kind designed to send children and the weak of heart scurrying away to safety. Within the heart of the guild, it had no effect, and if Giacomo expected a reaction he was sorely disappointed when Striker barely looked up at him and answered without expression. "You're late."
The demon took note of Striker's injuries, a wicked grin spreading across his false elfin features. "And you've been visiting the Raven again. So what's your point?"
He longed to spring from the desk, grab the dagger at his side, and drive his point into the demon's throat, but he was bound by the contract and the demon hadn't yet exhausted his usefulness. "My point is, you're late, you've been out of communication, and you're getting careless."
Giacomo shrugged and began to rifle absently through the papers on Striker's desk as he addressed the statement without concern or curiosity. "I got here as quickly as I could. I warned you I'd be underground for a while, and as for being careless, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Think," Striker began, staring coldly at the demon and resisting the urge to remove the papers from his sight, "I know it's difficult for you, but think hard. Have you lost anything?"
Giacomo looked sharply back up at the grim-faced figure. "Why, yes," he began in mock seriousness, "I have, and of all the things I've lost I'd have to say it's my mind I miss the most. Was that what you were going for? Ha, ha. Do me favor, will you? Don't try to be funny. It doesn't suit you." He straightened and puffed out his chest in pride, "Leave humor to us professionals."
Striker had dealt with demons before, an unfortunate hazard of his profession. They were sordid, vile, loathsome, and evil on an unimaginable scale, but they were generally sane and few had any desire to masquerade as demented comics of questionable talent. "Professional what?" he asked dryly, against his better judgment.
"Jester, entertainer, accountant ..... take your pick," the demon answered, juggling two paperweights and an hourglass that had previously rested on Striker's desk as he smiled broadly in self-amusement.
"I'd rather not," the other answered, swiping the hourglass from the air and taking some degree of satisfaction in watching the demon's smile fade into a scowl. "You weren't hired in that capacity."
"Fine," the demon pouted, resting the paperweights back on the desktop. "Not that I don't love coming here, but did you interrupt my beauty sleep for something other than idle chit chat?"
Striker leaned back against the desk and folded his arms across his chest, "You're going to have to put in a few decades if you want to see any improvement on that front."
"Ha ha," the demon answered through a dark frown, upset at having allowed his opponent that opportunity, and surprised that he had taken it. "That's two in a row. You must have a dreadful headache with your mind working overtime like that."
"Yes, it does get tiring having to think for both of us. Not that I don't love your company, but if you'd managed to exercise even a scintilla of intelligence, we wouldn't be having this conversation. So, try again. Have you lost anything?"
Giacomo's face darkened with a sneer. If it weren't for the careful drawing of an artful contract, their mutual employer would be looking for a new guildmaster. But like it or not, he was bound by the instrument and stuck with this humorless intermediary who shrugged off his jokes and whose personality was a grey as his eyes. "Awwww, what's the matter," he tried again with a mocking frown, "wake up alone again? And to answer your question, no, I haven't lost anything of importance."
"Well then, can you explain how a dec, your dec, wound up in the hands of a ranger?"
He shrugged dismissively and went back to rifling through the papers which he had strewn across the desk. "Lost it playing fetch with Gerere?"
This was taking too long, and Striker's patience with the creature was starting to wear thin. Slamming a hand down over the papers, he looked squarely at the demon, contempt ringing clear in his eyes and voice. "And a ranger just happened to pick it up? That's a bit too convenient. Try again."
The demon looked annoyed at being questioned, but was pleased to have provoked at least a small response from his adversary, and he decided to continue in the same vein. "Used it to make change at some shop? Oh darn there is a hole in my pocket? Wait, now I remember! Eowyn and I eloped and I gave it to her as a wedding gift. Please let me know if any of these comes close to what you're looking for."
"What?" he asked, with the last explanation, then shook his head in regret, nearly having stepped into the demon's trap. "I find it hard to believe that even you could be so careless and half-witted. So if you're done joking, could you attempt to be serious for one moment?"
"Sure!" Giacomo answered, grinning wickedly, "I'm always will to try that kinky stuff. So, what do I have to do? Does being 'serious' call for tight fitting leather and flame red hair?" The smile grew impossibly broader as he momentarily shifted into Quaralyn's form and took a step closer to the guildmaster before fading back to his "normal" appearance when the man failed to respond.
Striker resisted the urge to grab the demon by the throat and crush the life from his new host. It would be satisfying, but the pleasure would be short-lived. He'd seen first hand that the destruction of a host had little effect on the demon, merely inconveniencing him until he found another, and Striker didn't care for the idea of the demon picking a new host from within the guild. His jaw tightened as he held both his breath and his hand, and he turned his head and pushed off the desk, refusing to give the demon the further satisfaction of seeing the anger in his face. He walked slowly around and took a seat behind the desk, leaning back in the chair and propping his feet on the desktop before looking at the demon over templed fingers and asking for the last time. "How do you think you lost it?"
Giacomo smiled inwardly. The last quip had worked and he was pleased at having found a small chink within the wall of ice. He filed it away for later use as he considered the question seriously for the first time. "Eowyn must have taken it. She's the only one who was close enough."
It sounded like a serious response, but with the demon, it was hard to tell. The name was familiar. Actually, there were few people within the city that the guild didn't know something about, and close friends of High Justice merited extra attention. Still, this one remained largely an unknown factor, there being more rumor and myth than actual substance in the information they'd been able to gather thus far. It was probably another of the demon's jokes, and though he hated to play into the creature's hands, he couldn't take the chance that Giacomo wasn't, for once, being serious. "Eowyn stole it," he repeated slowly with undisguised skepticism. "And just why would she do that?" An answer spun in the back of his mind, a horrible answer he didn't want to face, and so he instead asked the question of the demon, hoping he would provide a different response. "She planning on showing up and collecting a favor?"
"Oh, nothing like that," Giacomo answered, waiving off the guildmaster's concern with one hand while the other hand toyed with the hourglass, "She's just trying to kill me before our wedding."
He stared blankly at the demon, "That's very amusing. I think we need to come to an understanding on the meaning of the word 'serious.' Would you like to try again?"
Giacomo flipped the hourglass over, and smiled ominously, taking a deep breath before he spoke. "Ok, now let me know if any of these words are too big for you. Eowyn is one of my blood and kind."
"You've been using that personae too long," Striker interrupted without concern. "It's starting to affect you. You're not really an elf, remember?"
Giacomo's face twisted into an expression of annoyance, but he continued in his explanation. "Neither is she. And as I was saying, I've asked for her hand. Now she has to try to kill me. See? Nothing for you to worry about."
"I see," Striker nodded, less convinced than before. "And is she allowed to enlist assistance in this endeavor?"
"Oh, of course. Why? Want to help?" He smiled eagerly, seeing a chance to void both the contract and the guildmaster in one strike.
A wisp of a smile rose on the other's lips and reflected darkly in his eyes. "Nice try."
The demon looked honestly disappointed with the response, and he shuffled like small child caught in a lie, "Oh well, can't blame me for trying can you? Is that all you wanted? I have playmates elsewhere I have to attend to."
"Go," he said waiving the creature away like the pest he was, certain that he was more eager for the demon to leave than his "playmates" were for him to return.
Not one for long good-byes, the demon stepped back over the door he had created as it began to swirl in a growing mist. His features faded and swirled as well, but before he disappeared completely he gave Striker a wave and a wink. "Till next you seek my company, ye knight of darkness."
Quaralyn made it back to the guild without event, and managed to wind her way through the complex and to the door of Striker's office without being noticed. The guild was generally well lit, but she kept to whatever dark corners she could find, having little desire to be seen by anyone and less desire to be seen by the one she was actually going to meet. There were neither guards nor pages posted outside the guildmaster's main door, and she raised a brow even as she sighed. It wasn't a good sign. He was either in a black mood or he was expecting someone, or possibly both, and she steeled herself as she reached for the door. Her fingers brushed against the metal of the handle, then froze in place. Someone else was inside the office.
Leaning closer to the door and straining an ear, she could make out most of the conversation. It was the demon, and they were talking about the dec. "Eowyn must have taken it," Giacomo finally offered in a tone more serious than his usual banter. Quaralyn struggled to keep silent, knowing that the demon's revelation could have far reaching repercussions. Striker would be less than thrilled to learn that a personal friend of the High Justice was taking an interest in guild activity, and given her recent luck, she feared she'd be sent to investigate.
She was pondering the dangers of such an investigation when she heard the demon speak again. "Till next you seek my company, ye knight of darkness," he stated in farewell, pompous, overstated, and entirely unnecessary, like everything about the demon. This wasn't going to improve Striker's mood, as if anything ever did. Taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, she turned the handle of the door and stepped into the guildmaster's office.
A tangible cloud of madness hung heavily in the room, confirming a meeting with the demon. Striker was seated, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped atop his desk. His normally grim expression was even more dour in the wake of the demon's departure and it made her wonder if she should leave and return at another time. Given her message, however, it scarcely made a difference, and she resolved to tell him now. He didn't look up as she closed the door behind her, lost in a thought his face didn't show, and she made her way to stand before his desk with a slow gait and a hint of trepidation never before seen in her step. Had his mind not been preoccupied, Striker might have recognized it as pain, but her hair hung loosely about her shoulders and fell across her face, concealing her eyes and the look they held.
She expected him to look up at her, to say something, but he sat silent in the chair, his fingers templed and his chin tucked low to his chest. Maybe leaving wasn't such a bad idea after all. She was about to turn and implement that new plan when he whispered a single word, "Well?"
She'd thought long and hard on the way back to the guild about what she would say. She'd considered several options, but standing alone before the sullen figure of the guildmaster, none of them were particularly appealing. Weighing her options one last time, she straightened her shoulders, wincing slightly even as she did so, and answered without explanation or excuse. "I lost him."
Striker turned to look at her fully for the first time, realizing that behind the loose tendrils of hair, her face was smeared with blood which still ran fresh from a deep cut just under her cheek, highlighting a frailty of the flesh he hadn't seen before. "You lost him?" he asked, dropping his feet quietly to the floor, then rising to walk around to the front of the desk.
She struggled to maintain her confidence as he approached, finding it more difficult now that his eyes were focused on her, and she found herself wishing that he would go back to staring at the wall and allow her to leave. She had made her decision, however, and now had no choice but to accept the consequences of her actions. But that didn't mean she had to tell the truth. She was fluent in the tongue of deception, a longtime student and now artisan of misdirection, and lies fell softly from her lips with the crystal ring of truth. It was useful skill—one that had saved her life many times in the past—and one that she hoped would save her now. "Someone caught me from behind."
It was a matter-of-fact statement, an explanation rather than an excuse. The distinction was small, but to Striker's mind, important, and he watched her closely for any sign of change as he rounded the corner of the desk. He didn't see any ...... not then, and not when he stopped to stand before her. He stood at least a half a foot taller, and she winced again as she turned gingerly to face him, tilting her chin upward to meet his gaze. It was a look she'd seen him use before, but not with her ..... a predatory look that conveyed a feeling of utter insignificance to the one held within its grasp, as if they might vanish in a breathless, sanguine flicker, and exist henceforth only as a terror-filled speculation in the cowering minds of the obedient.
She'd looked into the face of death many times, staring down a soulless foe that had taken countless before her; but it had never held her like this, like prey beneath the talons of the hawk. She stood frozen, unaware of the seconds that fell unslowed through the hourglass atop the desk. For her, time had stopped and there was only a crushing, endless now that held her in an ever-tightening grip. Somewhere, some part of her knew she simply had to wait it out, that the gaze would pass; but that part of her wasn't in control. Almost against her will she heard herself speaking again. "It must have been his friend from the roof."
Her last word had barely faded when Striker pulled back a hand and let it fly towards her face in a rare moment of uncontrolled rage. She didn't shrink, and her eyes remained locked with his, unable to break free from the withering gaze and returning a stare that held a power of its own. Through the blood and grime encrusting her face, she looked at once both piteous and resolute, and the pain that cut through her eyes sparked a feeling of guilt in a long dead conscience. Guided by the unfamiliar sense, the hand turned before it struck, and swept instead across the desk. Papers, touched by the hand of the demon, flew like wind-strewn leaves, and the hourglass went reeling towards the back wall.
The timepiece shattered as it smashed into the stone, showering them both with bits of sand and glass. She gasped slightly with the impact and turned her face as the shards flashed across her skin. She wasn't the only one to react. A door on the east wall flew open, the solid thump of wood slamming against stone following quickly in wake of the shattering glass, and a guard rushed in with sword in hand. He stood riveted in place, scouring the room for any sign of threat, and woefully unprepared to face the true danger pulsing therein. His eyes widened in surprise as they settled on Quaralyn's injuries and Striker's rage, and he left in hushed relief when the latter waived him away. The door closed quietly behind him, sealing the office like a tomb.
Alone again, Striker ran a gloved hand through his hair as he turned back to face Quaralyn, surveying her injuries and trying to regain control of an anger generally held in check. She had been badly hurt. In addition to the wound on her face, her clothing was cut and torn, and partially-crusting blood covered most of the exposed skin, blending with the dark hue of the leather even as other wounds spread slowly beneath it. Judging by her stance, he'd wager that she sported a few broken bones as well.
He shook his head quietly. With their collective cuts and contusions they looked like a matched pair. It was almost humorous, but humor rarely crept into the heart of the guild, or its master; and there was no room for it now as the sudden fury he didn't understand faded into a low-burning anger that smoldered in his narrowing eyes. "Get out," he whispered in a low and harsh tone, turning away from her and crossing to the other side of the desk.
She didn't wait to be told twice, and turned guardedly to leave, her step still slow and careful. Though his head was downcast over the desk, he watched her as she left, grey eyes peering silently over the now-tattered edges of a handful of papers. Without looking back, she stretched her hand, her left hand, toward the far door, her sword arm hanging limply by her side. The use wasn't lost on Striker, and he added quietly as she turned the handle, "Find one of the healers, and keep quiet."
The next morning, the healer awoke sitting upon the floor, her head laying at the side of the patient's bed, her hand still over his, as though she were frightened he would die without a lifeline. She sat up and peered out the window. It was now just dawn, and the sky was pink and golden. She stretched her back and rubbed her neck with a frown. She left the room and came back with fresh ice compresses for his head. The swelling was greatly reduced, hopefully reducing the pressure on his brain. She was worried still, and wished he would wake. As she changed his bandages again, she thought of the strange emblem that had been found on the man's body. If he was indeed part of a violent gang, should he not be turned over to some sort of law enforcement group? She frowned....if they took him now, he would do very poorly. He wouldn't be looked after at all in some cell. Still, maybe this man was no criminal; perhaps he had family and friends who were missing him, worrying about him since last night. Just one more night....then I will find out to whom I should report this man's condition. She fretted quietly as she peeled away the bloodied, torn clothing from his body and discarded it. With some careful maneuvering, she was able to get the bloodied spread from beneath his body, leaving him laying only on the fitted bedsheet, with very little to garb him. The room was cool so early in the morning, and she brought the quilt from her own bed to cover him with, knowing it would be soft for him, and warm.
She lifted just the side of the quilt to reexamine his abdominal area. There were broken ribs here, sure enough. The bruising was severe here as well. She probed softly. Three ribs broken? Not good. She would wrap those ribs, so that his movement wouldn't dislodge a broken bone. Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes, born of exhaustion and concern. Who could commit such a violent act? By the fourth or fifth blow to his body, the man never could have defended himself, yet the blows continued to rain down, if the state of his body was any indication. Such wanton cruelty.....she shivered slightly. She smiled sadly at him and lay a soft hand on his cheek. A bit of color was returning to his skin, though not in huge amounts. She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. "What's your name, Prince Charming," she asked with a smile, "and who is worrying for you this morning?"
She stood and went to her own room knowing she looked a fright, with her dress covered in his blood, and her hair a tangle from sleeping in a chair all night. Having attired herself properly, she went to unlock the clinic door and put a sign on the counter with a little bell that might be used to get her attention upstairs. It was not yet safe to leave her patient alone.
On a whim, she grabbed one of her favorite storybooks. It would be good for him to hear a voice, something to draw him from the murkiness of his battered consciousness. She pulled up the rocking chair again, and sat down beside him. She opened to the first page, hoping that he wouldn't someday wake up and think she was just as crazy as a bat for reading him a story. She chuckled at the thought and began, her voice lilting softly in the early silence of dawn.
"St. Agnes' Eve- Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers was a-cold; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, and silent was the flock in woolly fold......"
((Edited from Character interaction))
Cymbyliene sat at his side, reading quietly to him as he slept. She worried that he would not wake at all. Headwounds could do that to a man, even the strongest, and they simply died, drifting out of life in their sleep. She glanced up at him and then back down at her book. She continued to read to him quietly.
".....at length burst in the argent revelry with plume, tiara, and all array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily in youth. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' eve, Young maids might have visions of delight, and soft adorings from their loves receive upon the middle of the night."
She stopped to turn a page and check his breathing. She lay gentle fingers over his brow and murmured softly. "Hanging in there..." She gave him a woried look and sat back in her chair.
She continued softly. "If ceremonies they did aright, as supperless to bed they must retire, and couch themselves, lily white, and not look behind or sideways, but pray to heaven...."
She heard his voice break in, hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Require of heaven for all they desire."
She looked up quickly and stood, letting the book slide from her lap to the floor, forgotten. She knelt at this side and looked at him in wonder and relief. "You are awake!"
One eye fluttered open. "Awake?" he asked, confused. "What...where am I?"
She heaved a sigh of relief. "You are in my clinic...you are very badly hurt. You've been unconscious for many many hours." She took the compress from his head.
He tried feebly to rise. "Clinic? What happened?"
She placed gentle hands on his shoulders and held him back a little bit. "Please..do not try to get up. All I can see is that someone hurt you terribly. A fight, maybe." She cast a troubled gaze at his face. "You do not remember?" She tugged the side of the quilt upward to examine his midsection. She probed gently at his ribs with her fingers and murmured, "I just need to check your brusing here...." she looked back up at him. "Do you remember your name?"
He surrendered to her gentle ministrations. "Remember...." His brow furrowed. "No. Just flashes."
She took his hand, surreptitiously checking his pulse which felt more regular and strong. "You were left on my doorstep last night....like this. Worse, actually." She gave him a wan smile. "I've worked on you a bit."
He smiled weakly. "An angel of mercy?"
She gave him a soft smile. "My name is Cymbyliene. I just moved into Stormpoint..and I set up this clinic." She let go of his hand with a twinge of regret and moved her attention to his head wound. She was relieved to see no additional bruising at the temple. "You've been a part of some bad business."
He struggled, trying to find his own name to give in return, but in vain. "I...I remember a game...and a game within a game."
"Do you remember if you have anyone special that I should notify of your condition? Family, friends....a wife maybe?"
"I was with someone...." He tried to rise again. "He is in trouble. I think I have to help."
"No, please!" She placed the restraining hands on him again. "If you get up you could puncture your lungs or heaven knows what else with those broken ribs. I have to wrap them, Prince Charming." She grinned playfully. "That's what I decided your name would be until you told me otherwise."
He groaned, holding his side. "I cannot imagine I was too charming unconscious."
She grabbed some long strips of linen from the bureau and returned to him. She murmured, "You look like someone in a storybook I used to have." She blushed, realizing she was prattling on at this poor wounded man. "It was silly, I know. But I was awake all night with you, and I get fanciful without sleep."
He smiled. "So it was your voice I kept hearing?"
She turned a smile to him. "That was me. I hoped you would hear."
"Thank you then. That kept me anchored to this life."
She looked at him a moment, very touched, then unrolled her long linen bandages. "Now....you're going to have to help me just a wee bit. I'm going to prop you up a little so I can get the bandages under you. But you will have to help."
He looked at her. "I would ask if this is going to hurt, but I believe I already know the answer."
She offered her arm, anchoring the other to the head of the bed to help him pull upward. "I'm sorry, it will. But we will hurry." She paused and instructed him. "Now, when you're ready, push with your feet and I will guide you up."
He took a long breath. "Ready." He did as she asked, biting down on his lip, but making no sound. She guided him higher on the pillows, and was pleased that he was still strong enough to do most of the work on his own. She released his arm and let him settle gently onto the pillows.
She sat on the edge of the bed. "That must have hurt...but you were quiet anyway." She folded the quilt down to his waist quietly.
He nodded, wiping a small trickle of blood from his lip. "I am a warrior."
She begain to roll the fabric strips around the trunk of his body. "Any weaker person would have died that first night." She looked up at him and then back down, winding the strips around again.
He looked thoughtful. "At least I believe I am a warrior. I can picture a staff made of metal.
She rolled the bandage around and over, then back under, again and again, wrapping him tightly. "A staff? For fighting then." She got quiet and continued her work. "I'm making this very tight, to prevent you from dislodging a broken rib." She looked over in the corner, where she had tossed the discarded Ravenclaw emblem.
He grimaced, but his vision seemed to focus in the distance. "Yes, I can picture a small man at a large building of some type. He is teaching me how to use the staff."
She smiled. "An older memory, it sounds like." She finished off the wrappings and tied the end. She looked at him seriously. "I want you to understand something."
His eyes met hers as her voice called him back from the past, as she had from the grave.
She went on. "It's going to be a few days before you are going to be able to walk out of here. Unless someone is coming for you, a friend or family member...you will be with me for a little while longer."
He nodded. "And it seems I owe you a debt. One I may never be able to repay."
She lay her hand upon his. "How about this....I'll be very gratified if you promise not to try to get up or run out of here before it is safe to do so. And..." she smiled, "When you remember your name, share it with me."
He lifted her hand with his and placed it over his heart. "You have my word on both."
She gazed at him a moment, his warmth flooding her. She flushed slightly, and smiled. She disengaged herself from him gently, regretfully. "I'm going to get you something....a tea. I'll be right back." She stepped backward toward the door and dashed down the stairs. Rustling and sounds of great activity are heard below for several minutes.
He stared at the door from which she had left. Somewhere he remembered a promise he had made to another. A promise he had failed to keep. He mentally noted to himself as she returned, ~~Not this time~~
She reappeared with a steaming mug and a tray. Setting it beside him on a stand, she smiled. "This tea has lavender, mint and comfrey root. Will you try it for me?" She took the mug up into her hands expectantly. She blew on it a little to cool its steaminess. "This will replenish some fluids that you lost, and I put honey in it for you." She gave him a winning smile.
He sipped from it as she brought it to his lips. It was sweet to taste, and burned slightly as it went down, but he continued to drink, emptying the cup. "Thank you again, Cymbyliene."
She put the mug aside, pleased to hear him speak her name. "We will try some toast later." She paused and looked at him uncertainly. "I want to show you something."
He watched her curiously. "What?"
She stood and went to the corner, bending to retrieve the strange emblem from the floor. She sat again on his bed and held it up for him to see. "Do you recognize this?"
As the medallion caught the light, his face hardened in recognition. "Ravenclaw."
She put it down, seeing his expression, and murmured, "It was found on your person when you were left with me."
"I am not a Ravenclaw." He said with more confidence than he felt.
She tossed it aside. "Of course not. I don't know much about them....except that you could never be one of them." She paused and gave him a worried look. "You may have people looking for you. If you wish, I will report your situation to whoever is the law enforcement of this town. They may know you, or know if someone has reported you missing."
"NO!" he exclaimed, instantly regretting his outburst. "I am sorry." She blinked at him in surprise and he went on. "It is hard to explain, but I know I left someone in risk. Until I can put all the pieces together, I can not risk that there may be something...not quite on the up and up with what I do, or did."
She was silently relieved that no one would interrupt his recovery just yet. Not so soon! She nodded. "Very well. You have my silence." She smiled tenatively. "And I guess I have you all to myself for now."
He smiled back. "Not that I can be much help at the moment."
"I desire nothing but your good company.....and that you do something for me." She pulled out a small flask of milky liquid.
"You have but to ask, Milady."
She beamed at him. "I want you to sleep without too much pain....good solid sleep. This will help." She swirled the liquid in the vial.
He took it and emptied the vial in a single swallow. "Thank you again for everything, my angel of mercy."
She lay a gentle hand on his cheek with a soft smile. "Rest easy now...I will look after you." She watched him a few moments as his eyes drifted closed and tucked the quilt around his shoulders snugly.
Late afternoon passed quickly, and Cym had a couple of hours to tidy the store and herself while her nameless patient slept. Finding her storeroom sadly empty, she thought perhaps to purchase some supplies. The young girl Margaret who swept and dusted for her several times a week would be coming within minutes. Cym had found her huddled in an alleyway near the taverns that could be found lining the docks. Apparently, Margaret's mother worked in one of the taverns....Cym decided not to ask what she did for a living. But a tavern was no place for girl of twelve to work, and she needed money, so Cym brought her to the shop. She was neat handed and minded her own chores. With the girl's arrival, she thought she could probably step out for a few minutes. Before too long, the door creaked open and Cymbyliene stepped out from her workroom to see the slender girl standing there, right on time.
"Good afternoon, Margaret." She smiled at the girl. "I need to step out a few moments to purchase some supplies. While I'm gone, you may continue your chores, but please keep the door locked. I'll come back in with my key. Don't open the door for anybody."
The girl nodded. "Miss Cymbyliene....is there anything here that someone may want to steal?" The girl's brow wrinkled into a concerned frown.
Cym bit her lip a moment and gave a reassuring smile. "Let's just say that someone may find something precious here, and may wish to take it from me. So keep the door locked....and just clean the first floor today. I have the upstairs taken care of."
Margaret was quick to comply, and Cym was glad. She didn't want even the girl to know of her patient upstairs. Something was frightening about the circumstances of his delivery to her, and she was unsure yet what to think of it all.
Gauging the length of time she had left before sunset, she stepped out onto Merchant's Row. She still wanted to get into Eowyn's shoppe...she would do that soon. But she needed food. One of the bakeries should be just a couple of stores down the way. In fact....William who had helped her the night that her patient had been brought in looked to have come from this bakery. She decided to stop in and thank him for his help. She drew up short in front of an empty bakery. The sign was not even hanging out front. She frowned and stepped up on the porch, peering in the front window. No one was there. William was gone.....whether he had packed up and ridden out of town, or sailed, or something more unusual, she did not know. She realized she did not want to know.
Her heart pounded a bit harder as she realized he was the only one who had witnessed the wounded man's delivery to her clinic; the only one except herself and the one who had brought him to her......she was suddenly frightened. Hurrying to the other bakery across the street, she purchased her items quickly and ran all the way back to her own shop, heart pounding in her ears.
As she pulled the key from her pocket to open the door, a shining object caught her eye. She looked down at the ground, beside the porch. What is that? she wondered and stepped back down. Leaning down, she gathered it up in her hand. It looked like a bronze, slender rod of some kind...maybe four inches long or so. She frowned and studied it. The sun was setting, casting reddish hues over the street. She hurried to open the door. Margaret needed to get back before dark too. She shooed the girl out with a honeyed piece of bread, some coins and a smile, locking the door behind her. She pulled all of the shades and extinguished the lamps.
She took off her jacket and studied it again a moment before climbing the stairs up to the spare room...she had come to think of it as his.....taking the bronze object with her. Perhaps he would know what it was.
She lay a gentle hand on his cheek with a soft smile. "Rest easy now...I will look after you." She watched him a few moments as his eyes drifted closed and tucked the quilt around his shoulders snugly.
Marcus was unaware as the healer left the room. In the beginning it seemed that rest would be blissfully quiet that was...until...the dream began. Flashes of the past...lost faces, events, growing up in the small hamlet with his sisters and brother under the loving gaze of their parents. Marcus' recovering memory flashed though years at a time, only to freeze on certain images - playing streamside, festivals, the day he was accepted as the smith's apprentice, and meeting his future wife. The dream time began to slow and condense until finally settling on the interior of a church, it was their betrothal ceremony. They stood aside holding hands as the priest and parents discussed, dowry, dates, and traditions. Her name was Kaylana, her hair was the color of the sun, eyes that of the sky, a gentle face, and a kind heart.
The small Hamlet was engrossed with the upcoming marriage that very few took notice when word ceased coming from the lawless kingdoms across the border, or when the harbinger of death embodied in a stranger shrouded in darkness took a room at the Tavern. A few spoke out against this new comer, most notably Marcus' younger brother Kelvin. But the stranger was peaceful, had kept to himself, and his gold was good so few paid any mind to the warnings.
It was the day of the house raising that it all changed. As tradition held, the entire hamlet came out and built the home for the future couple. No one noticed the undead Raven messenger on the stranger's window sill. The men gathered at the tavern to celebrate a hard days work...never realizing that this would be their last celebration.
Marcus's sleep became fitful as his dreamself left the tavern, determined on seeing his beloved before retiring for the night. A short distance away from the revelry, Kelvin called his brother into the shadows beyond the lantern light. In hushed, hurried whispers, Kelvin told how he had seen the stranger slip out earlier that evening and had followed after him, only to lose him in the darkness near the graveyard. Certain that evil was being done, Kelvin pleaded with Marcus to come and put a stop to whatever was afoot. Marcus refused to be drug into the foolishness that his younger brother had embraced. Kelvin grabbed Marcus' arm as he turned to leave, telling him to think of Kaylana. Perhaps it was the drink that affected Marcus as he struck his younger brother, sending Kelvin to the ground.
"Grow up, and quit chasing ghosts." The cold words echoed in Marcus' dream as they did that cold night he left his brother laying on the ground. Soft moans lightly drifted throughout the clinic as his rest became more troubled. Almost against his will, Marcus' dream continued, and he saw himself heading towards his beloved's home. There the happy lovers talked of a future that was not to be. On the clinic bed Marcus struggled to awaken as if he could prevent what has already occurred. Marcus and Kaylana kissed for the last time and he retired home.
Hours later the sound of screams filled the night. Marcus rushed outside to join his father into a scene of utter chaos. Fighting was everywhere, the whole hamlet had come under attack. Marcus wondered how the raiders had so taken them so completely by surprise. Raiders were not uncommon in this area, and the hamlet consently on guard against them. The odd raiders themselves drew attention, moving in a slow jerky fashion, attacking without concern for themselves, even taking wounds that should be fatal and still coming. The true nature and horror came when one step toward Marcus entering the weak torch light. White lifeless eyes, pallid sickly green skin, black icor oozing from various wounds, and a face..... oh God a face he knew. Jordona a farmer who had died of the fever less the a month ago now stumbled toward him teeth bared hands reaching for Marcus. ~~Zombie~~ The word echoed in Marcus thoughts as his blade scored taking the creature's arm, and still it came forward. As the death cold hand touched him, Marcus panicked and began wildly hacking into the zombie until it ceased to move. Breathing heavy, Marcus stared down at the still twitching remains in shock till his father voice brought him back to reality.The staggering corpses that filled the darkness all around them cared little who they attacked- men, women, even children, it mattered not. The two men fought and protected their family and friends who were able to join them, as they made their way toward the hamlet's heart.
The surprise of the attack had passed, and the town's folk rallied in the town center. They were doing the unthinkable, abandoning their homes and livelihoods to the these rotting undead. Men held the zombies at bay while their loved one were loaded in quick gathered wagons. After seeing to his Mother and sisters safely Marcus caught his Father's eye with an unspoken question. A simple nod and Marcus was off searching for Kaylana among the jumbled wagons. Minutes seemed endless has Marcus' desperation grew and threatened to consume him until atlast he found his beloved. She had already lost most of her family to the undead and could not find the others. Kaylana weeped as they embraced clutching on to Marcus as if he would disappear any moment. Marcus held her just as tightly as he lead her to where his family was waiting. Marcus kissed her gently and promised that everything would be alright and he lifted her into the wagon.
That's when he heard the chanting for the first time, spinning in place Marcus saw the dark robed stranger standing among the zombies. Marcus opened his mouth to scream a warning as the stranger finished the spell, and a line of defenders disappeared into a ball of flame. The cry died in his throat as he watched in stunned silence as the zombies, directed by the necromancer now, poured into the gap created by the fireball. A familiar voice cut through the chaos, his Mother's scream drew his attention to his Father. His Father simply stood there dropping his arms to his side as a zombie stumbled from the shadows toward him. Marcus began to charge forward to protect his Father, but was to late as the thing lunged forward and bore his Father to the ground, burying it's teeth into his neck. Marcus blood froze in his veins as his brother Kelvin's blood covered face rose form his Father's fallen form. Marcus locked eyes with the cold lifeless orbs searching for any spark of the life that had been his brother. Unaware that he is even moving Marcus backed away from the zombie, and all the unwanted memories embodied in that pallid face. The earlier scene with his Brother played over and over again in Marcus' mind. ~~If I had listened. If I had gone with him. I could have prevent this all. ~~ Guilt and despair threaten to overwhelm Marcus until Kaylana's voice reached his ears. The wagon was already moving pass two or three others already burning as Kaylana called to him. To Marcus her face was a shining light from heaven admist a sea of all consuming darkness. Marcus rushed toward the wagon and Kaylana set upon reaching the salvation which lies there in her arms. Mere steps away another of the Necromancer's fireballs struck Kaylana's wagon. Her face disappeared behind a wall of flames as the force of the explosion lifted Marcus high into the air. Marcus crashed into a wall and crumpled like a rag doll behind a toppled stack of barrels. Unconsicence claimed Marcus' dreamself as the raging sound of a world being destroyed fell into a deathly silence that lasted until a gaulented hand reached form him.
Marcus shot up in the clinic's bed a cold sweat covering his body. Marcus' healing ribs screamed in protest at the sudden movement and doubled him over in pain. The physical pain could hardly compare to the agony of having relived the lost of everything that he held dear a second time. Marcus curled in to a ball and weeped as the first rays of morning began to shown through the window.
Cymbyliene had seen her patient off to sleep before slipping away quietly to her room down the short hallway. It was strange to have another life in the house with her at night; strange and nice, despite the bad circumstance that had brought him here. Still, he was out of danger, and her body had gone weak with relief when he opened his eyes and spoke to her.
Closing the curtains in her room, she went and lit a candle in each of the four corners of her room, giving it warmth against the strange chilled feeling that seemed to be in her blood tonight. She shook her head at her own silly musings, and knew that it was the strange circumstance of this patient's situation that had unsettled her. She was exhausted from sleeping in a chair at his side these past several nights, but wished somehow that she were still there. She knew he needed rest to heal, and did not know how she would explain her intrustion anyway.
She dressed in a soft gown for sleeping, settling down in her lavender scented bedding with a grateful sigh. She should have filled his room with lavender too, for relaxation and sleep, but she chuckled at the thought, having met no man yet who liked a floral scent lingering in his room. With a sigh, Cymbyliene opened the book on her bedside table. A Compendium of Essential Herbs and Oils; she found it tedious and tossed it aside, gathering up instead a novel. Filled with princesses, and knights competing for their Ladies' favor, it gave her an empty bit of melancholy inside. She closed it quietly.
Her heart skipped a little as she heard a soft, restless, moaning sound. Grabbing up a heavy vase to weild as a weapon, she crept, heart pounding to her bedroom door. A quick inspection in the hallway told her that it was her patient, restlessly crying out in his sleep. She opened the door quietly and slipped inside.
She knelt at his bedside and looked at him sorrowfully. A nightmare....she had had many of her own. She did her best to lift the covers without waking him, ascertaining that he was not bleeding more, and had not opened his wounds. She thought to try to wake him, but the elixir she had given him to sleep was very strong, and her attempts to wake him would probably frighten him more than comfort. A tear slid down her cheek at the anguished expression on his face. And she did not even know his name in order to try to soothe him with soft words.
The dreams always came when a body was wounded near to the point of death. And this man had lost his memory too......she thought that he was getting some of it back, by means of pain and restless dreams. She went to her room and gathered her own lavender scented quilt, covering him with it. On his bedstand, she lit candles for him, to chase away the shadows in his heart. With only the softest touch to his brow, she slipped out of his room and left him to his dignity and privacy. All she could do was wait for morning, and for his storms to pass.
((From character interaction))
Cymbyliene knocked on his door softly, to see if he was yet awake. Already alert and standing by the window, he answered her, "Cymbyliene?"
She opened the door just a crack. "Yes, it's me...and you're awake." She smiled. "Are you decent?"
He chuckled. "Yes, even though I do need new clothes."
"I can have that arranged," she said and opened the door fully. She looked shocked. "You're standing up!"
He smiled. "And very sore. But thanks to you, I will recover, my angel of mercy."
She fought a smile. "I don't know if you should be moving around so much....." she looked at him. "But you do look much better. How does your head feel?"
"Foggy still. I am starting to get pieces back here and there..mostly long ago."
She approached and offered her hand. "Want to take a walk? Just down the hall...for a little snack."
He smiled and took her hand. "Please! I am famished."
She led him carefully through the little doorwaty to her own living quarters, past her room to the small, cozy dining area.
He spoke quietly as they walked. "I don't have any family left."
She looked at him, surprised. "No one at all?"
He looked down. "No. They were all lost in a war somewhere."
She murmured softly. "I'm sorry to hear that." She squeezed his hand gently in silent support.
He looked up, catching her gaze with his own, searching there for something, then simply nodded. "Thank you." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze in return.
Having arrived at the dining area, she pulled out a chair for him to sit. He smiled. "Now what kind of gentleman do you take me for?" He moved to pull out a chair for her.
She laughed. "I take you for a wounded gentleman.......but you are clearly getting better." She sat down and arranged her skirts. "Thank you." She uncovered bowls of stew for both of them. "I hope you like stew?"
He smirked. "Well, since chewing hurts, I love stew."
She smiled. "Good. I was hoping you would like it. I have soft new bread too." She poured him a glass of water.
He set himself to eating. "So who was the girl downstairs? Your daughter?"
She shook her head. "No, I have no children. She is a girl I employ several days a week. She needed a safe place to spend time, and I needed somehelp." She smiled. "I found her by the docks...I have heard it is not a safe place for children to linger. Her name is Margaret." She took a sip of water.
"Rescuing more strays?" He took a mouthful of stew.
She ate a little bit of bread. "I imagine I must seem rather odd to you."
"No, you don't. The exact opposite; you seem very right. I wish people had half the caring you do." He took another spoonful.
"That's all I know how to do....I mean, since I was a girl." She grinned. "And I do have my mean moments as well. I can be very ornery." She laughed a bit.
He smiled. "I consider myself warned."
She looked at him a moment. "You know, I consider it a good sign that you are beginning to remember things." She looked at the fading bruise on his temple and then back at her stew."
He began to feel self conscious as he filled his bowl a second time, and put it aside. "Yes, it is. I still have so may holes and questions." He shook his head. "Enough about me. How did you come into the calling?"
She noted the pause in his actions and wanted him to eat well. "Before I tell you that...do me a favor and eat a bit more for me." She took another spoonful of her own stew and gave him a winning smile. "Please?"
He smiled in return and began to listen to the calling of his recovering body.
She frowned into her bowl, trying to think of a way to get the discussion away from her own history. She looked up suddenly. "I found something outside....something unusual. Maybe you could tell me what it is?" She stood and went to her bedside stand retrieving the small bronze object.
He quickly swallowed a mouthful of stew. "I'll give it a try."
She returned to her seat and held it out to show him. "What do you think it could be?"
He stared at it blankly and spoke in a small voice. "It's mine. Where did you find it?"
Her brow wrinkled in thought. "Just outside the door....next to where you were lying."
He reached out for it slowly, as if it would disappear when he touched it. "I don't know how to thank you. It is irreplaceable."
She smiled, very pleased, and placed it in his hand. "I am so glad I found it there. The real thanks probably goes to whoever brought you to my door....I think." She frowned briefly, her mind still troubled.
He took it and stood up from the table, stepping away with a limp still visible. He gave it an almost imperceptible twist, causing it to extend to its full length of nearly eight feet. He stared at it. "The man who brought me here to this city gave me this."
She watched quietly, with wide eyes.
He continued, "I...I serve him. I can picture his face but no name." His frustration was displayed upon his face as he struggled to break through whatever barriers barred him from his precious memories.
She tried to encourage him. "You're actually doing very well......"
"But it is so close!" he said. "I can almost reach out and touch it, just to watch it slip mockingly out of reach again."
She said softly, "I have heard it said that if you chase something too hard, you will run forever. Try to relax, and I think you will remember a bit at a time. I know it must be very difficult....."
He collapsed the staff back to its compact size. "Yes, it is."
"I cannot claim to know how it feels...but you must celebrate the small victories. I would like to help where I may."
He walked back to the table and lay his hand upon hers. "You have already helped more than you can ever know."
She studied his face quietly a moment, her heart speeding with the warmth of his touch, before looking away modestly. "I wish I had a name by which to address you."
He smiled. "Why don't you give me one until I canf ind my own? Prince Charming does seem kind of formal."
She laughed playfully. "Do you have a favorite? Perhaps you are an Edward, or a Frederick." She grinned at him. "How about Eustace?"
He wrinkled his nose. "Eustace?"
She laughed, pleased with herself. "I am but teasing you. I can wait until you remember."
He smiled a bit rougishly. "As you wish. How about just Charming until then?"
She smiled and nodded. "It suits you." She stood and dropped into a graceful curtsy. "Pleased to meet you, Charming."
He bowed and kissed her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Milady Cymbyliene."
She rose and smiled. "Now, what would you like to do next?"
He considered a moment. "Well, we have dinner out of the way. How about a wild night out on the town, dancing till dawn?"
She chuckled. "You had better not make such nice offers, or I will hold you to them."
He laughed. "True. I might have a few days before I am ready for a wild night out."
She considered. "We could take a short walk outside, but you may be seen."
He frowned, grim faced. "Yes. I am not quite ready for surprises yet."
She had a sudden thought. "I have a secret place I could bring you....." she smiled compellingly.
He nodded. "Please. I could use the fresh air."
She walked over to a small door in the west wall and opened it with a gentle push. "These stairs go to the roof....I have a small herb garden. Do you want to see it?"
His smile was wide. "Wild horses could not stop me."
She smiled and offered her hand, eager for an excuse to touch him again.
Emerging on the roof with "Charming", Cym looked around. The night was cloudy, leaving frothy looking trails around the moon. The air was unusually balmy for so late in the season. She smiled at him and got them both seated in chairs near the herb garden she had begun to grow in her little hideout. She had never thought to share this place with anyone...but somehow the magic of it seemed perfect to share with him.
She peered at him for long moments under cover of darkness, and wondered what secret memories hid behind his dark eyes. She was glad he hadn't called attention when she had directed the conversation away from her own personal history. It wasn't that she wouldn't tell him......she was shocked to realize she would probably tell him anything he wanted to know. But she didn't want to talk about Havenwood, or Cullin, or the night she had to run away...... not now. She realized she had been gazing at him far too long and hoped he did not notice. She dropped her eyes away modestly. The sounds of the city night seemed far below them, with just the tops of buildings and spires and towers all around them.
She smiled at him and waved her little poetry book, reminding him she had promised to read him the poem from which she had derived the clinic's name. Encouraged by his eager smile, she flipped through the pages to find it and began to read softly.
She continued to read softly to him, and was pleased to see him relaxed and looking comfortable. Soon, she would suggest they retire. But not yet...just a few more moments with him. Just a few.
Atop the roof, a third set of eyes, small and black, cut sharp through the shadows. They had focused first on the healer as she stepped out into the tiny haven she had created within the city she now called home. They had never seen her before, but they knew her just the same. They shifted quickly, however, when her guest, the ranger followed. This one, they had seen; and they were looking for him. They stayed long enough to hear the healer's story, long enough to be sure, then leapt from the roof, disappearing with a soft rustle of feathers.
Having completed its task, the raven cut silently through the night air, winging its way over the rooftops of the merchants' district before swooping into the open window of one building that stood perhaps a few feet taller than the rest. The window disappeared as the bird entered, and the creature came to rest on a gilded perch set atop an almost barren desk. Aside from the perch, the desk boasted only a mirror which held the pensive reflection of an elven woman of indeterminate age, her dark hair framing a silvery pale face. She smiled distractedly as the bird landed, and reached out a hand to it, smoothing its ebony feathers with long, slender fingers.
"So he's at the clinic after all," she said, more for her own benefit than for that of the bird. But the bird cawed in response, and she gave it a reassuring scratch and a handful of wild seeds before rising from her chair at the desk. The room around her might have been a library, judging from the bookshelves that lined the walls. It was equally likely, however, to be a half dozen other things depending upon her needs, but for now its name and its use weren't important save as a place of quiet seclusion--a sanctuary different perhaps, but in many ways similar to the one the raven had just left.
The woman clutched her arms about her frame as she crossed the darkened room. The gesture made her look somehow smaller than she actually was, as if she was more shadow than substance. The appearance was heightened by the silence that fell in the place of each footstep. At the desk, the bird pecked happily at the seed. It was accustomed to its mistress' eccentricities, and rarely bothered by her moods.
Shrouded in quiet contemplation, the woman crossed the room in seventeen even steps. Each one carried a different thought, only some of which were reflected upon her drawn features. Her arms were still wrapped tightly about her frame and the fingers of her right hand were drumming steadily against her side in a manner which would have suggested to those few that knew her well that she was considering a second trip across the floor. She decided against it, settling instead into a well-worn leather chair that lounged before a fire which had long ago dwindled down to gently glowing embers. She hadn't realized she was cold until then. The hours she had spent waiting for the raven's return had been so silent that she wasn't aware of their passing, and hadn't noticed the fire. It probably wouldn't have made it difference, but it helped to think that it might.
She shivered with a deeply tired chill while the embers burned brighter. In a moment, they sparked, then sputtered, then burst into new flames, leaving the elven woman to her silent musings as they settled down to a comfortable height and began to crackle softly. A cat, previously asleep before the hearth, stirred from its slumber with the sudden rise of heat. Its eyes opened languidly, revealing twin yellow orbs that contained a permanent mixture of contentment, disdain, affection, annoyance, mischief, and several equally troublesome expressions. It enjoyed them all, and wore each with equal skill. Pausing only long enough for a tremendous yawn and stretch, the cat padded silently to its mistress' chair and jumped into her lap, seeking neither permission nor invitation. It wasted no time in making itself comfortable, and hovered gently in that place just above sleep as a pale hand absently ran through its fur, evoking a soft rumbling purr in response.
"Curious," the woman said finally, frowning as she considered the possible reasons for the ranger's failure to emerge from the clinic, and his corresponding failure to alert anyone, even Calo, to his presence. She toyed with the possibilities, turning them this way and that as she tried to find the one that best fit the facts she held. It didn't take too terribly long. Indeed, the cat was still awake as she settled upon it. Only one explanation fit all the facts--well, two perhaps but she didn't want to consider the other--and if she was correct, it boded well in many respects. She was about to rise and test her theory, and she shifted in the chair to place her feet upon the floor. The movement, however, prompted a look of reproach from a pair of bright yellow eyes sitting above a set of long black whiskers.
She smiled, but heeded the warning, and settled back into the chair, soothing the cat once again with more attentive hand. It was still dark outside. Too late to visit the clinic, or perhaps too early. The clock on the wall had stopped some time ago and she had been too preoccupied to wind it. Never mind. If she was right, the ranger wasn't going anywhere and she could visit later--perhaps tomorrow, or the next day. There was time. Satisfied for now, she closed her eyes and listened to the steady crackle of the flames and the gentle purr of the cat, hoping for a sleep she knew wouldn't come.
Continue to part four.