Breaking the Line (Main Plot)

[Angmor]

Well, here he was, back in the action again. It was strange, really. He had been in this position hundreds of times in his comparatively short life. On the eve of a big operation, unsupported, and of course vitally urgent to the Varden's war effort. Yes, he was no stranger to these sorts of things.

And yet, this time, everything was different.

It had only been three weeks ago that his life had taken a violent turn that horrible, wonderful morning in Dras-Leona. After that terrible trial, of his wits, of his strength, of his resolve, he had at long last achieved what he had first set out to do all those long six years ago. He had saved his friend, his brother, from the man and the Empire that had destroyed them both. Of course, it wasn't all smooth sailing from there. Once the little party of four had finally stumbled into Aberon, Taraak had had a lot of explaining to do.
That was definitely the most interesting debrief in my entire career...

[/Color] he thought to himself, smiling at the thought. Of course, after that, Torska had to submit to a mind-scan, and to be questioned, and questioned, and questioned some more. After all, Torska had up until that point been the greatest agent of the Spearshadow organization, the bane of Varden supporters everywhere. Even Taraak was surprised how many missions he had completed, from sabotage to information intercept to, of course, assassination. Even in the over-manned Empire, Torska had been kept almost as busy as Taraak was.
Of course, Torska wasn't the only reason things were different. Calia and River had also come to Aberon.
He had friends now. Not acquaintances, not dead, not people who valued him simply for his skill, but genuine fire-hardened friends. It was... strange, no longer being alone. Because he was their sole connection to the Varden, Taraak had been assigned full responsibility for Calia and River both, and while Torska was on his lengthy talks with Varden interrogators, he would show them about the city, answering their many questions about the Varden and Surda. Taraak well remembered being in that situation, cast away from everything he knew, and tried to handle them with all the stalwart patience that Frunor had for him.

But of course, in the Varden, a spy's work was never done.
The attack on Feinster had of course been a long time in coming, but with the winter fogs setting in, Nasuada deemed it the perfect time to move. Normally, this would not involve Taraak or any other spy. After all, they were information gatherers, not line soldiers. At least, he had thought so until he had been briefed on the job that needed doing. As it turned out, they had it from reliable sources, namely, Rider Kyemen Straethir. That three powerful magicians had placed great binding and stopping spells on the already formidable gates of Feinster. Hundreds, if not thousands of lives could be spent breaching them, even with the Riders devoting their full attention to undoing the spells. Of course, as with all things, it had a major weakness. As with all gates, it could be opened from the inside.

The sound of a scuffle somewhere behind him pulled him sharply back to the present. He whirled around, reaching for his knife. The sight that greeted him was rather a strange one. His young companion was standing about four feet away, holding an even younger boy in a stout headlock with one arm, the other being used to immobilize the younger's right hand, a hand that was clenching a small leather purse. At first glance, the situation was simple. Taraak's companion had caught the boy trying to pick his pocket. If that was the case, the young thief's lookout would probably be moving in to assist... Even as he thought it, a hefty young man materialized out of the fog, fist raised... Bielsko must have heard it, for before Taraak could open his mouth in warning, he released his hold on the pickpocket and spun around, his fist smashing into the side of his attacker's jaw even as he did. Just as quickly as it began, it was finished, the pickpocket and his lookout vanishing into back into the fog.
Bielsko watched them go, Straightening his tunic. "I'm sorry about that." He said, speaking for only the fifth time since Taraak had met him.
"What for?"
"Well, I didn't see him coming..."
"But you saw him going." Taraak cut him off, turning and starting again toward the objective, shivering slightly in the damp cold. He had found that his usual black cloak was insufficient to keep out the full winter cold, and was now wearing a fur-lined coat that came down to his shins. Dark colored, of course. "That was good reflexes. And you did well to remember that pickpockets don't often work alone."
The boy fell into step just behind him, sticking his hands in his pockets like any city lout.
"I suppose I needn't have bothered. This purse is filled with rocks, I just use it as part of the disguise. I would never keep any real money in such a visible place."
Despite his best efforts, Taraak couldn't help but smile. "Smart lad."

Once again, he went over all that he knew of the youngest member of his team. It wasn't all that much.
Bielsko had been born in Farthen Dur, and drawn the Varden's attention with his talent for stealth and slight of hand. Apparently, he had been quite the terror of the kitchens in his early years; no cooling pie or misplaced apple was safe from him. If he wasn't mistaken, it had only been seven months since the Varden had first offered him the chance to be a spy, but he had taken to the training like a bird to the air. And despite his comparative inexperience, he had been one of the first to volunteer for this venture.
Yes, Taraak decided, this was probably the member of the strange team that he was worried about the least. After so little time training, Bielsko had most likely picked up very few bad habits that he would need to correct, and he did not seem to possess a hard-headed belief that he knew everything. The others however, Taraak wasn't so sure about. Of course he recognized that he couldn't do it alone, but to put him in charge? He had never been a leader of groups, or even for that matter a member of groups. Yet again he lamented Nasuada's decision not to let Torska come along. He was sure that the two of them could easily accomplish the mission. It was just the sort of operation they were trained together for. But no, Torska had been assigned to the extraction team that was even now hiding themselves in the slums through which he and Bielsko were now traversing. This team's job was to rush in and help hold the gate after Taraak's team had opened it, preventing the city's defenders to immediately close them again. And before that, they could conveniently keep an eye on "The Imperial" as most of them had dubbed Torska, to make sure he didn't wander off and warn the city of its danger. It was a test of loyalty, the first of many.
Taraak admitted that it made sense, but in the mean time he was stuck leading a group of random volunteers of whom he hadn't the slightest idea what to expect. The urge to slam his head against something hard was very strong.
As they neared the gates however, the feeling vanished, buried under the focus of an upcoming mission. He had a job to do, and he would do it. No matter what the difficulties. No matter what the cost.

They were by far not the only ones entering the city. He and Bielsko now mingled with a large stream of people that had been growing in density as they neared the gates, refugees from the farms and hamlets that lay between the Varden and the city. After about half an hour of trudging along with the crowd, the reason for the delay became instantly apparent, making Taraak feel half-dressed without the comforting weight of his bow and quiver strapped to his back. At the threshold of the gate, each member of the crowd was being herded through one of five checkpoints and searched by three guards stationed at each, plus a larger squad for carts and other wheeled vehicles. Beside each checkpoint was a hefty wooden table, which were piled with the items that he suspected had been confiscated from the travelers. Mostly weapons, as far as he could see. That made sense; if the city was about to come under siege, weapons would be the first thing soldiers would stockpile. He was now very glad he kept his weapon safely hidden in its arm sheath under his sleeve. He would rather have hated to have Frunor's knife taken from him after all this time simply because some gate guards had told him to hand it over. He hoped the others had thought of it as well. He knew there was no shortage of personalized weapons among the Varden.

Before he could think any more on the question, he and his young companion were hustled before three bored looking guards.
"What's your business in Feinster one of them asked in a ritual drone. They had already agreed beforehand that Taraak would be the one to do the talking, which he did.
"My cousin and I are coming from Feintun south of here. I am keeper of records there, and the boy is my assistant."
The soldier gestured that they both take off their bulging rucksacks and hand them to him. "And your name?"
"Soleus." He said, trying not to think of the last time he had used that name as he handed over his pack. "And he is Ilar." He finished, passing Bielsko's pack along with his own. This is where things got a bit tricky. If they looked too hard at the contents of their packs...
But no, he told himself that he worried too much. They had only taken a cursory inspection of all the people before them, so why would they start being thorough now? He hoped desperately that he was right.
The soldier handed both sacks to the one that Taraak knew to be his superior by the markings on his helmet, who set them on a relatively clear patch of the table and opened the drawstring tops roughly.
"Books?"
Taraak nodded. "Aye. Keeper of records, remember?"
The imperial captain probed around the leather-bound volumes in Bielsko's pack as if he was searching the gullet of a large animal that had just eaten his purse. An expression of satisfaction spread across his face after a moment, and he pulled forth a small, simply made dagger. "All weapons are being appropriated in defense of the city. This is now confiscated." He intoned, tossing it on the pile before handing them their sacks. "Move along then. Maybe you can make a record of how the Varden got their scuts kicked."
"I hope to." Taraak said, smiling while he took note of the confidence. The people here obviously had a lot of faith in the spelled gate. That would be unfortunate for them.

At last they were inside the city. Taraak breathed in deeply, savoring the start of an operation in earnest.
"That was easier than I thought it would be." Commented Bielsko, snugging his pack.
"That wasn't bad at all." He responded, looking over his shoulder to commit the layout to his eidetic memory. "But if they're confiscating weapons, it might make trouble for some of the others who like to take in the heavier gear." But they would have to be the ones to worry about that. For now, it was time to head for the rendezvous point and prepare for their arrival.

. . .

It wasn't at all a bad place to hole up.
The safehouse had been arranged by a man named Kealti, who was to be their contact in the underground should they have need of any more assets. The safehouse itself was about the same as most of the ones Taraak had seen in his long experience with them. It had probably started life as a warehouse, large, single-leveled building in a bustling financial district. However, sometime earlier the underground had acquired the building and made it into an inconspicuous dwelling in an area where many comings and goings would not be unusual. The cavernous main chamber was divided in half by a partition wall. The first room was the largest, a sort of a sitting or planning room littered with cast off tables and chairs, to be rearranged at the convenience of the occupants. The second of the rooms was filled with bunks and low cots, on which where rather lumpy looking straw pallets. After a cursory inspection, Taraak decided that he could feel fairly safe here. There was many hidden exits and bolt holes leading out all sides of the building, and even a roof access if an enemy somehow got enough men to completely surround the place, and could be defended very easily if need be. It was safe enough, in fact, that he decided to snatch some precious sleep before the rest of the team arrived.
‘I’m just going to shut my eyes for a bit.” He told Bielsko, letting his bulky satchel thump to the floor as he lowered himself onto one of the pallets. “Wake me when some of the others get here.” With that, he pulled the long coat tighter around himself and shut his eyes. Just before he dropped off moments later, he decided it wasn’t a bad way for an operation to begin…[/size][/blockquote]

[Ze Flying Wraithetti Monstress]

I was beginning to think I had the horrifying condition known medically as ‘Lizard Lips’.

I’d been standing out in this bloody cold for so long that the slightest movement of my lips made them crack open like a pair of burnt sausages. Licking them didn’t help, either- all it did was get rid of the blood. All I could really do about them was to hate the fact that Nasuada had decided to attack Feinster in the dead of winter. It was a massive operation- the Varden’s group would be sneaking into the city while an extraction team waited just outside the gates in the slums outside of the city. The plan was to destroy all the magical barriers on the gates that Feinster had recently sacrificed several townsfolk to make. Many people- including me- had been enlisted to pry apart the spells so the Varden’s main force could relatively safely get in. However, it wasn’t going as silently as Nasuada had hoped. A little Imperial birdie caught wind of the operation and went blabbing to the Empire. Several members of the Tribunal had promptly been dispatched to stop the Varden’s efforts- including me. I was haphazardly stuck on two sides of the same operation.

And I had no clue whose side I was going to take.

“Look at those lazy bastards,” Dumuzi snarled beside me, breaking off my thoughts. “The Varden’s slipping through ‘em like butter.”

I was standing on one of the turrets on top of Feinster’s forty-foot wall with Dumuzi and Yuri, two other spies in the Tribunal. Even from this height, I could see that the guards working at the checkpoints down by the gates weren’t trying too hard anymore, which the Varden was counting on. Several hours earlier, when they’d first started out, they’d scrutinized everyone from head to toe, deliberately taking apart bags to check what was inside. When the group of people waiting to be let in had piled up, though, and hours had trickled by without a single arrest, they’d started severely slacking. Bored, I ran my good hand through my hair, which I’d left unbound. Thankfully, I hadn’t needed to get all dolled up for this operation. Below a heavy hooded fur cloak to keep out the cold, I was wearing plain black leather with my sabre resting against my hip, as well as a sack full of any amenities I might need. I’d left my artificial iron hand gloveless. It rested, half curled into a fist, on the wall. My right hand, though, as always, had a thick leather glove covering up the marking on my palm.

“Well, what’ll you do about it, Dumuzi?” sighed Yuri. As compared to the bull-necked, massive hulk of meat that Dumuzi was, Yuri looked like a little boy. And he sort of was, being only a young trainee. He was short, gangly, in his late teens, and had constellations of pimples that were actually almost fascinating to look at. “The soldiers said they don’t want us messing around with their job.”
It was true. In fact, if the guards even figured out we were up here, they’d likely shoot us down with some of the confiscated bows. We continued peering down at the gates for some time, but when nothing interesting happened, Dumuzi grumbled, “Well, we’d better go see Tyrus. The Varden should be making their move soon.”

The three of us wordlessly made the descent down the wall. Tyrus, who’d been appointed the mission leader, was expecting us right around now so we could get on with a plan for hunting down the Varden’s hidey hole. Of course, I knew where it was- Warehouse #143, right near the gate. Come to think of it, I was supposed to meet my team over there right about now as well. The realization almost made me rub my temples in frustration. Nasuada regularly allowed me some slack for the sake of upholding my good standing with the Empire- a murdered Surdan merchant or a stolen Varden document or two kept me under Galbatorix’s radar. Nasuada was good like that. I had to admit that I even liked her, a little. However, I seriously doubted she’d forgive me betraying the Varden now, and I didn’t doubt she would be likely to dish out some revenge. At the same time, Tyrus would be keeping his eyes wide open for any possible traitors. The only solution to my dilemma, it seemed, was to help out both the Varden and Empire.

Tyrus was waiting for us just inside the gate. There were ten Tribunals working this operation, and most of them had already assembled by the time I got there. The debriefing was pretty basic- we would be split into five pairs in order to comb the surrounding area for the Varden. It had been done before, and successfully. I was partnered with Yuri. Lucky me. Ten minutes later, we were released. Yuri hurried after me as I did my best to walk in a dignified way- or, at least as dignified as the snow would let me. The freezing cold was not helping me think, and I was going to have to get rid of Yuri in a convincing way if I wanted to meet up with the Varden. The snow was so deep that it went past my fur-lined boots, and my lips were already in a despicable state. Pulling my heavy fur cloak closer around myself, I tried to ignore Yuri’s heavy breathing.

“Cold out, isn’t it, Rem?” he said after a few minutes. Rem. I rolled my eyes. Typical Yuri, assuming he was friends with everyone. He was nice enough, I supposed, but far too naïve for his own good. As for his intelligence… well, if brains were bananas, it was pretty easy to say that there would be a lot of skinny monkeys scraping around the inside of Yuri’s skull.
I just grunted in response. I wasn’t in a conversational mood. “Cold.”
Yuri wiped a runny green globule off the end of his nose and wiped it on a snow-laden tree when he passed it. For the sake of courtesy, I pretended not to notice. “You think the Varden’s hiding around here?”
I looked up from moodily glaring at the ground, and noticed that we were surrounded by several dark buildings. I looked at the numbers. 141, 142, 143. I had led Yuri right to the Varden’s safehouse. And if I turned back now, even he would be suspicious. I looked around, and decided to make for the warehouse at the very end of the street, as far away as possible from #143. It even had a dim light shining from the windows, so with any luck, someone would be inside. I really hated not being able to plan things out. Moving towards it, I called over my shoulder, “Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”

It seemed to be satisfactory enough to shut him up. I crept towards the warehouse, automatically slipping into stealth mode. The streets were empty, as far as I could tell, but you never knew what was lurking around. Being very careful to move with the shadows, I approached the building, pulling Yuri in behind me. If there was no one inside, or if it was full of soldiers, I would be royally screwed. I touched the door, and, seeing that it had a lock on it, I reached for the magic in my mind and uttered a spell that would unlock the mechanism. It clicked open. Gingerly, I pushed the door open and peered inside. The warehouse was full of foodstuffs like beets, rutabagas, and other vegetables, probably stored away for the winter. Cans lined the walls and crates and rope covered the floor. Nobody was inside except for a man at the far end of the room, sitting at a desk and stuffing his face with some salted tomatoes while writing something. What fascinated me, though, was that he was fat as a sow- he was practically spilling out of his chair, and he had one of those big, wobbly necks that jiggled at the slightest movement. It wasn’t the greatest supposed Imperial traitor I could have asked for, but it was something, at least. Without hesitation, I leapt into the room.

“Let’s go, chunky trunks!” I hurtled across the room and gave the man’s chair a kick, tipping it over forward so that his massive chin smashed into the desk. Over his yelp of surprise, I snapped, “I’m gonna teach you about a new invention. It’s called a salad!”
At the insult, he suddenly righted himself and barrelled out of his seat with surprising speed. The papers on his desk were all records, I noticed. He swerved to face me, gasping, “What- do you have written permission-?”
“Yeah, but I accidentally spilled some sauce on it, and you might eat it!” Behind me, I heard the scuff of Yuri’s boots on the floor, and then he somehow ran around to jump at the fat man’s back, pushing him right over onto the desk. He grabbed his arms and forced them over his back, efficiently stopping Fat Boy from moving.
“You really get a kick out of the fat jokes, don’t you?” he coughed.
I smirked. It was more a brief flicker of the lips than a smile, though. “As much as you get a kick out of broth-dipped roast turkey.” It never hurt to be honest with people, after all. But now I had to concentrate on maintaining the ruse for Yuri. I beckoned at the quill the fat man had been using to write with and reached for the magic in my mind again. “Brisingr!” The tip of the quill immediately burst into flame. I picked it up and positioned it over one of the fat man’s eyes. “Now, if you give us what we want, you get to keep your eye. Sound like a deal?”
Over Fat Boy’s squeals of protest, Yuri said, “Wait, not here, Remy! Let’s take him to Tyrus and question him there.” Perfect.
“Good idea, Yuri.” Blowing out the quill, I reached for some of the rope on the floor and used it to tie up Fat Boy’s arms. “You take him to Tyrus and sort him out. I’ll look for anything incriminating.” Yuri opened his mouth to voice a complaint, but I cut him off. “Help Tyrus probe his thoughts if he won’t talk and I’ll join up with you in a while.”
“Okay then, Rem.” He smiled. “Great job.”

I watched him hustle the fatass out, and then allowed a little time to pass to allow him to get away. Excellent. Fat Boy would keep the Tribunal occupied for some time. I looked down at my hands, and decided to cover up my iron hand. I didn’t want to unnecessarily freak out my team at the very first impression. It wasn’t the prettiest sight in the world- a jagged, remotely hand-shaped hunk of metal nailed into the white stump of my hand. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my left glove, and used my teeth to yank it on. Then I used the leather thong I was wearing to keep my hair out of my face to tie my hair back in a ponytail. Satisfied, I headed out of the warehouse.

It had started snowing again, so I pulled my hood up as I left the warehouse. I walked past the surrounding buildings, counting down until I reached the proper one. 146, 145, 144, 143. There. It was sitting pretty in the dark, looking nothing out of the ordinary. Sthenno, of course, would have hated it if she’d seen it- anything that wasn’t large and fancy had no appeal to her at all. The memory almost made me smirk. Thankfully, Sthenno wasn’t anywhere near Feinster. She was off robbing from the nomads in the northern plains. Pulling my hood down and shaking off the snow, I approached the massive double doors. I tried the huge handle on one of them, and it opened easily. Cautiously, I stepped inside.

It was surprisingly quaint. There were only two rooms, one of which had little more than a bunch of chairs and tables, and the other, which was full of low bunks. However, the alarmingly large amount of doors made it obvious that it wasn’t any normal house. The sitting room appeared to be empty of people, but the bedroom had two people in it. One was a small, skinny boy sitting on one of the low straw cots, sharpening a knife with a whetstone. He turned sharply when I entered. The other one, though, a remarkably nondescript man, practically leaped into the air when I walked in. He jolted up from his bed and stared at me. For a moment, we just gawked at each other. Then I closed the door behind me, cutting off the wind that had blown in after me, and strode over to the bedroom. I casually set my bag onto one of the cots, then unbuckled my sabre and placed it beside them. I started digging through the bag to find my own whetstone without looking up. I didn’t speak for several moments. But when two minutes trickled by without a word, I sighed, and spoke.

“So… I’m guessing you’re our leader, hmm?” I asked without looking up.

Words;; 2235
Muse;; Nasty at first, but nice at the end!
Thoughts;; It’s okay, methinks. XD[/size]

[Capitan Sinn]

It was cold. Torn hated the cold. That was one reason he lived in Aberon and Teirm, because it was never cold in those places. Torn was well known in Fienster, so he had travel through the gates in a wooden crate. The crate was dark, cramped, and cold, but Torn managed to slip through the extensive search, simply because the guards were lazy and didn’t want to check all of the caravan’s crates. The merchants did what good merchants do. They delivered the crate to the address early in the day, not knowing what was in the crate. He waited for hours for voices, but in the end, fell asleep.

Torn was warm, almost hot. It was Aberon, the sun was setting, people were enjoying a festival below him. Fireworks of different colors exploded above him, obscuring the stars that had started to come out.

“Did I lose you for a moment?” A gentle women’s voice asked. Her caramel skin, dark, intelligent eyes. Isra.

“I had the strangest dream; you died in child-birth, like my mother.”

“For me to die in child-birth I would have to invite you in my bed, I just won’t do that.” Isra said, a grin on her face.

“And I took up the mantle of Goodthief. But, I had a hard time of it. I felt like I let you all down, you, Fox. Everyone.” Torn spoke freely, letting out emotions he had buried through years of alcohol and denial.

Isra’s smile faded. “Are you feeling alright? You seem ill”

The area around him changed, Isra was lying down on a bed, the fire-light made her only more alluring.

“Come back to bed love, this job smells of a trap.”

Torn shook his head, and put on his black cloak.

“Trap or not, I need to do this, for Fox.”

“Fox would tell you to stop being so daft and forget about revenge!”

“I know he would, but I need to do this for him anyway.”

“Godsdamned noble pride! It causes nothing but trouble. You try and hide your birth, but so many can see through it, no matter how good an actor you are!”

The scene changed once again. Torn was being held by three large men, a fourth was blocking his magic, and a fifth was looking at him tauntingly.

“So this is the apprentice to Fox, he obviously wasn’t as good a teacher as he was a thief. You are going to rot in the dungeons. What do you have to say about that, thief?”

Torn stood limply in the guards hands, obviously a broken man. “Nothing.” Torn said as defiantly as possible. He coughed up blood, sweat drenched him. The magician poured more magic into keeping Torn from talking. The fact that he could say even one word aggravated him.

“Then take him away, and hurry, he might die in my presence, that would be the gravest crime he could commit.” The Governor of Teirm left quickly, honestly believing his words. Everything went dark.

“You’re a thief, but you’re still human. Eat this.” A guard helped Torn sit up, he was in a dark cell, and he was handed a bowl of hot soup. The entrapped thief ate greedily, then collapsed into darkness once more.

“The Governor has gone mad, get out now, you will oppose him, and this time, win.” The guard who had helped him while he was sick unlocked the door.

“Leave thief, and go to your woman, unless he kills himself and us all, the Governor will be around when you get back.”

Torn was back in Isra’s house, she was screaming, she was giving birth.

“Torn, hello love, wel-” her sentence broke off into a scream. She screamed once more, and fell silent. A new-born babe wailed.

“The boy is lucky; we nearly lost him with her.” The mid-wife said sagely.

“Then that will be his name, Madoc, for luck.” Torn said numbly. He went to Isra’s bed, and lay beside her until she grew cold. The room fell silent.

“Poor, poor Torn Remus Locke. You don’t pull off daring heists for the thrill, for the money, for the poor. You just have a secret death wish, you want to die, but are too cowardly to take your own life.” Until now the scenes before him were all painful memories, but this was different, this voice wasn’t even one Torn recognized. He saw eyes, poisonous green eyes like his own. But unlike his, they held a bitter hate, a fire that had burnt cold and was yet stronger than ever.

“NO!” Torn awoke, he was still in the wooden crate, cramped from being stuck for hours. He thumped on the side of the crate, hoping that someone would he him, he heard voices.

“Can someone let me out?!” Torn called to the voices, well, this was a great way to start his first official mission with the Varden.

{I rather like this post, it gives one a little more insight into why Torn acts the way he does.}

[Briae]

Two cloaked figures walked casually up the road toward the guarded gate, settling into the short line of people, gathered to enter the city if Feinster.
"We'll split up when we reach the city, right?" The shorter of the two asked.
"I guess. I need to tell uncle that we have arrived then I'll arrange for our accommodations."
Lyria nodded thoughtfully, pulling her heavy cloak tighter around her slim shoulders. The chill winter wind bit cruelly into whoever stood in it's way. Traveling through the dense fog surrounding the city had left Lyria and her companion damp through every layer of clothing, which lent no help to Lyria's already icy body. She would have dried her clothing with magic, but she couldn't risk catching the guard's attention in such an obvious way. Lyria looked back up at her brother, hoping that they would enter the city shortly.

The line seemed to move excruciatingly slowly, as the wind picked up, now carrying small flakes of snow. Lyria was once again reminded how glad she was that their contact, their 'uncle', had agreed to keep their weapons for them until they entered the city. Lyria did feel strangely vulnerable without her bow and knife, even though she could protect herself with magic. Avin, as well, had expressed a certain discomfort because of the lack of his sword. Lyria rarely saw him without it, and he prized it highly. When he handed it over to their 'uncle', Lyria heard him murmur "If there is so much as a scratch on this blade when I get it back..." The poor man must be taking very good care of the weapon.

The siblings inched forward once again, now within feet of the guards. The three people in front of them were allowed into the city at last.
"What is you business in the city?" A guard asked in a monotone, only paying a little attention to the two travelers.
"Hand over your bags." Another ordered, holding out his hand. Lyria obediently shrugged her depleted sack off her shoulders and handed it to the soldier as Avin addressed the first guard.
"My sister and I have traveled from Belatona to visit our uncle in this city." Avin also handed his pack to the second soldier.
"What are your names?" Queried the first guard.
"I am Mernaan and my sister is Shayla."
The soldier apparently believed Avin, for he replied, saying "Alright, Mernaan. You're ready to go in." The other guard handed Lyria and Avin their packs and waved them through.

Lyria and Avin hurried into the city, striding off down a side street that cut behind buildings and shops. They walked without turning until they reached one of the few doors, which Avin knocked on without hesitation.
A low voice sounded through the door. "What do you want?"
Avin winked at Lyria, and said "Uncle, it's us - Mernaan and Shayla. May we come in?"
The voice changed a little, hinting at a slightly more jocular attitude. "Of course, of course." The door opened to reveal a rotund, middle aged man with a dirty blacksmith's apron tied around his ample waist. "Come in, children. I have a present for each of you."

Lyria followed Avin into the small house, happy to get out of the winter wind. The room was sparsely furnished, sporting bedroom necessities and a small shelf with a few books and small keepsakes.
The man closed the door carefully behind the two young travelers, sliding two bolts into place. This time when he spoke, it was with a note of brusqueness and unease. "Now, once you receive your items, you must leave by another exit. I can't have the two of you here, you have already put me in great danger." He opened a chest beside his bed, and drew out a few wrapped bundles. One he handed to Avin, two to Lyria. Both siblings thanked him, and hurried to unwrap their weapons and attach them to their belts. Avin seemed much more comfortable with the familiar weight of his sword at his side, and Lyria also felt better, now that her dagger was within easy reach.

The two thanked the blacksmith again and left by a side exit into another alley. They took their leave of each other there, sheltered from most of the wind by two tall buildings.
"I don't know how long my meeting will take," Avin said "So we're planning on traveling home on our own, right?"
Lyria nodded, adding "Yes, it shouldn't be a problem." Then, giving him a smirk, she teased "Unless you don't want to go alone."
Avin laughed quietly, "No, I think I'll be alright. I should go now, or else I'll be late."
Lyria nodded, smiling faintly. "Okay. I'll meet up with you when we return home. Be safe." Lyria's smile brightened, and she briskly began walking down the alley, leaving her brother to exit on the other side.

The sun had just risen, if Lyria's calculations were correct, because the day had become noticeably brighter in the last few minutes. She couldn't see the sun, however, due to copious cloud cover. The streets Lyria took were increasingly empty as she reached the warehouses, which loomed above her, just another row of uniform gray buildings in the monochromatic morning. She took careful note of the numbers on each building... 140, 141, 142... ah, here it was. 143. It looked like all the rest, which Lyria had expected, but there was a solitary crate sitting by the door. Curious, Lyria approached it, peering closely at it to see if there was any identifying information attached to it. "Hmm..." Lyria murmured "I wonder where this came from. Is it supposed to be here? For us?"

Suddenly, she jumped back as the crate jostled, and shouted "NO!" Something inside it thumped, and Lyria took a step closer. Again, it spoke, and Lyria identified the voice to be decidedly male. "Can someone let me out?" Lyria couldn't stifle her giggling, and she burst out into laughter, obviously provoking the person inside the crate who replied, complaining. "You can laugh at me while I'm out of the crate as much as you can while I'm in it."
Lyria repressed her laughter, and set about prying the crate open with her dagger. "All right, all right." The wooden frame put up a good fight, but once Lyria got a crack in the crate large enough to stick her fingers in, she opened it, with help from the man inside.

When the man unfolded his lanky body from the crate and stood to his full height, Lyria was surprised to see that he stood easily at six feet tall. How in the world did he fit in there? Lyria asked herself, as she further examined the crate's cargo. His long black hair boasted a most unusual silver streak at his left temple, which was not the strangest feature the man possessed. His sickly green eyes surprised her, for she had never seen anyone with that particular color before.
"Why thank you my dear, but how does one so lovely as you end up in this decrepit place?" The man's voice became flattering, with aggravating traces of the tonality one would use with a child.

"I'm here on business." Lyria muttered with a frown. She absolutely hated it when people talked to her in that manner. It was infuriating. Trying to collect the last traces of her calmness, Lyria took a deep breath, then let it out.
"As am I, we must be commrades, allow me to treat you to a fine meal, not here of course, but after we finish with our business."
Slightly appeased, Lyria nodded. "I suppose. My name is Lyria Morele. And yours?"
"Goodthief, at your service; but you may call me Torn." The thief bowed low and grandly, in a manner more befitting an emperor than a scout.
Lyria nodded, following the tall man into Warehouse 143.

The first room of the warehouse-turned-safehouse was filled with tables and chairs which looked to be old, and at first glance, Lyria did not see a single matching set. A flimsy looking wall seperated the large chamber into sections, and seeing no one in the first room, Lyria and Torn looked into the second room. It was lined with bunks and cots, with lumpy straw pallets on the floor. There were no windows, and the only lighting came from a few candles that had been lit around the perifery of the room. What Lyria noticed first, though, were the room's occupants. A man and a boy sat on a cot, facing a... an elf, who stood, sharpening it's bare blade with a whetstone. All three turned to look curiously at the two new arrivals. Lyria stepped into the room tentatively, slightly bowing toward the man, who she recognized from the description she had recieved. "Taraak? My name is Lyria Morele, and this," Lyria indicated Torn "Is Torn Goodthief."




ooc:Disclaimer! Torn's part of the conversation was actually supplied by our very own Captain Seath Sinclaire!
Also, this post is really crappy, so I hope you all don't mind...

[/size]

[Angmor]

…And then pushed him into the water. It was winter, and the water was so cold it felt like being punched in the stomach, a sensation he knew well. A second after he went under, he heard the iron cover above him slam down with a liquid-muffled

clang, trapping him in the darkness. His first human instinct was to panic, and he very nearly did. But before he could open his mouth to yell, dooming himself to drown, his training kicked in and he knew exactly what to do. Forcing his mind to relax, he began kicking out in powerful, calculating strokes, down the submerged tunnel and the freedom he knew was at the far end. The tunnel, he knew, was long. And he knew that, with his lung capacity, he would drown if he did not get to the far end within the next three minutes or so. And so he began the swim for his life.

Without any light to guide him, the rough hewn sides of the passage inflicted small cuts and bruises, but he ignored them. After an eternity, he saw light ahead. At first he thought he was imagining, but it was undeniably growing. Soon he could see it, the other end of the tunnel, curving up and out of sight. He had done it! He was going to make it! The hopeful thought was cut off when his face collided with a cold, hard metal grate. What? He stopped and traced the barrier with his hands, creating a mental picture. He shoved at it, but it did not give in the slightest. He wondered if the trainers who had set up the exercise had missed it, or left it here intentionally. He shook it frantically, but still nothing. So that was it. Four years of potentially deadly training, and he was to die here, alone. He would not be the first. Two of the original fifteen had already died, one during a climbing exercise, one accidentally knifed while sparring. “Weak and useless” Baric had called them, unworthy to be assassins. Feeling oddly calm, he closed his eyes and waited for the end to come.
No.
He did know where the feeling came from, but he suddenly felt unwilling to die, unwilling to fail. It started small at first, but it slowly grew.
No.
He hit the grate with all his might, ignoring the pain it brought to his fist. Almost imperceptibly, he felt the barrier move. He hit it again, with the same result.
No.
He backpedaled a few yards down the tunnel, then used his feet to launch himself at the grate, both fists forward. This time he was sure of it, the grate moved. He did this three more times, and it made a groan of protest. Now there was a fire in his chest, counteracting the icy pressure of the water around him.
No!
He was furious now, furious at the only thing holding him back from his freedom. He did not bother backing up now, he merely hammered at it repeatedly with a closed fist. There was no Spearshadow program, there was no Ferial Baric, and no Brother Assassins. There was only himself, and freedom. And the one thing that stood in his way.
No!
He would not fail. He would Not be another weak and useless case. He would not succumb to death. Finally, with one last effort, the grate broke away from the wall with a clatter. Before it even sank to the bottom of the tunnel, Taraak was through and swimming up the brief vertical shaft that led to the surface. He was almost out of breath now, and he could feel the darkness closing the edge of his vision. But his rage drove him on, lending speed to his strokes. At last, he broke the surface of the water with a gasp, filling his lungs with the coldest, sweetest smelling air he had ever experienced breathing. He barely noticed being hauled out of the water by two pairs of strong arms, dumping him roughly on the snow, all he knew was breathing in and out, an action that he thought he would never take for granted again. Slowly he became aware that his training sergeant was standing over him, ordering him to stand up. Without thinking he struggled to his feet, standing at attention. “Good. You did well.” Baric said at last. Taraak could tell by his voice that he was indeed pleased, and he knew then that the presence of the grate was no accident. At that moment his senses returned to his body, and he realized just how exhausted and cold he was. He instantly started shivering, his wet clothes making the biting wind ten times worse. “Now get to the field. Spar for one hour, then you are dismissed for the day.” Baric was saying. “Yes sarge.” He responded mechanically, turning around and heading for the sparring field. At least three of his fingers were broken, but disobedience would be met with far more pain than that. But he had succeeded. He had won. “Set the grate back up and put the next one through.” He heard faintly from behind him.

He wasn't sure what woke him. He never was. All he knew was that there had been some sound that his subconscious had deemed somewhat threatening and had alerted him. He leapt to his feet, feeling for his knife, momentarily bewildered by his unfamiliar surroundings.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the strangest thing in the strange room; a person he had never seen before. And this person was indeed strange. At first he thought it was a woman, but he had had enough experience with elves to realize that he was looking on a male member of that race. He was about an inch taller than Taraak himself, and between the paleness of his skin and the spindly limbs, he hardly looked like he could walk upright in the face of a stiff wind, much less be of any help on a covert operation. However, Taraak had been thrown into enough walls by elven sparring partners to know that he probably concealed deceptive strength, even if he chose to wield the basket-hilted sabre on his hip instead of blasting his enemies to cinders with magic. They locked gazes for a moment, the spy's emotionless gray eyes to the elf's deep brown ones, and Taraak could immediately tell that he was being sized up and evaluated, and he wondered with mild curiosity if he was being found wanting or not. As if he cared.

Breaking the silent standoff, the elf undid the sheath of his saber and dropped it on the cot beside him, then took off his pack to rummage through it. Taraak spared a glance at Bielsko, who had stopped in mid swipe of his whetstone to stare in bewilderment at the elf's strange behavior. He opened his mouth to say something, but Taraak signaled subtly for him to be silent. This one was just trying to prove that he had some control over the situation, and far be it from him to spoil something that was obviously so important to his self esteem.
This had to be Remy Kamenwati, the elven spy that had been briefed might be here. Taraak had immediately made up his mind not to trust him, and that resolve was renewed now that he had seen the man in person.

From what he knew and had been told since, Taraak knew that this Remy character was a mole within the Empire's counter-intelligence organization, whatever overly menacing and melodramatic name it was choosing to call itself now. To a spy like him, it didn't matter what they called themselves. It was their job to try and stop men like him from operating. Apparently this Remy was a turncoat working within one of them, and supplied the Varden with reliable information whenever he could. The problem for Taraak was that, in order to be an effective mole, Kamenwati had to do at least some legit work for the government he pretended to support, and that meant betraying some of his own side to their deaths. Of course, the Varden let it slide. They had to, if they wanted continued information. Taraak knew and could even understand the reasoning behind it, but after being out in the field himself, having his life quite literally hang on the slender thread of his anonymity, he knew he could never trust someone who betrayed his own comrades. Not with the constant doubt, the question; 'what if he's doing it now? What if I'm the next one he thinks he has to sell out? What is my life worth to him?' It was definitely something he would have to keep an eye on.

At last Kamenwati seemed to think that his point had been made, breaking the relative silence of his sharpening.
“So… I’m guessing you’re our leader, hmm?”
Taraak felt himself bristle, but forced it down before it could show. After all, this man had a point. The Varden had 'officially' made him the leader of this operation, but he knew that such a thing didn't matter much coming from the people that had sent them in more or less without support and completely beyond help. So, he decided for a more phlegmatic approach.
"That depends," He answered. "Will you follow me?" The elf seemed someone taken aback by this, which he found gratifying as he continued.
"I'm good this sort of thing, and I'm willing to take responsibility for the success or failure of this mission. If there's someone else who feels that way and is better at it than me, then he can lead." He didn't bother to keep the challenge out of his voice. He hoped the message was clear enough.
If you want it, have fun. But I won't play your games.

At that moment, the sound of a rusty track being forced into movement sounded through the emptiness of the warehouse, accompanied by a cold draft through the door in the barrier wall. Taraak's first thought was that they were under attack, but he quashed the feeling. Note for future: Never sleep before a major operation. The nightmares make you even more edgy than usual.[/color] He admonished himself. Still, as he brushed past Kamenwati to meet the new arrivals, Bielsko at his heels, he was very aware of the comfortable weight of the knife on his arm.
Two people had entered through the main doors. One was quite obviously a young woman by her small, lithe form. Bundled against the wind as she was, something in Taraak's brain told him that she was pretty, but he immediately dismissed it as Irrelevant for the Mission. His attention was quickly drawn to the way she moved. She glided rather than walked, an effortless grace that defined each step. Immediately he knew that she would be most useful on tasks of stealth and evasion, at getting in quietly and getting out fast. At a pinch she could go grey, become and ordinary person that no one would look twice at, but he guessed that she did not have the mentality for it. Either way, she would be immensely helpful in what was to come. And then his eyes moved to the other one who was currently wrestling the sliding door closed, sizing him up... And stopped. He blinked, looking hard.
No. It can't be. I refuse to believe this.[/Color]
The young woman stopped in front of him, bowing slightly.
"Taraak? My name is Lyria Morele, and this," She gestured to the man, and Taraak braced himself, wishing that he was wrong but knowing perfectly well that he wasn't... "Is Torn Goodthief."

He sighed. Of course, complicated as this whole op was already, the gods of fate and chance or whatever the hell it was couldn't resist throwing in one more curve at him.
There was no possible mistaking it now. The man's face was practically bisected by that same insufferable grin that Taraak knew from that long, strange, horrible night in that Uru-Baen nobleman's house those months ago, when he had come very nearly to his death no less than four times. It was the same laugh, that same totally carefree laugh that he seemed to use just whenever the situation was the least funny. He used it now.
"Well, this is going to be just like old times, eh Sarvis?" He said jovially, using the alias Taraak had used for that night, making yet more questions that would need to be explained to the other members of the team. Taraak was not amused.
"Aye," He shot back. "Hopefully the old times before I almost shot you. What the hell are you doing here? Wait, don't answer that. Wait until the rest arrive, they will probably want to hear it too." At that moment he remembered the others in the room. Morele was still in front of him, looking utterly bewildered after the exchange. He gestured to the scattered furniture. "Well, make yourselves comfortable." He said, taking the nearest chair. It creaked rather alarmingly, but held valiantly. "Bielsko, you mind fetching our satchels? We should probably unpack the gear."[/size][/blockquote]

[Capitan Sinn]

“Hopefully the times before, I almost shot you. What the hell you doing here? Wait, don’t answer that. Wait until the rest arrive, they will want to hear it too.” Taraak said grimly.

Torn couldn’t help but laugh, though he had found out who Sarvis was the same night he met him, Taraak was Sarvis to him. “What am I doing here? I am here for the same reason you are, to serve the Varden, the thieves of Teirm have, on my orders, aligned ourselves with you, a separate faction, on the same side as you. The Varden sent me here because they believe that I could be of great use to you, and perhaps I had glanced at a few documents that allowed me to see where you were currently, and perhaps had donated to a few notables so that I may be sure that you get some use from me.” Torn said in his precise voice that always sounded as if he were on the brink of laughter.

Torn strode purposely to a chair and sat down, knowing he was being watched by everyone, he looked at each face in the room, he would remember the faces for however long he lived, he would remember every detail he could about them, but not for any other reason than he had a feeling he needed to.
The silence had become heavy, thick, almost like there was a spell stopping the others from speaking

“Have I suddenly become an object of interest?” Torn suddenly asked to catch them off guard, to break the spell.

“I have no doubt that your entire life you’ve been an object of interest, Goodthief.” Taraak said in that voice that remembered all.

“I’m sure.” Replied Torn.


Not exactly a novel, but I figured that something to get this going again might help, and it seemed a perfect place to make my return something more than an empty promise, kinda.