If Taraak was to pick a single word to describe his mood at that particular moment, it would have been ‘irked.’ In his mind, this would put him comfortably between ‘angry’ and ‘slightly annoyed,’ and would sum up his feelings on the situation at hand quite nicely. He blew out a quiet breath, adjusting the strap of his shoulderbag as he trudged down the muddy track before him.
Figures.
[/Color] He thought to himself, executing a quick scan of the area to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
I’m the only person I’ve ever heard about who can remember and recall everything he’s ever seen, and this mission would bring me to the only spot in the Empire I can get lost.[/Color]
It just seemed to be that kind of week. Not eight days before, he had been at the ill-fated Peace Summit in Feinster, being very nearly blown up, shot, and reduced to a greasy smear on the face of a rockslide. At that time, he had been pursuing the man who had started the whole thing by dropping the bomb on the proceedings that had made the Varden and the Empire lunge back at each other’s throats. After braving those hazards, he had last caught up to the bomber, only to find the man beheaded at the foot of the outer all of Lady Lorana’s palace, leaving Taraak without a subject to interrogate. Apparently, the man’s former employers had wanted him only on a one-job basis.
For two days after that, acting under the orders of Rider Kyemen Straethir, Taraak had gone about questioning every person who had been within five hundred yards of the summit by the time of the explosion, showing them a
fairth of the bomber on the off chance that anyone knew the face. From the Varden side, the search came up dry. Finally though, he struck paydirt when he interviewed several members of Lady Lorana’s entourage, including Lorana herself. All confirmed the identity of the bomber to be a man named Kirth Felding.
Felding, from all accounts, was an extremely qualified mercenary, hired by Lady Lorana to provide personal security when she went abroad. His employment in the Lady’s house had been an unremarkable one, but he had been well paid. Yes, he had in fact been stationed near the balcony at the time of the explosion, by his own request. There was little else to be gained from them, but for Taraak, putting together the rest of the pieces had been easy. Between the time Felding had come to Feinster and the time of the summit, someone had asked, hired, or coerced the man to drop an explosive device on a peaceful gathering, inflaming the war and effectively cutting off all possibility of the sides working together to defeat the plague that was now sweeping across the land. And then of course, Taraak could only assume that these same people had no longer found Felding useful, and so killed him.
The only question was, who were these people? And how did they gain from breaking up the summit?
It was this that Taraak had made it his mission to find out.
After finally securing permission from his superiors to take a ‘leave of absence’, he had come to Dras-Leona, the traditional stomping ground of criminals, madmen, the desperate.
And mercenaries like Kirth Felding.
It hadn’t taken Taraak long to find people who had heard the name before. He was fairly well-versed in the world of a sword-for-hire, and could sink into the role with little preparation. He had heard from several mercs and tavern owners that Felding’s man haunt had been the Flagon and Sword alehouse, one of the more disreputable places within the lightless depths of the city’s labyrinthine lower districts. Now, with his ability for memory, Taraak was far better with directions than most. He carried within his head detailed maps of almost every city he had entered more than once, and often knew them better than the natives. The probably was Dras-Leona, however, was that there was so
much of it. There was always some new back alley, crumbling building, or tiny cranny waiting to be explored. Apparently, the tavern he was looking for resided in a whole district he had never seen before.
Hence, why he was now lost.
Well, technically that wasn’t true. He knew exactly how to get back. He just didn’t know how to reach the place he wanted to go.
He stood now at a junction of two tiny streets, thinking over his options as he threw off his hood. Even with the district cast into shadow with the onset of night, the heat was still so oppressive that he felt his sweat soaking his tunic beneath the straps of his quiver. And the heat of course did nothing for the smell. The city always smelled somewhat of sewer, but summer made the cloying stench all the worse.
Taraak smiled slightly to himself.
I guess I can thank Ferial Baric today, for a change.[/Color] Much of his training had revolved around creative ways to resist the gag reflex, enough that this smell only served to help keep him alert.
Finally deciding that it was no good standing around here, he picked a direction and set off, hoping to find a reasonably sane soul of whom he could ask directions.
Now, this was a bit easier said than done. Dras-Leona was after all the home of the Helgrind cathedral, base of operations for Alagaesia’s very own demonic death-cult that believed severing one’s limbs was the path to paradise. Taraak had always found this to be a self-defeating argument. All one had to do was look to see that of everything it was, paradise was not it. Much of the street ahead was littered with homeless beggars and waifs, many of whom were missing anything between a lost finger to a severed leg. Most just seemed to sit in the filth and stare off into the ether, eyes glazed over with some sensation that Taraak could not identify. Fear maybe, or pain, or perhaps some drug-induced stupor. But Taraak suspected it ran deeper than that. He shuddered involuntarily, quickening his step a bit. Yes, that had to be it. The sense of complete and utter hopelessness around here was suffocating.
Is this where I would have ended up if the Varden didn’t take me?[/Color] He wondered briefly.
Would this be what I would become if I hadn’t found something to devote my life?[/Color] It was a chillingly intriguing question. One that he hoped would never have an answer.
He continued on for several blocks, not finding anyone or anything that could be remotely helpful to his search. He was about to give it up and head back to his inn to begin again in the morning when finally he turned a corner, finding himself in the most open space he had come across since entering the district. It was a small plaza, formed roughly in the shape of a ring around a stone fountain. The water had long since become choked and stagnant, and the shops surrounding the square were crumbling and cheerless. All of these things, however, were noticed on the peripheral. They took secondary to the person who had just entered the square from the opposite side.
He could tell few details from across the distance, but he guessed it to be a young woman around his age, dressed in the typical garb of an impoverished peasant. This was however where the normality of her appearance ended. Taraak was able to catch little of her face, obscured as it was by a carpet of tangled reddish hair, braided in random patterns with feathers and... Other things he could not identify. Another unusual thing was the way she moved. Far from the usual shambling step of a beggar, she
glided rather than walked, showing all the effortless grace of dancer coupled with the calculated precision of an assassin. Her eyes also were bright and alert, scanning the environment around her with intent scrutiny. One thing was certain; this was no average peasant. Just then, a strain of music blew across the dead air of the plaza, rising and falling in a lilting tune that Taraak had never heard before.
And he told me...
To know everything-
-was but to know nothing at all.He frowned inwardly. For some reason, the song struck a chord within him. And yet, he had not the slightest idea why. He quickly pushed the feeling to the back of his mind. Whoever this curious woman was, she was probably his best bet on finding his objective.
"Excuse me," He called as the woman drew nearer. The song faded into silence, and Taraak found his gaze pinned to a set of piercing golden eyes, making the hair rise on the back of his neck. He shook off the feeling.
No going back now, anyway.[/Color]
"I was wondering, do you know the way to the Sword and Flagon alehouse? I seem to have lost my way."[/size][/blockquote]
