Unknown Factors (MP Op 2)

[Angmor]

There was certainly one thing that was helpful with eidetic memory. One of the only things, actually.
Once you were shown how to do something, you never needed to be shown again.
Many of Taraak’s skills had been acquired that way. With his years in Spearshadow, he had become very good at hiding this fact, always careful to add accidents and errors when he used skills that were usually not picked up so quickly, making sure that he was never the first student to master anything. After coming to the Varden, when he was suddenly free from control and scrutiny into everything he did, he allowed the ability to show a bit more, to the point of making a few Varden drill-sergeants shake their heads in mild amazement. One day on the training field, he’d had occasion to watch several elven warriors warming up before a sparring session using a series of exercises that he later learned to be called the Rimgar, a routine the elves had developed for priming every muscle and tendon before a heavy strain. Simply from this one occasion, he had been able to learn this routine, and now made use of it before every operation, if he could.
He straightened, breathing hard after finishing the final pose of which he was capable. This was always a good time. After going through the Rimgar, he felt like every muscle in his body was loose and dexterous, ready to move and bend at his command. As the ocean breeze cooled the sweat on his face, he came to the sudden realization that this was where he belonged. Right here, in the city of Teirm, his birthplace, preparing for a mission that would assist the cause he loved. This was where he was meant to be, and he would not trade it for anything else in the world.

For such a small city, Teirm seemed to attract a lot of attention within the ranks of covert warriors. Since he had begun his work for the Varden, Taraak had been sent there no less than six hundred times. Because of the time spent there, he knew it like he knew an old friend. He had so much of it committed to memory that he could easily get around blindfolded if he wanted to. He had so many operations here, he had even found his own area in which to train.
To another man with a bit more conventional employment, it would probably look like nothing more than an alleyway behind an old warehouse on the city’s south edge, littered with old boxes and other such clutter. But for Taraak, it provided all the surfaces he needed to fine-tune his body while providing shelter from any prying eyes. He had even moved the crates around to form a short obstacle course, to make sure that he did not lose his ability to, as Baric called it, ‘run away under extreme duress.’ Training before a mission helped him to focus his thoughts and feelings, ordering the chaotic details into a neater formation.
And this op certainly had chaotic details that needed ordering.

From a standing start at the head of the alley, he started forward at a quick trot, heading toward a row of large crates he had lined up across the alley.
Firstly, there was the mission itself. About three weeks ago, he had been in Dras-Leona, tracking down leads on the bomber at the Peace Summit. From there, he had learned of a meeting between Felding and four prominent members of Alagaesia’s Thieves Guild. He had also learned that at that meeting, a large sum of money was given to Felding, seemingly in payment from some future service.
He vaulted neatly over the crates, his boots slapping against the alley floor on their far side.
It seemed fairly clear to Taraak that this was the meeting where Felding was hired to disrupt the summit, and that these members of the Thieves Guild were, or at least, representing the people who were responsible. The next step, obviously, was to locate these prominent thieves. For this, he had turned to Varden intel. However, even with all the eyes they had within the Empire, they could not find hide nor hair of these men.
The next obstacle in his way was another box, not quite as tall but quite a bit longer. He ran until he was just about to hit it, and then jumped at an angle over it. While still in the air, he pushed himself off the wall of the alley with the edge of his foot, redirecting his momentum to carry him the rest of the way across. He landed lightly, barely breaking step toward the next obstacle in the string.
It was only after presenting this information to Kyemen Straethir and the Rider had called together his secret alliance that Taraak struck gold. Shortly after the meeting, Taraak had been approached by a member of Remy Kamenwati, one of the king’s scientists. Turned out, not only did the Empire know where to find one of these men, they had him locked up in the cells underneath the Citadel of Teirm. Apparently the man, named Kou Niles, had been caught trying to smuggle a huge shipment of drugs into the city. For Taraak, it had seemed to good to be true. Until, that is, Kamenwati had told him that Niles was a magic-user, and therefore being held in a special division of the Teirm prison, and that anyone attempting to get him transferred out would probably attract the Empire’s attention and threaten the secrecy of the Alliance. That meant that an operation would have to be mounted to spring Niles from prison. And, Taraak remembered thinking with quite a bit of resignation, that as he was the one in the alliance with the most experience at getting into places he wasn’t allowed and getting out alive, he would probably be the one chosen to do it.
Ahead, he had strewn fragments of broken crates and lobster traps over the ground, creating a ground where someone could easily turn an ankle or cut a shin in stepping wrong. Luckily, he did not intend to. Turning a hard ninety degrees, he jumped as high as he could, pressing his feet against the wall of the alley and pushing off hard, propelling himself high enough to snare the top of the wall with his fingers. From here, he shimmied further down the alley, over the broken flotsam underneath him.
As expected, Straethir had personally asked him to lead the mission. “But don’t worry,” The Rider had said oh-so-helpfully. “You won’t be working alone.”
It was for this fact alone that Taraak was worried.

At Straethir’s asking, there had been five volunteers. Five. This would have been bad enough, but two of them were damned Riders, so they came with their own dog-sized bundles of scaly flesh that just happened to be able to puke smoke rings and converse with their minds. Taraak admitted that he needed the help, but he knew from experience that leading such a chaotic group of individuals, most without any kind of experience in covert operating, was usually an exercise ranging from ‘stressful’ to ‘bloody impossible.’
He dropped from the wall, landing on the far side of his improvised spikefield. The next and last obstacle was a stack of crates he had arranged to form a sturdy stairway, leading steeply upward before dropping off suddenly at the level of about ten feet. Taraak sprinted up it as fast as he dared, gaining momentum all the way. Finally he reached the top and leapt over the edge without slowing. Now, a twelve-foot drop onto stone was generally bad news for any human, enough for anything from a twisted ankle to a broken leg. Unless of course, one knew the proper way to land. Just as his feet connected with the ground, Taraak let himself collapse forward, rolling across his shoulder to dissipate the force of the impact over his body. The roll brought him to his feet, breathing heavily in the summer heat.
Now, it had simply been a bunch of soldiers volunteering, it might have been another matter. All soldiers generally had the same skillset, and he knew that they would make at least passable spies with the right instruction. But no, he had gotten to work with a team of incredibly diverse personalities, most of which he didn’t know, some of which he knew all too well.
Working to calm his breathing after his headlong run, he jerked his lleft arm in a practiced flick, sending his knife halfway out of its sheath. In one swift motion, he caught up the hilt of his knife with his right hand, riased the blade over his shoulder, then threw it with all his strength, sending it end over end through the air before it buried itself into the side of a crate with a metallic thunk. For most fighters, throwing a dagger was the very last line of defense, and therefore it wasn't always a good idea. Because of this however, most enemies did not expect their opponents to throw away their weapons, and so did not guard against it, making it to actually be a very hadny strategy for someone who knew how to take advantage. Because of this, Ferial Baric made sure that every one of his students was very good at slinging a blade. While Taraak resented the man himself, his wisdom in the art of killing to survive was sound, so Taraak made sure to practice throwing his knife for at least fifteen minutes every day.
Nemo Ramsey was perhaps his biggest worry. Since she had become one of the Varden's more recent Riders, Taraak had seen enough of her to know that she was a four foot eleven-inch tall giant of a woman. She had been one of the first volunteers for this mission, and Taraak still could not figure out why. After all, she wasn't exactly the best suited for stealth and subterfuge. Between the warhammer that looked to be the younger cousin of a warship anchor that was always within her reach, her unaccountably loud bellow of a voice that usually employed the most impressive collection of profanity that Taraak had ever seen, or the fact she either violently disliked or was fiercely loyal to everyone she ever met, little Nemo Ramsey was very good at looking like a crowd. Which was exactly what Taraak did not want on a mission that depended on stealth and trickery. He suspected that Ramsey's dragon Ikehr might be able to help him keep a check on her bezerker tendancies, but then of course he would have to deal with the dragon's haughty, caustically sarcastic attitude.
He walked forward to retrieve his knife, checking his throw. He’d marked a two-inch wide rectangle on the crate, which was about the average size of a human neck. Baric often said, if you can’t hit the neck, don’t even bother trying. Any fool can hit someone in the chest, but I’ve seen people run a hundred yards with a blade in their heart. That’s plenty of time for them to get in and kill you before they even realize they’ve been hit. He was a bit off to the left. This throw would definitely have stopped a target, but it might not have killed. Frowning, Taraak pulled the knife from the wood and jogged back to his spot.
Most of the rest of the team he did not know personally, but he had seen the type before. Andraste Renai was a good example. There wasn’t very much about her on Varden files, except for the fact that she used her smithing skills to help provide blades for Varden soldiers, and that she possessed some training in magic and other forms of combat. Not a lot of information there, but Taraak figured it was enough. Apart from a few notable exceptions in his life, elves and elves were essentially the same. They thought just because they could stop a sword with a few muttered words that they did not need to take the advice of a frail, scruffy-looking human, even one who’d been doing this sort of thing his entire life. Now, he could understand the attitude. He supposed if he lived for hundreds of years, he might have trouble taking seriously the advice of someone who’d only lived for twenty-four. With Andraste, he figured that he would probably need to do something to prove himself as competent if he was going to count on her support.
He continued the comfortable pattern of throwing his knife, checking, and retrieving, the cadence of actions providing structure from his thoughts. Occasionally he would throw from an odd position, such as lying on his back, on his stomach, leaning against the wall, alternating between right and left hand, drawing the knife from behind his back, drawing the knife from an arms-crossed position…
The rest were pretty much entirely unknown to him. Convel MacTire especially. There was literally nothing on record for him as far as the Varden was concerned, and therefore all Taraak had to go on was what he had seen of the man personally. The first of many worrying factors was the man’s freakish height. He stood a good head above most man, which meant that blazingly conspicuous red hair and ready smile would always be a good four inches above every crowd in the city. If this wasn’t enough, his mode of dress was impossible to miss, always wearing a shortish type of skirt that was about as practical as sheathing a sword on the back and just as distinctive has Helgrind. And on top of this he always spoke with the most ridiculous accent Taraak had ever heard, making sure that every guard within hearing range would know exactly who they were dealing with. Taraak really was not sure if he could even make any use of the strange foreigner, except perhaps for handy bait to use as a diversion. Of course, such operations never really worked out very well for the bait, but that was the way of a spy. You did what you had to do. If Taraak had to sacrifice Convel MacTire for the good of the mission, he knew he would do it.
Next on the list of unknowns was Kano Inazuma, easily the youngest member of this rather ragtag group. Again, there was little about the boy on record, leaving Taraak having to use his eyes. From what he had observed, the boy was very quiet and reserved, speaking only when there was no other option. He was about as good with a sword as he was with making them, and the various scars of old wounds spoke at least of some kind of experience. And yet, he was seventeen years old. Now, Taraak did not count him out because of age. After all, he had escaped from Uru-Baen and journeyed to the Varden when he was seventeen, and had taken up incredibly dangerous missions for the Varden only a year later. But he remembered vividly what he had been at that time; possessing of skill, training, and equipment, but not tempered by any real firsthand experience. He suspected this would be the case with Kano. Taraak would do his very best to keep him safe, but there was only so much he could do. The boy’s chances of survival would depend entirely on his ability to follow orders.
And then of course, there was Mali and Kunnandi, the Varden’s very most recent pairing of Rider and dragon. How the hell they had gotten to be here without the knowledge of Nasuada and the dozens of minders that were always on the tail of new Riders, he had no idea. Once again, Taraak had never met them before they had come to Kyemen’s secret meeting, and so he had literally no idea what use they could possibly be. Kunnandi’s silvery scales were still soft, and he was really only just large enough to pose a threat to the average-sized rat. And Mali, having just become a Rider only weeks before, was entirely without training in magic. However, she was a werecat, and those were always useful. By virtue of his strange life, Taraak was more experienced with werecats than most men, having met several and even gotten to be on fairly good terms with one. From this, he knew that Mali was a somewhat unusual member of the race. Unlike most of them, for whom cat form was the default shape taken, Mali always seemed to be suspended about halfway between cat and human. But either way, she was small, agile, and rather experienced at moving quietly. She’d even told him that she had some training as a thief, which would always come in handy. What had him worried was that balancing act between expedience and risk. Taraak knew that he could use her to great effect to accomplish the mission, but the more he used her, the more dangerous it would be for her. If she died, the Varden would be robbed of perhaps its only chance at winning the war, and it would be entirely his fault for exposing her to a situation that was too dangerous for her to handle. But he could not foresee that. He would have to play those cards as they were dealt.
He pulled the knife from the wood for the last time, brushing away the splinters that clung to the tip before sheathing it on his arm again. He was almost ready to move now, having made sure that his body was as ready as ever to deal with whatever would come, he would have preferred to practice a bit with his bow as well, considering he would always use that before he even thought of throwing his knife, but there was not enough room in the alley for that. Almost ready to move, he ran through a mental inventory of his tools and weapons, a maneuver that had been habit since he was nine…
Suddenly, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye.
He whirled, his knife finding his hand before he could even think about reaching for it. As so often happened to him, there was nothing there, leaving him breathing hard after the sudden dump of adrenaline into his system.
Gods, that was good.

[/Color] He thought to himself, sheathing his knife. Mission’s not even started yet, and you’re already jumping at shadows.[/Color]
Still, there was good reason for his jumpiness, even more than the usual benefits of being aware of the environment. And that reason made up one of the last variables in this whole equation, the most chaotic of the elements to be considered. On his mission in Dras-Leona when he had first learned of the third party, he’d ended up having to ask a rather strange-looking young woman for directions to his objective. She had immediately elected to accompany him, and that encounter was the beginning of a rather… strange relationship. He’d found out later that this woman was actually a werecat. Now, of the werecats he’d known, Maeve was much more like the cats of legend he remembered reading about, the kind that flitted in and out of songs and tales for time uncounted, dispensing cryptic information and manipulating the fates of kings and emperors.
And apparently, some of them liked to dabble with the situations of a Varden spy in their spare time.
Since Dras-Leona, Maeve had apparently taken an interest in him, following him around as his constant second shadow. Sometimes she remained in plain sight, her golden eyes watching his every movement, sometimes she kept herself hidden as only a werecat can, becoming little more than flickers of movement and deep shadows. Taraak had tolerated and ignored her presence for the most part, going about his business as normal just like people in legend, figuring that she would eventually lose interest and go off to bother some other soul. She had actually been padding along behind him on the road into the city, but ever since he had reached the gates she had disappeared again. He knew she was around here somewhere though, and for the first time, that fact was worrying. He truly had no idea if she was here to assist in the mission, if she was just sit idly by and watch him some more, or…
Or if she would side with the enemy.
After all, in Dras-Leona, he’d seemed to come upon a lot of situations that tested his wits and skill, only just barely escaping some of them. He suspected now that at least some of them had been arranged my Maeve for pure amusement. In the middle of a city in which escape routes were plenty was one thing, but in the middle of an imperial center with the lives of a team at stake, such a test could be disastrous. And what galled him even more that there was really nothing he could do about it, just like so many parts of his operation that would be out of his control. Oh, how he longed for the simple clarity of a mission with a black and white objective, just himself to worry about, kill or be killed. No messy politics, no ragtag bunches of unprofessionals, no wildcard werecats. Just his own eye, his own hand, his own skill.
Well, buck up, weakling.[/Color] He told himself sternly. That day isn’t today, so it’s time to stop crying over it and start doing the things that will help you stay alive. Let fate decide the rest.[/Color]
He drew himself up to full height, looking around at the familiar environment of his Teirm alleyway.
There was no more reason to stay here. His body was primed and ready. His weapons and equipment were in place, and he was ready to use them. Most importantly, every factor he knew of had been weighed and considered. His thoughts were ordered and detached, ready to adapt for new variables. Drawing in a deep breath, he held it there for one second, then let it out slowly, centering all of his senses in the moment.
He was ready.

. . .

From his training area, it was just a short walk to the rendezvous point. He’d picked this one very carefully, selecting it on basis of its location, defensiveness, and anonymity. In that last criteria, it succeeded especially well. There were few places on the face of the country more anonymous than a disreputable pub in a poor section of city.

Taraak entered through the backdoor as he had arranged with the owner earlier, the early evening sunlight casting a long shadow on the stone floor as he stepped through the doorway. He found himself in the backroom of the pub, a place the owner had left open for rent by anyone wishing to transact business in an informal setting. For the sum of money he had paid, Taraak was not expecting much, and this was exactly what he received. About the size of a large bedroom, the room contained little more than two simple wooden tables and ten chairs for sitting by them. However, it provided just what they needed. It was private, easily defended, easily escapable, and the noise from the bar on the other side of the wall would neatly mask their words from being overheard. Taraak shut the door carefully and made his way to the opposite side of the room, drawing up a chair into the darkest corner. He unstrapped his bow and quiver and set them beside the chair before sitting down, putting himself neatly in position to watch both entrances to the room. From here, he could easily observe the members of the party as they arrived, hopefully gaining some more knowledge about them from their conduct.
It was all arranged, and all pieces were here. Now all that was left was to wait for them to fall into place.[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

The bar looked dilapidated and old, but he had seen worse places. Convel still was angry at how he had been contacted. They had told him what was going on, then asked for volunteers. When they had cast the light of 'doom and doom and starvation of millions', he had had no choice but to volunteer. Now he was wearing a dark blue cotton shirt, so as "to disappear in the bluidy night". According to his smugglers, dark blue bettered you chances of not being seen in shadows at night. Convel was disinclined to believe this, but he had worn the shirt, and his hunting kilt to boot. He was also muffled in a dark brown cloak with a hood, to conceal his hair and weapons. His sword had been strapped to his back, simply because the red felt in the hilt would give him away. His targe had been painted with blue symbols, as had his face and chest. Convel's dirk and Sgian dubh never left his side. In his sporran, he had a bit of dried poison, that when rubbed on a blade, caused the target to suffer an extremely quiet heart attack.

He entered the secret room and made for an empty table, taking off his cloak as he did so. He tossed it onto a table and ignored Taraak. The straps to his sword came undone easily, letting it fall into his hand. He brought around, placing it at his right hip, across from his dirk. The targe went onto his back on sling, allowing him to bring it up to protect against arrows and blades easily. Convel drew his dirk and cut a strip of cloth from his cloak, then walked to the fire and placed the dirk over it, letting the smoke darken it. He took it away after about three minutes, then started polishing selected bits, creating whorls, spirals, and strips of gleaming metal in the black. He did the same with his Sgian dubh and broadsword, then proceeded to darken his forehead, his cheekbones, and jaw with soot from the fire. He left his actual cheeks alone, as they were darkened with the blue woad.

"I am ready. When do we start?" He turned towards Taraak, and spoke, no trace of his accent detectable. Convel had worked hard to achieve that, but it took time to speak as a normal Alagaesian, so he only did it sparingly, like now.

[Mali]

Mali wasn’t too happy about this. She had been bored in Teirm and decided to leave. After riding with a travelling family all the way to Aberon, she had gotten into the Varden and received a new responsibility; Kunnandi. Now she had to travel all the way back to Teirm. Of course, the action and fun from her mission there would outweigh the boredom of travelling the distance. However, the fact that she had gone all that distance just to head back to her starting point, that rather bothered her. Although, there was nothing she could do about it. It was her duty to the Varden and as a dragon rider.

The streets of Teirm were the same as the day she left. Nothing had changed too much. People were still going about their business, guards were watching out, and people were bumbling about their daily lives. Of course, the fish vendor was wary of short hooded people approaching his stall, as he should be. He could never tell whenever Mali might return for some ‘free’ fish. Pushing that thought aside, she carried Kunna in her arms, her sleeves a little larger than usual to hide most of his body. She couldn’t let people see that he was a dragon. As far as they knew, he was just a lizard. That’s all that he would look like to them.

There was a nagging in the back of her mind as they left the busier parts of town. Kunna was anxious, for what, Mali had no idea. She was told that at some point, when Kunna was older, she would be able to talk to him in words, but until then she would have to rely on emotions. From his anxious and excited emotions, she had no idea why he was like this. He started to nudge her hands and the only assumption she could make was that he wanted down. Looking around, she figured that as long as he stayed close to her, he could walk if he wanted to. Placing him down on the ground, he immediately jumped up and pulled on her hood, causing her to fall forward. He ran out of the way, as she thudded to the ground.

Oh, he was asking for it. It was a good thing they were already outside the back entrance to the pub! Transforming into her feline form, she lunged at Kunna, who dodged and ran towards the entrance. A grin was plastered on his reptilian lips. He was far too playful; he was picking up on her bad feline habits. Running after him as he entered the back entrance, into the dark room, she caught up and launched at him. Landing on him as he turned to look at her, they rolled into the barely lit room. Tugging at the scruff of his neck playfully, Mali looked up as she heard a familiar voice. Her vibrant feline eyes looked at the persons in the room. The one sitting down wasn’t familiar to her so it couldn’t have been his voice. The other person in the room, the male, was wearing dark colours, but with her in tune eyes, she could see quite easily. The soot on his face was pretty good at hiding himself but one sniff of the air confirmed the face she attached with the voice.

Lunging at said person, shifting as she travelled through the air, she wrapped her arms around Convel’s waist upon impact. “Convel!” this wouldn’t be so bad! She was going to do this mission with Convel. He was her friend; at least she would know one person here really well. Pulling her head back to look up to him, Kunna waddling over to stand by her feet, she smiled at him. “You’re on this mission too?” her tail swung around eagerly. Kunna started to scratch at her legs and she bent down to pick him up. It was then that she realised she should probably say something to the other man, obviously Taraak , their mission leader. “Sorry for the abrupt entrance. I’m Mali” she stood, trying not to grin happily. This mission just got ten times more fun. Sneaking around and breaking someone out of jail was going to be one of the best times of her life.

[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[kanoinazuma17]

Dirty pub were the only two words he could describe the place as. But then again, it was inconspicuous. They would be able to get to their destination easily and without much trouble from there. He knew his apprentice, Andraste, was there. After all, she had been captured just a few leagues south of Uru'baen, but she wasn't nearly important enough to imprison in Uru'baen. No Vardener who entered Uru'baen ever escaped... well, except for him maybe. If anyone thought to discount him because of his age, they would be dead wrong. In the flight from the dark city, he had become deadly accurate with his long and medium range weapons, as he was allready effectively deadly with close range weapons. He was able to hit a moving person in the neck with his dagger from a distance of ten to twenty feet, a feat not easilly achieved. Kano found it easier just to sneak up, slit their throat, and be done with it.

He was excited for this mission. His weapons belt, even though covered in various sized daggers, didn't clank. each dagger had a specific purpose, one was sharp enough to cut iron bars, like his swords, another meant to rip and tear flesh, and a final one for taking care of more precise matters. Along with his sword. Kano had left his experimental weapons at home, except for his spring loaded dagger. He looked around the room. "So this is the place you got? Nice choice." he said to Taraak as he walked over to the table with the map, setting five of the seemingly harmless dagger hilts on the table. "So what's the plan?" he asked calmly, needing to know. His eyes showed his willingness to work. He did his best to ignore the annoying red-haired mass out of the corner of his eye, but he did catch Mali's slender form.

He turned immediately, surprised that she had shown up that quickly. "Well if it isn't Mali and Convel..." He said calmly, though somewhat surprised at their arrival. Convel had arrived a little bit before him, but he tried to ignore that fact. Kano turned back to the map without a second thought and looked for the prison. "I've heard of breaking out of prison, but this has an extra step..." he said calmly, finger tapping on the map.

[Formula]

Taraak was right to be jumpy, his timorous responses earning a gratified sense of approval from the illusive werecat. Her predatory instincts were thinly veiled in his company, his apparent abilities, instincts and musings all giving him a sense of credibility that, perhaps, laid some foundation of trust between them. Though he knew little of her and she of him, Maeve could not help the inherent sense of kinship, even if only in the same sense as those between lions and hyenas; between wolves and caribou. The true nature, she called it, as opposed to the lie – the reality that led to trust even if pointedly not in faith. It was never explained and it was doubly unlikely that it would ever come to be, but even if he did not know it yet, the elder and fundamentally mystical creature that was Maeve was sure that her human counterpart would eventually come to realize this; provided he did not grow boring in the meantime.

He'd found her tolerable enough to avoid using violence to ward her away, either intrigued by her company or perhaps fearful of what may come to pass by incurring her wrath, and Maeve had taken this alone as invitation for her continued presence. Though it still roused the deeper sense of the hunter and the prey, she wondered absently more than once since their meeting in Dras-Leona if the assassin did not simply wish for companionship, particularly of those who did not openly question his actions or underlying motivations. She simply was, and they simply were.

With a quirk and a smile, she had told him only once before shifting into her feline form for the first and last time before his eyes, revealing her baser natures and hiding what other secrets her lips may have betrayed, "It is only as complicated as you find it."

But then, werecats were renown for the double meanings of their words, weren't they?

♠ ♠ ♠

It was difficult to discern at what point the feline had emerged from the spindling clutches of deeper shadows and obscurity, her elegant but eye-catching appearance misleading of her clandestine capabilities. Still, even without her talents, Teirm was arguably easy as a setting for those who wished to remain covert. The sights, smells, and sounds of the city so close to the sea aided well enough in masking those first give-aways and tracks to an early reveal. She knew only so much about their mission as had been spoken aloud – a great deal indeed! – but she was pleased enough with the location.

The company, however, was another matter entirely. As she managed to slink in nonchalantly from whatever unknown vantage, the werecat soon found herself upon the arm of Taraak's chair as if she, too, were claiming some higher role of authority in the present operation. It was here that the red-head she'd met before, his features and height distinguishing in spite of whatever desperate means he made to shield them, stepped in, followed shortly by the fumbling and tumbling bestial duo and another that Maeve had no recollection of. By means of whatever telepathic abilities the werecat possessed or that she wished to share with the current creature of her attentions, perhaps the assassin may have gotten the deep and uncanny impression that she were internally grinning.

He had his work cut out for him.

This sense of amusement did not last long, however, either at the realization at her forced partnership and thus involvement in such a charade or her unsated curiosity on how all three of the newcomers knew one another. Resting back on her feline haunches, the cat, wild both in features and demeanor, flicked one ear back towards Taraak impatiently as if to demand answers and due respect – or any sense of sincerity of the significance of their mission! – by his hand. Again she willed him to prove himself, only this time as a leader instead of a predator. His new pride had to be reined in.

[Ze Flying Wraithetti Monstress]

I had been called many different things in my lifetime. Kitchen Boy, Captain, Rider, Back From the Dead Red, and some very untrue names like Shortstuff and Shrimpmobile. However, I never thought I’d be called ‘Holy Mother’.

Being Nemo Ramsey was a lot harder than it used to be, especially after my false death that I didn’t even remember at the Summit. The ‘death’ of a Dragon Rider and her subsequent ‘resurrection’ was gossip eagerly eaten up by Alagaësia, and as such, I’d been having difficulty not being run into by worshipping psychos demanding the likes of longevity potions and heal-all spells. And this time, not even my commanding air could get rid of the lot of them. I didn’t really hold any resentment against Malandra Ramakrishna, considering she hadn’t really killed me and that she’d healed all my wounds received at the Summit, but the indignity of being followed around tenfold was more than a little worth getting steamed up over.

Ikehr wasn’t any help, either, not that he ever was, but he was even less help now. Ever since the Summit- no, maybe even before it- he’d been different. Though it wasn’t anything major, he’d been sick and fatigued, and despite the fact that he was half my size now I needed to carry him most of the time. And that was another thing- almost eight months old and still miniature? I’d either been given a midget for a dragon or something was stopping his regular growth. I found myself worried. In fact, I’d been worrying ever since I’d found him bloody and unconscious in that skinny elf’s arms at the Summit. The idea of being without him almost seemed frightening. Panicked, I glanced at the gedwëy ignasia on my right hand. Something had changed in me. I hated it. Nothing was more irritating than nor as disturbing as change, especially on this level.

Ah, Ramsey, came Ikehr’s weak voice from within my head. If I wasn’t hallucinating every fifteen seconds, I might actually believe those kind thoughts of yours.
Uh-uh. You’ve gone and made me do something bodgy again.
Please, Ramsey. No one is more obvious than you. Even a blind man would see you coming. That is exactly what will make this disguise work so well.
What? Mel Gibson’s cast-off?

This was probably one of Ikehr’s more hare-brained ideas. With the second operation of the coalition drawing closer, and the fanatical crowds growing bigger, we’d been in dire need of a proper disguise. He was still small enough to stick into a potato sack, but I’d always been one to stick out. If the accent and colouring wasn’t enough, my face happened to be on wanted posters throughout the entire Empire, and not just for pillaging coastal cities anymore. Therefore, Ikehr had come up with something that was the exact opposite of me- namely, a priest. Priests were wise and spiritual and good, and I… was not. Apparently, I looked like I was about to rip any given person apart the very moment I laid eyes on them. Due to this intimidating nature, Ikehr had somehow gotten hold of religious clothing, and forced me to dress up in them and acquire a serious, holy look of some sort. Exactly how one was supposed to look serious and holy was beyond me, but the idiotic scheme had worked. I had passed every inspection and every border patrol with nothing but praises and blessings. In fact, I had arrived in Teirm with no problems whatsoever. I was now standing in the market district, blinking stupidly.

Nemo Ramsey the Priest. Oh, how I bellow with laughter.
“Please, Holy Mother…” came a soft gasp, preventing me from grabbing Ikehr from his bag and wringing his neck right then and there. I turned on my heel, seeing a pretty blonde girl kneeling before me. “Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have joined the house of ill repute, where girls cavort in scanty clothes, and are naughty with men!”
“Well…” I said slowly, not sure what to say to that. “What am I supposed to do about it?!”
The girl looked shocked.
Ramsey… according to the laws of the Imperial Temple, you must give this wicked girl a penance.
“Oh.” I tried to think like an Imperial priest. “Go home… and say one hundred ‘Heil Galbatorix’s.”
The girl bowed and ran off.
You let her off a little easy there, Ramsey. Your accent’s improving, at least.
Oh, shut up. Use yer reptile wits ta find ‘The Poison Apple’.
Ikehr was quiet for a minute, so that I thought he might have passed out from his headache again. But then, he suddenly stirred and stuck one paw out of the potato sack.
Right over there. We’re running late, so I suggest you get a move on.

I glanced up, searching through the solemn stone buildings for some telltale inn sign. Eventually, I saw one, plain and wooden and painted with a red apple swirled with purple. That would be it, then. Heaving the potato sack higher onto my shoulder, I marched forwards, ignoring the townspeople who were no doubt wondering why a priest carrying an old sack was heading towards one of the more scum-infested inns of Teirm. I strode proudly past them, kicking the inn door open. The inside was nothing special- your classic tavern bar filled with drunkards looking for a moment’s peace from their wives, sultry waitresses, brutish bouncers and a nervous-looking barkeep probably running a smuggling operation or five. The man himself glanced up at me with a look of utter confusion on his face. I stomped towards him, trying desperately not to trip over my white priest’s dress.

… robe.
It’s a bleedin’ dress.
No. Robe.
“Uh, hullo there, Mother,” said the puzzled innkeeper. “What can I getcha?”
“This establishment is tainted with sin,” I said awkwardly, desperately controlling my accent. “I have come to bless it, especially the bastards in the back room.”
Where is the back room? muttered Ikehr.
Behind the front room! I mentally snapped back at him.
“I… I see… I think.” The innkeeper pointed to the back of the room, unsurprisingly. “Go right in there. You shan’t be disturbed.”

---

I was alerted to our arrival at the rendezvous point when Ramsey roughly dropped the sack carrying me and her hammer, causing me to hit my head on the hard wooden floor and worsen my already unbearable headache. Struggling to regain at least some composure, I crawled out of the ridiculous floppy thing, squinting up at the room surrounding me. It was simple- two tables, ten chairs, and people standing around awkwardly rather than engaged in clandestine whispering. Well, stereotypes rarely rang true in these types of things anyway. Shaking myself off, and then immediately regretting it when my head exploded with pain, I tried to get a good look at the mortals inside. Including me and Ramsey, there were two dragons, four humans, an elf, and two werecats on this mission. Vardeners greatly outnumbered Imperials.

I was getting much better at telling the mortals apart by now. When I’d first hatched, and for long months afterwards, they’d all looked the same- all ugly, all hideously disfigured flesh lumps, and all so puny. But I appeared to finally be getting the hang of their differences. Though none of them were even remotely attractive, some were better-bodied than others. Males were almost always taller and bulkier, and were usually only a few hairs short of looking like bears, while females were more slender with large chests and hips. Ramsey was somewhat lacking in this respect- she was tiny, with a small chest and hips, but very slender and leggy, which I actually found more of a relief to look at than the massive swinging appendages that most females possessed. She was also notably darker, with near-ebony skin while most humans ranged from golden-brown to pasty white, and her features were much wider and thicker. Her hair also appeared to be an unusual colour- though those orange locks had been the first thing I’d laid eyes upon when I’d hatched, the closest shades I’d seen to it were reddish-brown or blonde.

However, the enormous man in the corner waylaid that thought immediately. Bright red hair emphasized by pale skin and strange blue markings similar to Ramsey’s tattoos stuck out in the glow of the firelight. He was also dressed ridiculously, including a skirt. The only men I’d seen wearing those were the sort that frequented gay bars. Wrapped around him was a very small female that smelled so strongly of magic that I immediately recognized her as both a werecat and a Dragon Rider. She was raven-haired with notable feline features such as a tail, ears, and green eyes with slitted pupils. However, I was more interested in Kunnandi, the latest addition to the Varden’s arsenal. He was approximately my size, but he made no attempt to contact me. He probably couldn’t speak, then. I had been able to use words since birth, which I assumed was supposed to make up for my small size. As this one couldn’t, however, I immediately lost interest, turning my attention to the second werecat, a slender, tawny creature that appeared better suited to the sands of some distant desert rather than the cold of Alagaësia. Her intelligent yellow eyes gleamed mischievously.

I paid little attention to the three remaining mortals. One was a very young human male, and the second an elven female who wasn’t too mature herself, at least in elf years. The male, whose face was marred with battle scars, looked somewhat solemn, while the elf stood tall and confident, clearly infused with pride like the rest of her slowly crumbling race. I finally allowed my eyes to rest on probably the one and only person of any interest in the room, the human simply known as Taraak. He was clearly a creature of wits and action, and stuck out among the immaturity and severe lacking of intelligence that this mission seemed to be comprised of. This was surprising, considering I’d never lain on eyes on someone with such a boring appearance. Nondescript face, plain brown hair, average height and build… But the eyes, cool and hard, spoke volumes about his character. I leapt up into one of the chairs and comfortably seated myself, eyes fixed on the operation leader.

“BLOODY HELL!” came the vicious roar of my Rider. She strode forwards, angrily tearing off the priest robes I’d gone to so much trouble to acquire. I watched in mild annoyance as the garment was violently torn and flung onto the floor. Below it, the creature was wearing her usual black leather armour, which clung tightly to her slim frame. Her hair was dishevelled, several strands having fallen out of her closely braided cornrows. She rounded on me. “You wear the dress next time!”
As a dragon, I do not require clothing.
“In that case, my son…” She made a mockery of the hand signals of a priest before pointing at me. “Up yours!”
Charming.
“Right, then. I reckon we’re the last blokes to arrive? Carry on with your explanations, Ter-ack. Sooner I get me some bloody peace, the better.”

Words;; 1875
Muse;; Horrible for Nemo, better for Ikehr.
Thoughts;; ... definitely NOT my best work, although Ikehr saved it a little.

[Angmor]

While he waited, Taraak reached into his shoulderbag and pulled out a large, floppy stack of parchments, stapled together at one side to form a sort of book. Across the dusty and waterstained cover was scrawled in neat runes the words Broddring Records: Constructions Plans. Citadel Lighthouse, Teirm.
It had been a rather interesting endevour, liberating these things from the Varden intelligence archives without attracting any attention, especially since they probably weren't even worth the trouble. These things were old, dating back to before the fall, and even though it wasn't the easiest thing to remodel a stone fortress, things would have definitely changed a bit since the plans were made. And even if they hadn't, he didn't really need them. He'd once had occasion to examine them for one of his early operations with the Varden, committing them all to his incorruptable memory. He knew every line on these papers without even having to open them. But still, he supposed they would be helpful. He doubted that anyone else on this team had the ability to memorize at a glance, and with an operation this complicated, he would need outline his plan on something a bit more detailed than a drawing in the sand.

At that moment, the room's front door opened with a creak, causing Taraak to look up, once again running through possible escape routes in his head just out of sheer habit. As he watched, a tall, cloak-swathed figure entered, shutting the door behind it. While the hood was up, it wasn't hard for Taraak to figure out that it was MacTire. The sheer height and broad set of the shoulders gave it away. Sure enough, the figure removed its hood, and Convel's bearded, sharp featured face appeared, painted in strange blue markings that reminded Taraak of the warpaints he'd seen some of the Hadarac tribes use.
Well, that's certainly inconspicuous...

[/Color]
Still, at least now he wasn't wearing the brightly patterned skirt-thing and the white tunic that might as well have been a sign labeled shoot me here, instead opting for more subdued colors in his tunic and skirt-thing. Well, that was some common sense, at least. Perhaps he'd misjudged him somewhat.

For a moment, the two men just looked curiously at one another. Taraak met Convel's dark green gaze with his own sheenless grey, blinking freely. He found the whole concept of a staring contest as stupid and amatuerish. After all, if a fight was suddenly to break out, the person with dry eyes would be at a disadvantage.
After another second or two, MacTire seemed to give up and lose interest, walking a bit further into the room to set his cloak and weapons on one of the tables, seemingly ignoring Taraak. Taraak watched silently as the big man set about his blades with interesting dark patterns...
And then proceeded to darken all visible skin with soot.
Taraak almost put his head in his hands out of exasperation.
Yes, he had definitely misjudged the man, but in the wrong way. Instead of being the highly visible fighting man, Convel was over-compensating into going commando as Baric had called it, rigging up for full-on guerilla warfare. This would be all well and good in the middle of a forest, where the only other people likely to be out there would be the enemy, but in the middle of a city filled with thousands of non-combatants, it was something else. No average civvie, upon seeing a big man swathed in dark clothing, bladed up for a battle, and with darkened face and hands, would assume that man was actually on perfectly legitimate business unless they were fatally stupid.
Great. Just great. Torska, where are you when I need you?[/Color]
"I'm ready." The man announced finally. Ah, he could control his accent a bit, then. "When do we start?"
As soon as you wash your face.[/Color] He didn't say.
"Soon." Was his terse reply instead. "Very soon."


Bang
Taraak jumped, reaching for his knife as the back door flew open as if from the impact of a battering ram. In rolled a small ball of scale and fur, two creatures locked in a playful fight like a tussle on the oddest schoolyard Taraak had ever seen. He relaxed, dropping his hand. He figured now that he knew who this was...
Sure enough, the fur part of the ball detached itself from the fray, resolving into the form of a cat. The cat stood up, balancing on its hind legs... And just kept on standing up. That was about the only way he could describe the transformation into human form. Even though he had seen it several times now, he still counted it as one of the weirdest things he had ever seen.
Within seconds the cat was gone, replaced by the small, slight figure of a young woman who immediately threw herself at MacTire in a furious embrace.
Taraak blinked. He hadn't known that anyone on the team knew anyone else. This could either be an asset to the mission, or it could make things a little bit more difficult, depending on how the op turned out. Definitely something to keep an eye on.
"I'm sorry for my abrupt entrance." The girl said once her moment with MacTire had passed, turning her brilliant green eyes on him. "I'm Mali."
"You most certainly are." He responded, half to himself. As he said it, he realized the tone was a bit more hard and clipped than he had intended. Hmm. Better try again. "Thank you for coming." He said, making an effort to soften his expression. He wasn't out on his own anymore; he would actually have to watch his tone.

The silence that followed was just about to graduate into awkward when the next member of the team arrived. This, Taraak guessed, was Kano Inazuma. On examination, there really wasn't much to see. Really the only thing that distinguished the boy as a bit more than just a stable boy was the fact that he looked like he had knocked down the wall of the Spearshadow armory and made a belt out of it. Gods, Taraak wondered this kid managed to move without slicing off something he'd miss later.
"So, this is the place you got?" The boy said, casting a glance around the room before settling back on Taraak. "Nice choice."
This time, Taraak couldn't quite hold back his baser nature.
"You have no idea how much that means to me." He said, rather proud of himself for having only the slightest edge of sarcasm in his voice. The kid however didn't seem to notice the jab, and kept right on talking as if he wasn't there, acknowledging the presence of the others while setting what looked like something like unfinished dagger hilts on the table. Ah, there was something interesting. He fondly recognized the spring-loaded blade mechanism, resembling as they were to Torska's prized blades mounted on his vambraces. Taraak sometimes lamented the fact that he had skipped out of Spearshadow before that particularly handy bit of kit was issued, so he might have to borrow one of these hand-held versions.
That is, if the kid ever ran out of wind.
"I've heard of breaking out of prison," Kano said at last, paging through the floorplans. "But this has an extra step." Taraak waited a few seconds just to make sure that this Kano had finally said his piece. Interesting. While Convel had tried to assert dominance with some kind of macho silence, Kano apparently felt the need to prove his knowledge by filling the air with his words. Taraak did not have a very high opinion of either one.
"You'd be surprised." He answered finally. "Please, have a seat. I'll be briefing you all on the plan as soon as we're all here. In the meantime," He stirred, focusing a bit past the kid to make it clear that the other occupants of the room were included. "I would like for us to wait in silence. Meditation. It orders the thoughts before an operation."
It was all hogwash of course. He just didn't feel like he could handle any more idle chatter. The expressions of surprise around the room were rather comical, and for a moment he thought they might laugh. But it seemed that his flawlessly deadpan expression convinced them, and they all quietly took a seat.
Grateful for the reprieve, Taraak slowly let out a breath, lowered his head, and did what he'd longed to do since MacTire had come in; massaged his forehead with thumb and forefinger.
The nightmares had been tormenting him again the night before, and he had gotten even less sleep than usual. Now that he was finally starting to get a read on the members of this team, he was beginning to be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his task. There was just no way in hell this was going to work.
Just then, something soft and warm brushed against his left sleeve. He looked up... and started, finding himself staring into a pair of familiar, predatory golden eyes. Maeve had at last decided to show herself.

She really was an odd creature, Taraak mused. There she sat, plain as could be, balanced perfectly on the arm of his chair like she had claimed it as her kingdom. And he had no idea how she had gotten there. Since Baric had spent so much time training his students to be hyper-aware of their surroundings, Taraak usually found himself deeply disturbed by creatures of magic that could move with a degree of stealth that was simply impossible. There should have been no way that he didn’t notice something the size of Maeve until now, and yet there she was. While her feline face was just as it always was, Taraak swore that she was smiling. He too smiled despite himself, wondering if it would be appropriate to stroke her. River, another werecat he had gotten to know, would have been fine with it, but Maeve was so unlike River in almost every way. He was uncertain how to act around her, and he hated being uncertain. Worse, at times like these, being uncertain was dangerous.
Then why haven’t you told her to shove off, you fool? Admit it, you kind of like having her around.[/Color]
It was true, he realized now, he found that he had rather enjoyed her company over the past weeks. After all, he barely got to see his best- well, really only friends anymore, as Torska now had missions of his own and Calia was kept very busy by the Varden. They were really the only ones who had ever been able to look past his idiosyncrasies long enough to really hold a relationship with him, and the gap left by their absence was like a dull ache in his chest. And so, having a silent, unquestioning presence by his side filled some kind of need. It was somewhat pathetic, really, that he was happy to have someone around who was most likely just there because she had fun messing with his head.

Absorbed as he was, he almost did not notice the doorhandle turning on the entrance to the bar. He looked up as the door creaked open, and through it came a priest of the Imperial Temple carrying a rough knapsack...
He did a double take, blinking hard Who the hell was this person? An how in the...
"Bloody hell!"
Without so much as giving the room a glance, the priest dropped his sack with a pronounced thunk and began tearing frantically his robe as if it was a swarm of biting insects. As he did, the hood of the garment fell, revealing a face that Taraak's archived memories immediately matched to a name. The context had just been so removed from the usual environment that it had taken a while pair up.
Nemo Ramsey had arrived with what he was now coming to think of as her traditional amount of fluidity and grace.
Oh yes, there is probably a very interesting story behind this. And I don’t think I want to know what it is…[/Color]
For a moment, he thought that Ikehr was absent, but only until the young dragon poked his aqua-marine head out of Nemo's sack like a snake emerging from a charmer's basket, giving the room a somewhat groggy looking survey before settling his doleful gaze back on Ramsey. By then, she had managed to divest herself of the all-encompassing robe, revealing her more usual black leathers, becoming the vision of Nemo Ramsey everyone knew and stared at.
What followed was perhaps one of the oddest exchanges Taraak had ever seen. Riders speaking to their dragons were an odd enough sight by on their own, and Taraak had been witness to several such exchanges during which Kyemen and Sierthra would merely stare meaningfully at each other, exchanging words and ideas without having to make a sound. However, it seemed Ramsey didn't know how to do this, and as a result the entire room could hear one side of the conversation while the rest was lost in silence. Taraak wasn't sure if it was funny or disturbing watching Ramsey's facial expressions respond to entirely unseen stimulus, and her cursing and insulting a large lizard whose only crime lay in staring at her. Finally with a last insult, she seemed to come aware of her surroundings again, her eyes sweeping the room.
"Well then," She said, her voice typically loud, "I reckon we're the last blokes to arrive?" Taraak felt her fiery gaze set on him, and he got the distinct impression that she was considering hitting him in the face, she just hadn't come up with an excuse yet.
"Carry on with your explanations, Ter-ack." She said, sounding like she was vehemently accusing him of something. "The sooner I get me some bloody peace, the better."

With that, at last, came the moment he had long been dreading, when all eyes in the room turned to him. Taraak had heard it from a Varden captain once; "The first ten seconds of command are always the most important." If that was true, then what he was about to say within the next ten seconds would be the single greatest factor for the failure or success of this operation. And strangely, having envisioned this moment this moment for so long, he was less nervous than he thought he'd be. Even with six sets of eyes boring into him with looks ranging from guarded nervousness to outright dislike, and a seventh watcher directly beside him just waiting to see if he was worthy of her attention, he found himself unable to think of anything besides how lucky they were that they weren't learning the tradecraft of a spy the same way that he had. Ferial Baric, he knew, would have had this lot whipped into shape in no time, or would have killed them trying. But Taraak new that he could never find it within himself to successfully lead the way his old mentor had, with swearing and threats and abuse. He would have to figure out his own way, starting right now.
"Well, I won't waste words in telling you who I am and what we're all doing here." He said finally, settling back in his chair so that he could have the whole room comfortably within his field of vision. "The first one isn't important, the second one you should all already know. You should also already know that I have been officially put in charge of this mission. Before we go any further though, I wish to explain something to you. I realize that out here, in the middle of enemy territory with your own backside on the line, 'officially' appointed positions of leadership don't count for much. I know it, and I suspect some of you have at least started thinking about it. I was often the same way, wondering just who this clown up front was and what made him so great when it was my life that was at stake." A few expressions around the room flickered briefly. Taraak hoped it was a good sign.
"So," He went on. "To head off those thoughts, I'd like to tell you what puts me in this position. First, I have experience. Operations like the one we're about to do have been my forte for many years. I happen to know for a fact that none of you have ever done this sort of thing more than I have. Secondly, I know the territory. That citadel, in fact, this whole city and I have a very cordial relationship, and I can direct you through a lot of tight spots. But thirdly, and most importantly, I am willing to take responsibility. I am ready to do whatever I have to do to make sure that our mission is accomplished, and to make sure that all of you stay alive, in that order." He paused to let that bit sink in, seeking out every face in turn. "So," He finished carefully. "If anyone here thinks that isn't good enough, now is the time to mention it."
There. He'd said it. His first ten seconds of leadership were over and done with. Now he was about to find out just how truthful the captain's statement was...[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

"Oof!" Mali running into him had been unexpected to say the last. Now she was questioning whether or not he was on this op. If a man is in a back room of a bar, wearing the war symbols of his clan, with he weapons, it was obvious that he's not there for a quick pint or four, he's there to make war. Instead, he just smiled and set about praying to the Patron of War; Neit. He had just started when the man-child walked in. Did he not understand that Convel wanted a few moments of peace before whatever plan they rigged up failed? Ignoring the man's seeming know-it-allness, Convel got upon his knees and was about to begin his lament when a priest walked in. This was getting outrageous. Finally giving up, he stood back up and watched as their 'leader' Taraak explained what his qualifications were. His 'forte', hhmmm? The city and him had a special relationship, hmm? Probably due to an extraordinary amount of luck, the first one. The second was probably the patron saint of this city favoring him.

Candle light flickered as he talked. Apparently, his objectives were to get the mission accomplished, and keep them alive, in that order. Convel could live with that. Indeed, this Taraak would be a good man to have in a fight, bar his unnecessary tendency to wear pants. Nothing was wrong with a kilt, unless you crouched in the fields, with heather tickling your bare arse. Convel had seen the citadel they were supposed to break into. It could be done, and he had marked out several places to set fire in case of something from memory. The black stone walls were imposing, but all walls had doors. Convel knew this from several previous experiences. If he had any problems with Taraak's objectives, he was to speak up or leave now.

The choice was simple to Convel. This operation offered a chance to escape this Alagaesian Hell in one way and one way only: Death. Convel was in, and there to stay. He took a chair to show his acceptance of Taraak as the leader of this raid.

[Mali]

She cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought before she lunged into a hug with Convel? He had been all happy and cheerful during their escape at Teirm, she hadn’t thought that he would be much more serious now. It had seemed like the same thing to her, but by the look on his face, she could tell that he wasn’t as happy about her questions. She pulled her hands back, holding onto Kunna tighter. She knew that he was impatient and a little annoyed with her questions; that smile was forced.

All too soon, someone else entered the back room and her ears pricked back. Who was this? It was another voice that she recognized but couldn’t place. Turning to look at the newcomer, she smiled wide. It was Kano! Blushing, she immediately remembered grabbing his face back at the Varden. She really shouldn’t have done that. “Hello Kano, nice to see you again.” she could feel the annoyance seeping from Convel’s person. He was not amused. Maybe this mission wouldn’t be as fun as she thought it would be. Kunna tugged at the back of her mind, looking down, she noticed that he was looking over to Taraak’s chair. What was so interesting about him, they had already seen him. However, Kunnandi wasn’t looking at Taraak. He was looking at the cat perched on his chair.

Mali took a step back. It was her! Well, it wasn’t her, it was another of what she was—which she had been told was called a werecat. She had finally met another werecat! After this mission was over, she would have to talk to this cat and find out as much as she can from her. Were they really werecats? Where did they come from? How did they live? What else could they do? She had so many questions for another being like her that she was now anxious for this mission to be over. She couldn’t wait to talk to her. Mali hoped that she would want to tell her about their species.

Jumping, she watched with eager eyes as a priest walked into the room. The loud thump gave her the idea that it wasn’t just a bag. There was something inside. With a sniff of the air, she could smell that it was reptilian. Maybe this priest had a dragon too, or just a lizard. What confused Mali was that this priest then began to tear their clothes off. Why would they do that? Did they have something on underneath? For the briefest of seconds, Mali wondered if the priest was male or female, but that was soon answered. Okay, so things would be interesting. Then another dragon popped its head out from the bag. She knew it; there was a dragon in there. Kunna jumped down from Mali’s arms and walked over to the other dragon. Not knowing what to do, it just looked at this new dragon, a slight smile on his lips.

She bent down to pick Kunna back up but Taraak had already started to talk again. Standing upright, she listened intently. So he was trained and had done operations like this before. She had no doubt in her mind that he would allow this mission to fail. She also doubted that he would easily allow people to die. Of course, if it intervened with the course of this mission’s success, he would have no choice. As he stated the mission’s success and then making sure they all lived, the importance was in that order. She would just have to make sure that nothing happened to her nor Kunna. As he asked if anyone had a problem with it, she saw Convel sit down out of the corner of her eye. Mali had no fuss about this or about how Taraak planned for this mission to go. Therefore, she also sat down, picking Kunna up, who continued to stare at the other dragon. This wasn’t going to be so bad.

[/size]

[kanoinazuma17]

Kano took his seat and listened. He managed to calm himself down enough to keep his mind from flying in all different directions and then blurting out of his mouth. He thought for a minute. His job was to finish the mission first, then keep them alive. He saw how it was. It looked like his life was in his own hands. Kano did not mind this, however. He found it exciting. After all, it's not like he hadn't been in enemy territory before, after all, he posed as a simple smith in Feinster for so long, it would be easy to keep himself disguised as a simple tradesman. His simple cloak kept hidden his daggers with such success that they wouldn't be detected.

He knew he was inexperienced, but he would follow orders. Kano may have been a citizen, he was first and foremost a tradesman and metalsmith, and that would be a benefit to the Ops group. He could break locks, break chains, break iron bars. And he could do it with minimal noise. If someone was aiding him with magic, he could get in and out without a problem. He smiled slightly and crossed his arms, thinking. He was snapped out of his thoughts by the entrance of a ebony skinned woman who was as subtle as the plains were dry. He blinked, turning in his seat.

This was going to be interesting... two riders, two werecats, a beast of a man, and the leader who said he was apparently some kind of an assasin of sorts. This was going to be interesting. He was sure that they would be able to get in, just as long as each one of them was given a job. Keeping each other separate was the best way to make sure that they would keep quiet. Kano could allready see that they would need to gain cooperation and teamwork if this was to be pulled off successfully. Kano saw a problem. 'How in hell are we going to work together if we're all on edge... this is going to be a pain in the ass.'

[Formula]

Two more were to join them, Maeve had remembered of the briefings, and it was just as she wondered over their estimated time of arrival that the pair came through the door and so eloquently announced themselves. It was here, once again, that the werecat worried faintly over the necessities of stealth and the matching – or woefully lacking – ability of those selected to work on the mission. The feeling had been carefully veiled, instantaneously draped over by a façade of brief irritation so as not to worry Taraak by her lack of confidence in his group. While she had shown a great and curious affection for watching him struggle, it certainly did not mean she wished him dead. If anything, one might have claimed her predilection to his floundering was actually a propensity to watching him succeed and overcome.

Though she'd leave that up to debate for as long as possible, if only to make him squirm.

Fools had accomplished greater deeds by means of determination in lieu of skill, the werecat decided as she watched Taraak muse over her with great interest and idle fascination. If this was the path he was to take, she settled on it being an interesting one and further eased herself into the role beside him through the endeavor. The choice made and solidified within that instant, she shifted her weight and inclined her head just slightly as if mimicking the motions in response to a stroking hand. A deep compliment, though she was not sure he would understand or acknowledge the gravity. It was rare when she found such intrigue in another, and rarer still when the individual was allowed to touch her. Though he'd yet to do it, even the unspoken allowance was more than enough, and a small part of her was both bemused and satisfied that he may have grasped some of that importance if only for his own apparent fondness for solitude.

That would be assuming he'd realized it at all, though she was secure enough in his capability to fully acknowledge his surroundings. Still, he'd risen in that same moment to explain himself to his team and try to earn their trust, and while it was not exactly how she may have done it herself, it seemed well enough for the rest of them. Stretching out along the arm of the chair and inspecting the group as they listened to Taraak, she caught Mali's glance dead on and stared back with the same predatory interest instead of the other werecat's childlike fascination. Kittens didn't do much for Maeve, and this one looked fully spastic.

Still, it seemed curious and perhaps a bit confused too. She'd heard of this problem before; stray cats with a detachment to self and species.

"Hello," was all she would offer through the odd means of werecat ability and silent communication. Whether it was through body language or true telepathy would be hard for Mali to know and harder still for her to ask, as it was directed and given to no one else. Perhaps that would end up amusing in itself, though Maeve did not linger on it too long.

She rested back on her haunches, signaling unnecessarily her intent to stay and see the mission through as Taraak finished his introductions. She was trained beyond her beneficial racial traits in the arts of stealth, slight in both of her builds and dexterous with a blade. Though her origins were her best kept secret and her reasons a faded path, Maeve was confident in being an asset and had made her choice long ago.

[Angmor]

The silence that followed his words was long, extremely unexpected, and yet at the same time rather familiar. It carried unpleasant echoes of his days in training with Spearshadow, when Sergeant Baric would give his lectures on the nature of a coward. These were always short but to the point, designed to show cowardice and failure in the most negative light possible. At the end of it, he would always turn to his trainees and ask;
“So, who in here is a coward?”
He was always met with a silence much like this one, where all present were suddenly conscious of just how loud they were and forcing themselves to stay as quiet as possible, characterized by all the sounds of rustling fabric, creaking chairs, and the subtle wet sounds of swallowing and suppressed breathing. All in all, it made Taraak suddenly even more uncomfortable. Simply the fact that he was facing this sort of silence in the face of his ultimatum of his leadership meant he had underestimated one of two things; the humble nature of this group, or his ability to inspire people to… something.

The silence lasted for a whole twenty seconds before the spell was broken. Unsurprisingly, Nemo was the first to crack. Taraak had noticed her glaring scan of the room growing more and more agitated, until at last, she took a hammer to the silence like she couldn’t stand it.
"Since no one else is interested in opening their bloody mouths, I'll say it." She said, her tone as warm and assuring as an iceberg looming out of the fog. He braced for impact…
"... Derek, was it? We accept yer leadership.”
Taraak blinked, not quite able to believe it. Had he heard right? There had to be a catch…
Ah, there it was. She seemed suddenly to think of something, turning to the room. “Although… How a goddam tranny will be of any bloody use is beyond me."
It took him a moment to realize she was talking about McTire's skirt. Inevitable, really. You couldn't be a male member of any race wearing a common fixture of female attire without getting ribbed for it. Convel, of course, couldn't let it go.
"At least ah dinnae have a lizard for ah pet..."
"Enough." Taraak spoke in, injecting as much firmness into his tone as he could muster without actually raising his voice. "If you two want to have it, fine. I'll find you seconds and a good flat field for a duel at sunrise. But only after we finish this job. For the moment, let that be the thought that drives you to stay alive, that you can kill each other after we're done."
Nemo's mouth shut with an audible click. Taraak inwardly breathed a a sigh of relief, turning to the rest of the bystanders. "That goes for everyone here. You may not like the person you're sitting next to, but that happens occasionally. If you dwell on that rather than the job that needs doing, then we'll all die. It's that simple."
The mood of the room sobered slightly. That's right. This isn't some training session anymore. A bit of gravity is required.

[/Color]

As he finished thinking this, he realized like a thunderbolt that he was petting Maeve, and had probably been doing so for some time. He stopped himself quickly, wondering just how he could be so stupid and lose control of his actions like that. He knew that there were just certain things that human beings just did automatically, but he didn't know that petting a nearby cat was one of them. He filed that interesting fact away under the potentially useful, in the mean time hoping that Maeve would not be offended.
Something brushed his hand. He looked down, finding Maeve staring up at him with an expression that he hadn't seen before. He wasn't at all sure what the expression was, but by the way she kept nudging his hand, it could almost be interpreted as affection. Unsure, he resumed petting her, running his half-gloved hand over her thick coat. Her fur was a lot softer than it looked, he mused to himself, wondering at this sudden change in attitude. Allowing a mere mortal to touch her, much less stroke her like a common housecat, had to be a huge concession for her, and he doubted somehow that he grasped the full meaning of the gesture. despite all of his previous doubt and fear, he felt himself flooded with an odd feeling of comradeship. It was a feeling he didn't know just how much he'd missed.
The feeling like he had a friend.
He felt himself stiffen slightly. She's influencing my mind.[/Color]
Werecats could do that. He'd spent enough time around River to know very well that they communicated telepathically, and that they could use that ability to place their thoughts into the heads of others. It always left him deeply disturbed, having to wonder whether or not his thoughts were really his own. He was trained to resist

Finally, Inazuma leaned forward in his chair. "I think we all understand. So, what is the plan?"
Taraak smiled slightly. That was the attitude he wanted to see.
"A very good question. One to which, unfortunately, there is no clear answer. Since we have little time before our package is executed, we don't have enough time for gathering any proper intel. Much of this mission therefore will be carried out with what spies call 'prudent improvisation.' I believe the more common term is 'winging it.' It won't be entirely making it up as we go along, of course, but I do have several contingency plans in place that I will need to choose depending on the situation. We know our starting place in this room, and we know our end objective of escaping the city with one Kou Niles in our possession. How we get there is going to be the interesting part." That seemed to sober them a bit. He smiled ruefully. "Take that one up with Straethir if you don't like it. He's the one who laid on this operation in such a hurry. But if you're expecting a well-planned mission, with every move calculated and timed to the second, that is most definitely not what we have here."
"So what is the plan? 'Ow do we get into the bloody fort?" Nemo interjected impatiently. Taraak didn't at all like the look of rising bloodlust in her eyes, and decided to cut to the point. As he did, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He smiled. "If I'm not misktaken," He answered, watching an abandoned wooden tankard on the end of his table vibrate across the wooden surface, disturbed by the rumble of an approaching cart.
"That's our ride coming now."

. . .

Taraak never had issues with confined spaces. In fact, due to his training, he was more at home in small spaces than in the open. In his mind, small spaces meant cover, meant concealment, meant safety. It was a helpful mentality to have, considering how much time he spent in them. So much, in fact, that he hadn't considered just how much trouble the others might have with such an endeavor. As per much of this operation…[/Color] He thought, the thick shag of the carpet pressing against his face,
This could have been thought out a bit better.[/Color]

The cart that had rolled up to the back door of the bar was being driven by two local mercenaries who liked to receive Varden coin in return for services in odd jobs. In this particular instance, Taraak had hired them to acquire a cart, a horse, and a dozen rolls of carpet and meet him at the back entrance of the Poison Apple. At first, the team had lauded his cleverness in smuggling them into the fortress under the carpets. Shortly afterward, they lamented his stupidity in coming up with the idea to smuggle them into the fortress in the carpets.
Such is the lot of a leader, I guess. The cleverness of the planner is directly proportional to the approval-rating the plan.[/Color]
Still, it was a good idea. Being smuggled into the fortress as an innocuous object would put them that much closer to the objective without a trail of bodies to make it that much more dangerous. And besides, no one had any better ideas. So, with much grumbling and cursing, they had at last consented to being rolled into the carpets one by one. It had been especially hard for McTire, who needed to be wrapped twice just to disguise his larger form. Well, that at least was just tough luck. Taraak would have been perfectly fine with Convel being the third deliveryman if he hadn't insisted on going commando and having all that gunk on his face. Taraak knew he should have done that himself, but he figured it would probably not have incited full cooperation if they had to spend the next half hour rolled in a suffocating roll of floor covering and he didn't. So, he had consented to be rolled up as well, and now here he was, blind and almost deaf under the woven layers, conscious of little else but the bounce and sway of the cart on its way to the citadel, his breath hot against his face. His hirelings were contentious enough to lay his roll face up, at least. There was something hard and flat jabbing him in the lower back from below, and after bouncing on it a few times, he guessed it to be the end of Nemo's hammer, although it might have been the hilt of Convel's sword. Oh well, at least it wasn't the other end.
Just then, the motion of the cart slowed, and then stopped altogether. His heart thumped once against his ribcage. Now, this was really where he found out just how good an idea this truly was.
This was the gate of the citadel.

The worst part was the helplessness. While he could vividly picture what was happening outside of his hiding place, the fact that he couldn't actually see what was happening made him decidedly edgy. If something went wrong, there would probably be no way to tell unless it was far too late. Of course, seeing it coming probably wouldn't help either. He had his knife drawn and resting against his chest, ready to cut his way out of the enfolding carpet and leap to the attack. That particular operation however would probably take something in the area of five seconds. Even for the most untrained novice of a fighter striking from an odd position while in a daze, the longest a sword-thrust could ever take as less than a second. Too fast. He had considered it going in, of course, and had just written it off as a necessary risk. Now, he wasn't so sure. Was this really the best way? He had told them all that there was no other way, but was that really true? He could have had some of them create a diversion at a different gate, drawing off some of the guards. He could have split the group into separate infil-teams, having them slip in silently in ones and twos. He could have used lines and grapnels to get them all over the wall. He could have, he could have, he could have. But it was too late for any of that now. He was committed to this course, and all this second-guessing would only serve the purpose of driving him mad.

"So what do we have back here?"
On hearing the muffled, unfamiliar voice, Taraak froze.
"Surdan carpet, sir." Replied the equally muffled voice of one of the men he'd hired. "Imported by caravan from Dras-Leona just this afternoon."
"Awful lot of them, ain't there?"
Taraak held his breath, feeling the top layer of empty carpets stacked on his own prodded by what was probably a spear-butt. Calling on his eidetic memory, he knew that the gate-tunnel through the wall was about twelve feet wide. The cart itself was about eight feet wide. So, if the cart was stopped at about the middle of tunnel, and the soldier was standing on the left side, he would only have about two feet of clearence between the cart and the wall. That wasn't a lot of room for a weapon longer than a short sword, so it might provide Taraak the crucial five seconds...
"We're only to deliver seven of them, sir. We were ordered to bring a dozen plus one carpets to the offices of Zahn Daulo. We understand he's a visiting merchant who's renting some rooms here as a temporary headquarters while he's in town."
Despite his anxiety, Taraak allowed himself a grim smile. Zahn Daulo, of course, did not exist. It was merely a fictional personality that he had used to rent the offices in the citadel. It was amazing what a name and an offer of money could do.
"Oh, aye, you're here on the list." The voice of the soldier said. This now was the moment of truth. It was standard imperial practice to search the cargo before it went through the gate. It was for the reason that he had chosen carpets rather than something like a packing case, because they would be far less convenient to take out and unroll them all one by one. That, coupled with the fact that he had timed it so that they were only minutes away from the changing of the guard, would get them through without the search.
Hopefully.
"Well, on your way then. I'll let my relief know to let you out..." As the voice faded away and the cart resumed swaying, Taraak let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Yes,[/Color] He thought, calming the beating of his heart as the cart moved them a bit closer to the objective. The helplessness is definitely the worst part.[/Color]

Barely moments later, the cart lurched again to a halt. If the drivers had adhered to the plan, this would be one of the side entrances into the main citadel building, the door used by the merchants that were required by law to hold offices here. Sure enough, Taraak felt some pressure removed as the rugs on top of him were lifted aside, and his own roll hefted onto a pair of shoulders. Taraak wondered briefly if this was how potatoes felt like in a sack before chiding himself on the irrelevance.
Focus. Always focus.[/Color]
From his eidetic memory, he knew that it was about fifteen paces down the corridor before the rooms that he had rented. He counted the bounces as the men carrying either end of his rug moved, hoping from that to derive the distance. Sure enough, fourteen bounces later, the men stopped.
Now the door on the left...[/Color]
His head dipped downward as the front man stooped slightly. There was a creak of timber as a door ground open.
Four more paces into the room...
Bounce
Bounce
Bounce
Bounce
Lower gently to the floor...
He didn't realize he had been dropped until the carpet that he was wrapped in hit the stone with a pronounced slap, knocking the wind from him. He suppressed a curse, tasting blood in his mouth as he bit his tongue.
Oh, thanks a whole hell of a lot, you two.[/Color] He thought as the footsteps of his hirelings receded. There will definitely be something extra in your pay after this. Something sharp, cold, generally unpleasant...[/Color]

He preoccupied himself with thoughts like these while he waited to emerge from his hiding place. It had been planned earlier that they would wait until everyone's rugs were delivered before coming out, in case an overly contentious guard came to check on the two hired delivery boys. It made sense, but it also made Taraak the others have to wait for a bit longer, furiously counting the seconds until they could enter the free air again. At last, Taraak heard the last carpet it the floor, and the door shut. He waited another few seconds...
Good enough. He maneuvered his knife around and jabbed through the side of the rug, driving the blade upward. A blast of cold air hit his abdomen, soon widening to his upper chest and his face as he lengthened the rent in his covering. At last, feeling like he was cutting his way out of the belly of some great beast, he wriggled free of the encumbering rolls of the carpet into the cold darkness.

He sprang to his feet immediately, knife at the ready. He knew that unless he had gone badly wrong, there would be no immediate threats, but he had to be sure. The only light in the sparse stone cube of space came from the flickering torchlight that filtered under the door, but his eyes were well-adjusted enough to make out the shapes of six other rolled carpets on the floor in front of him, most of which arms or legs or heads sticking out of them like insects emerging from bizarre cocoons. Only after finding that the room was otherwise empty did he allow himself to relax, sheathing his knife on his arm again. As he moved to help out the others, he allowed himself a small glow of triumph. So, it had worked out so far. No mess, no fuss, no raised alarm, and no bodies.
More importantly, they were inside the citadel.[/size][/blockquote]

[phrostphyre]

Roll him up into a carpet. He could have you know, set something on fire or, killed someone, or SOMETHING! But now Convel felt each bump with every bone in his body, and while they hurt slightly, compounded over time, he was now sore. The time stretched endlessly, with his dirk hilt being driven into his stomach continuously. Growling, he shifted, hoping to roll it out of his stomach. Instead, he just drove it in harder. Unfortunately for Convel, he had been placed face down. He was also on the bottom, so breathing dust that bounced up off the wood of the cart wasn't his idea of fun. They just kept rolling right on, no stops.



~*~
Apparently Convel was Surdan carpeting. He wondered how much he was worth. Though not mattering very much, he still wondered. He should have been sold for about three thousand crowns, at the least. He wasn't just any Surdan carpeting, he was an Alban in a Surdan carpet. Convel figured that if any guards walked in while they were coming out of the carpets, he'd have a surprise worth telling the grandchildren. As they rolled on after being questioned by the guards, Convel breathed a sigh of relief. They had no plan, and he was probably going to be bait. Bait was fine with him, because invariably bait could do whatever it wanted to be the bait. Convel was thinking something with fire and Gaelic yelling. Maybe some horses? Setting the governor's fire on, then stealing the entire stable and yelling in Gaelic would work out nicely. Until the arrows started flying, and then it would be time to set fire to the barracks for the guards. They'd be to busy putting out fires to shoot him full of arrows.

~*~
As the two mercenaries Taraak had hired carried him between them, Convel heard one mutter.
"Gods, this idiot is heavy. What does he eat?" Convel ate parritch every morning. That's what he ate. Not all those sweets and garbage the nobles ate. Nope, he had managed to convince the head chef to cook him a pot of parritch every morning, in return for deer and rabbit to cook with, as the crops seemed to be failing. To Convel's ear, it actually sounded like a normal plant sickness. Give it a year, and everything would be fine. Of course, these idiots didn't have any grain stored to last out the year, so the majority of them would starve.

As Convel landed with a thud, he poked his head out and started wiggling to get free, and spoke in a whisper as he struggled.
"Next time we do that, I'll walk."

[Mali]

Mali didn’t mind the idea of being rolled in a carpet. She would have stayed in her feline form for the ride, but it probably wouldn’t have been as comfortable. Then again, being rolled in a carpet in general wasn’t a comfortable ride. At least she was relatively close to the top of the pile. She had no idea if she was facing up or down, but she was glad to know that no one was lying on top of her. That would not have been comfortable. Kunna whimpered in her mind. She knew exactly how he felt. Being so small and being transported in such confined spaces and at such an angle was a strain on his back and neck. He didn’t like this idea one bit. If he could, he would have voiced his opinion when they had started to roll everyone up. Because he was so young, he hadn’t yet mastered communicating in words, he couldn’t do so. He asked Mali if she would voice his opinions for him, but she told him that it wouldn’t be so bad. She wished that she had been right about that.

The cart rolled to a stop and she heard voices. Her ears twitched, trying to listen to the conversation that they were having. It was some guards and they were checking the cargo. Hopefully they wouldn’t find anything suspicious. She hated the idea of staying in these carpets. Why did they have to be carpets anyways? Why couldn’t they have snuck in? She didn’t mind being transported in, it meant that they wouldn’t waste their energy and wouldn’t be tired by the time they infiltrated the building. It was a very good idea if she should say so. However, the fact that it was so uncomfortable as well as dusty in the cart, she knew that a good number of the team members would not be happy when they get out of their rugs.

She hadn’t been paying much attention to the conversation and was taken out of her musings when the cart started to rock again. They gentle movement was uneasy on her stomach. She really shouldn’t have eaten that rat before they left. She was hungry and even though Kunna had told her not to, it being ‘dirty’, she didn’t listen and told him that she had eaten rats and mice for many years. Curse the fact that this actually upset her stomach. Kunna smiled to her, knowing that he was right. Ignoring his ‘ha ha’ attitude, she felt the cart stop again. Were they there? Moments of silence followed before the felt the weight shift around her. So they were here then. All too soon she was lifted out of the cart and carried into the building.

Her rug was placed on the ground, the sound of footsteps retreated before she pushed at the sides of the rug around her. Stretching the area out a bit, she changed forms, enjoying the bit of extra room she created. Her whiskers brushed the side of the carpet walls and she felt anxious. She didn’t like this rather small compartment. Climbing out of the roll, with Kunnandi following after her, she did a lazy cat stretch, her back high in the air. It felt wonderful to finally be out of there. Meowing to the people who were currently out of their rugs, she sat on her back legs, raising her front paw to her lips. Cleaning herself thoroughly, she had to admit now, that that rug had been dustier than she had originally though. Kunna sat on his behind, his front legs holding him up as he watched Mali. What would happen next? He looked over to Taraak and screeched at him, trying to ask his simple question.

[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[kanoinazuma17]

Kano nodded. "Sounds like fun." He said before standing up. Hopefully it wouldn't be too bad. As he was rolled up, he hoped it wasn't as uncomfortable as it seemed so far. He grunted as his roll of carpeting was thrown into the back of the cart. Kano was aching, and now he was getting irritable, but just a little longer, he had to hold out until they were let off. After a few minutes of jumbling around and ten new bruises later, some in places he didn't wish to have them.

His rug was jolted as the cart stopped, and he couldn't help but curse under his breath as his head collected another bruise. By now he had a black eye, bruises all over his head, and all up and down his body. His rug was picked up and he twitched. Kano was going to kill someone if he ever got the chance. He was being beaten up and the mission hadn't even started yet, at least he didn't think it had started.

Kano tracked the paces and the turns in his mind, the man suddenly turning down a corridor and his head hitting the wall. He stifled the urge to swear as the back of his head hit the wall. He heard a door creek and he watched from the end of the roll the other few rolls. He wanted to get out, but he wasn't going to wiggle his way out until everyone was there.