Everything to Lose (Kieran)

[Angmor]

For Kyemen, the novelty of unconsciousness had worn off a long time ago. It was rather like flying, actually. The first time was special. The second and third were intresting.
From then on, it was simply routine. A part of the job.

The first thing Kyemen was aware of that he was lying with his back against something hard. He tried to move, but he was quickly dissuaded by the pounding of his head, throbbing in sympathy with his pulse. Wincing, he relaxed again. Oof, bad idea.

[/Color] He thought groggily to himself. You'd think I'd learn...[/Color]
He knew from experience that his head would clear eventually, as his senses slowly returned. Better to wait for that to happen as he puzzled out just how he had ended up here.

It had started fairly innocuously, as such things usually did. It seemed that he and Sierthra were finally working their way back into Nasuada's good graces after the Peace Summit fiasco. They had been assigned to travel through the Empire, picking up the contents of dead-letter drops used by the Varden underground in various cities and towns. It was not a difficult assignment, but it was definitely far more exciting than the desk-jockey work Kyemen had been pulling lately.
Or at least, it shouldn't have been difficult.
The first stop on the list had been Dras-Leona, at a drop located at the base of an old statue on the lakeshore several miles south of the city. Sierthra had merely been flying along, minding their own business as the skimmed the treetops, when Kyemen remembered a sudden jolt, and suddenly Sierthra's forward thrust seemed to turn into a downward arc.
A very fast downward arc.
The last thing he remembered was crashing through the tree canopy, before something struck him straight under the jaw and he knew no more.

Now of course it was fairly obvious to him that he was not lying on the floor of some forest, which meant that he must have been captured by someone or other. He doubted the crash had been from natural causes anyway, which meant that the underground's dropsite had been discovered, and the whole thing had probably been a trap from the beginning. Which meant, therefore, he was probably on his way to Uru-Baen right now, scheduled to have his mind ripped out by an insane monarch who probably would not remember their previous meeting with any kind of fondness. In short, Kyemen decided, he was in trouble.
Just then, a voice penetrated the dark fog surrounding his senses, breaking in on his musings. "Oy, I think 'es comin' around, sir."
Apparently he had regained enough consciousness within the past minutes to start hearing what was going on. Good, that meant the rest of his senses would not be far behind, and he could start getting some answers to his flood of questions.
"I do believe you're right, Dast." Came a second voice, deeper, much more cultured, carrying with it a resonance of command that made Kyemen think of certain army officers he had known. He tried, but he could not quite concentrate enough to pinpoint the exact direction of the speaker from where he lay. It was probably a useless gesture, anyway. Only the supremely confident and the fatally stupid would leave a prisoner unrestrained, especially if that prisoner was a Dragon Rider. The smell was what he noticed next, a pungent, soothing combination of straw and oiled leather that vividly reminded him of king Orrin’s stables in Aberon. That was odd. He had always imagined that imperial prison wagons would be scented with all the smells of human misery, not something that evoked pleasant memories in most people. And yet, he decided that he was indeed in a cart of some sort, if the slightly rolling, jouncing motion was any indicator. Finally, pushing his way against the dark fog in his brain, he opened his eyes.
For a moment, he thought he must have damaged his eyes, as his vision was at first dim and indistinct. After a moment however, he realized that he must have some kind of dark bag or blindfold over his eyes, which reduced his vision to little more than contrast between light and shadow. He was however able to make out the shape of the space in front of him, enough to tell that he was indeed on one side of some kind of enclosed cart or caravan.
And on the other side was the shape of two men.

“Ah, you’re finally back to the land of the living, I see.” Said the man on the left, the cultured voice, his black shape bouncing slightly as the cart must of hit a particularly large bump. Although he could make out nothing of either man’s features, it was immediately clear to Kyemen that neither man was a member of the imperial army.
Very carefully, Kyemen experimented with moving his arms. Sure enough, he found his wrists to be shackled to something with some kind of chain. Not a very short chain, but too short certainly for him to reach his captors. Still, maybe they had missed a trick. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the magic, preparing a spell that would break the chains like dry matchwood…
For some reason he couldn’t fathom at that time, the words to the spell seemed to slip away from him like oil scattering the on the surface of water. Frowning, he tried again, trying to summon enough concentration instead to summon up the spell to stun the men long enough to escape…
Again, nothing. What’s wrong with me?[/Color]
The somewhat smaller of the two stirred. “Ah, yes.” Came the smooth voice again, finally identifying the source. “I’m very sorry about that. We had to drug you rather thoroughly. My herbalist assures me that you will be unable to use magic for at least another few hours, not to mention some issues with reflexes and balance. It is a measure I rather regret, but you must admit, it’s really the only practical way to make sure a Rider stays where you put him. Again, I’m very sorry.”
Ah, so that explained the odd buzzing in his skull, and why his thoughts seemed to scatter like a flock of birds whenever he tried to get a grip on them. With a small sigh, he gave up. “I see you’ve thought f’everything.” He said finally, his words sounding slightly slurred in his own ears. Carefully, he started to lever himself into a sitting position as he gathered together whatever concentration he could muster to deal with the negotiation to come. As he did, a sudden thought occurred to him, making his heart jump into his throat in panic. He could no longer feel Sierthra. The spot in his conscious that should have led into her warm, comforting presence was only dark, like a hole in his mind. “What have y’done with Sierthra?” He almost yelled. “F’you hurt her-“
“Calm yourself, Mr. Straethir. She is quite safe, under the care of the rest of my organization. I would never damage such a valuable prize, especially such a rare and beautiful creature as she. You may rest assured, she will be quite safe, as long as you do as I say."
Fighting the pounding of his pulse, Kyemen forced himself to calm down. This was the time for a clear head and careful planning, not rash anger. "L'right. I c'tell you're not with the Empire." He said finally. "So who are you, and what d'you want?"
There was a huff of amusement. "No, we are not with the Empire. I am merely a humble businessman, looking to turn a profit in these troubled times. You may call me Myst."
Kyemen struggled to piece together a cuttingly clever remark on the odd name, but his attempts flew from his grasp like leaves on the wind. "Myst." He said instead. "Interesting. So what is it y'want?"
"I admit, that was something of a puzzle. You see, after going to all the trouble to catch you, I admit I had given little thought to what I would do with you after that. I could do the obvious thing and turn you in to the Empire, but they are just holding too many trump cards to be completely trustworthy The Varden on the other hand has never reneged on a deal, but they cannot afford to pay nearly the same amount. Helll, I could even sell you to someone else on the fringe who thinks they might be able to turn a profit, but that of course carries its own interesting set of challenges."
Kyemen found himself slightly disturbed at hearing himself discussed as if he was a horse or a piece of livestock to be sold and bartered, but he supposed it was simply how this man viewed the world. Everything with its own relative worth.
He swallowed, feeling the first stirrings of fear within his chest. "Fine," He said. "So what did you decide?"
He could hear the smile in Myst's voice. "In the end, I decided on the Varden. It wasn't the most popular decision among my men, but I figure that a little less of something is far better than all of nothing. That's why I'm letting you go. You can contact your rebel friends without all the rigarmerole of confirming that we truly have you. And, if my lore is correct, I will get the same price as if I held both of you, as a Rider cannot survive without his dragon."
Unconsciously, Kyemen breathed a bit easier. Yes, the situation was bad, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. "I understand. What are your terms?"
The figure of Myst leaned forward slightly, obviously getting to the part that interested him. "I like your attitude. My price for the release of your dragon is forty-eight hundred crowns in imperial currency. You will raise the ransom, and I will contact you with instructions for the trade in four days."
Kyemen blinked. No, he must have heard wrong. "H'many days?"
"Four days, starting at sunrise."
Kyemen's heart sank. "What? How can you possibly expect me to get to Surda and back with the ransom without flying? I need more time!"
"Hardly. I have considered this, and I am afraid this point is not negotiable. You see, I am not confident in my ability to detain the lovely lady for any amount of time. I am well familiar with the slippery nature of this endeavor, so I'm not one to push my luck. So, after four days, I will turn her over to the Empire."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Very simple. I happen to know for a fact that that the Varden has many underground cells within Dras-Leona. All you need to do is make contact with one of these and hav them get you a mage to send a message to Surda. If they are prompt, the ransom should arrive here with a few hours to spare. Someone of your standing within the Varden should have no trouble throwing some official weight around."
"Maybe so, but I don't know how to contact the underground." It was the truth, actually. He also knew beyond a doubt that Myst would not.
He was right.
He didn't.
Myst sighed theatrically. "You know, I really do regret having to drug you. I would have enjoyed a real game of bluff and counter-bluff with you. Everyone tries it, you know. It would have been nice to have seen what you could come up with when you were halfway capable of coming up with a decent lie."
As Myst finished speaking, Kyemen realized that the cart had stopped moving some time before. His spirits dropped even further. Not only was he being put into an impossible situation, he was being given almost no time to negotiate.
"Now," Myst said. "Do you have any questions or statements before we part ways?"
Kyemen thought quickly, wracking his sluggish brain for some way he could possibly get something out of this...
"My sword." He said quickly. "It's the only way the underground will know it's me."
There was a brief silence. Then the shadow of Myst stirred slightly, and Kyemen heard a sound more familiar to him than his own voice.
The clink of his sword in its sheath.
"Ah. Well, I'm afraid I rather took a fancy to your sword in the time that we had you, so I've taken it as my share of the ransom. Don't worry, I'm not gouging you; the price was originally an even fifty-thousand. No, I will be keeping this blade. Your face and that shiny mark on your palm will be quite sufficient for identification. Now, if you’re quite finished…” Myst snapped his shadowy fingers, and the figure of the larger man stood up, blocking out the light from the caravan’s window. There was a sound that that made Kyemen think of old door hinges swinging outward, and he felt his shackles fall away one after another. Strong arms seized him, forcing him to stand and placing him on a certain section of floor.
“Remember Mr. Straethir,” Came Myst’s voice, this time from his left. “You just raise the ransom. I will contact you in four days. Don’t worry, we’ll know where to find you. Just do as we ask, and we can all go home happy.”
With that, Kyemen was shoved hard in the back. The floor beneath his feet vanished, and he found himself falling uncontrollably forward. He landed on something hard and unyielding, knocking the breath from him. As he lay gasping like a landed fish, something heavy and yet oddly floppy landed on his back, making him think unpleasantly for a pile of entrails. Above and behind him, the old hinges creaked shut. A whip cracked, and the ground beneath him rumbled loudly enough to make his teeth rattle as the caravan pulled away, fading quickly into silence.

How long he lay there, he had no way of knowing. It could have been hours or seconds before he finally regained enough motor control to haul himself into a sitting position and remove the shroud from his eyes. His vision cleared, and he was finally able to get some hint of where he was.
Sure enough, he had been dropped off in Dras-Leona, in one of the lowest slum districts he had ever seen. The smell of sewer that instantly assaulted his senses was almost enough to make him retch and gag, and he dared not think about just what he might have landed on. The stench was made even worse by the choked, unmoving heat of the air imprisoned by the tall rows of ramshackle buildings on either side. For a moment, he thought that they were all abandoned. Only then did he spot the faces looking out at him out of dark windows and from the shadow of doorways. Children's faces, mostly, streaked with mud and dirt, staring at him with the same sort of expression he had seen on animals of the night, caught in the light of his lamp. Three teenaged girls sat just outside one doorway, paying him only a casual sort of interest as they went about weaving crude baskets out of dry reeds. Having a kidnapper drop a blindfolded and drugged personage from the back of a cart was not a very unusual occurrence around here, apparently.
Satisfied that he was not in immediate danger, Kyemen was left with no recourse but to sit and think, and consider his options.
There weren't many.
He had been perfectly truthful when he'd said he didn't know how to contact the underground. Intelligence was by design a very close and secretive bunch in the Varden ranks. People of his echelon, usually including Nasuada herself, would just take the information supplied and act on it without asking where it came from. But this now left him with no resources, and no one he could call upon for help outside of Surda, and there was no possible way he could get there and back before his four days were up. The distances to anywhere were suddenly so much greater that it made his head spin. Of course, he and Sierthra had faced far worse situations than this, but they had always faced them together. Now her absence was like he was missing half of his soul, and it was most certainly the better half. On top of everything else, the sense of utter loneliness and fear for her safety made him want to crawl into a hole and let the weight of his terror crush him to death. It was over. Hopeless.

As he thought this, he suddenly noticed that his legs had become tangled in the thing that had landed on him, seeing it now as a mess of leather straps. After a moment, Kyemen recognized it as his weapons belt and bandoleer. Although his sword and throwing daggers were mussing, both of his matched longknives were still sheathed in their usual places. Blowing out a slow breath, Kyemen reached out to grasp one of the well-worn wooden hilts, drawing the blade with an unconscious flourish. These blades had been with him a long time, longer even than his sword, having seen him through many adventures even before he left the Guarding Forest. Their wooden grips had faded to a dull grey simply out of age and use, and he figured that their swirling grain would now form an exact negative of his handprint. He hefted the blade for ballance as he had countless times before, letting out a deep sigh. He wasn't sure what it was, but any situation always seemed that much brighter with a weapon in hand. No, he resolved, it was not hopeless. Yes, he was missing the person that completed him like no one else could, the person who had made him into so much more, but he was not helpless. Even without Sierthra, he was still the Kyemen Straethir that had wandered on his own for over a hundred years. To save her, he would need remember what that was like. He would become the old Kyemen, the Kyemen that could survive on his own. This resolving hardening in his mind like an unmovable boulder amid the fog, he stood up, sheathing his knife determinedly. No, he might have been trapped in enemy territory with no one to help him, but he would not let that stop him…
He let the thought trail off, skittering away into the folds of his consciousness. And idea had occurred to him. It was a foggy, half idea at first, but it slowly loomed out of the fog like an incoming ship before finally taking full shape, causing a slow smile to spread over his face. At first, he debated with himself. Did he really need to? He did need information in order to plan his next move. At the very least, he needed a place to hide. Yet still, he didn’t like it. It was an underhanded and manipulative thing to do, something that he should not have even thought of. And yet, there was nothing else to do. It was a compromise that he would not have made even hours before now.
I guess the old me isn’t buried as deeply as I thought.[/Color]
With a final deep breath to collect his wits, Kyemen began his unsteady stride up the street, locking his mind on nothing else besides his destination.
He might not have had any friends here, but there was someone who was going to help him.[/size][/blockquote]

[Ze Flying Wraithetti Monstress]

I’d never thought it possible, being the most powerful person in Dras-Leona. But it had.

I was bored.

“Mr. Kolbjorn!” Helaku, up to his ears in full tankards of mead, nearly tripped on his feet as he came bolting up to me. “One of the patrons has set Table 13 on fire!”
Dead.
“KOLBJORN!” Arlen, surrounded by his pack of thugs, had taken up a position about three inches from my face. “What happened to that Eisolae, then, eh?”
Listless.
“Hi, Kieran,” tittered Naima, who had somehow stuffed her enormous rack of lamb into a tiny corset that looked about ready to explode. “Could you tie this for me?”
Cloyed.

Nothing of any particular interest had happened all day. First thing in the morning, I’d been rousing those who’d been too drunk to get themselves home last night and kicking them out, then had practically run a godforsaken restaurant the entire day. I’d been hoping that things might kick up once the sun set, but it was all the same. Bar fights, angry weapons and illegal substance dealers, and the much-too-attractive girls as they got trussed up in their dancing outfits before they started making their rounds- same old, same old. I’d been living this life for a hundred years, though, admittedly, I hadn’t been running it since a little while ago. I sat unmoving behind the bar, chin held firmly in my hand as I watched the goings-on without the slightest shred of interest. The maniacs constantly hovering around me didn’t even incur a raise of the eyebrow.

I sent my nephew to douse the fire with a wave of my hand, irritably explained to Arlen that no, I had not captured and/or slaughtered the snitching elven bitch, and calmly fixed Naima’s corset and sent her off to do her dirty work without so much as a cheeky grope. There was nothing else to do- I had no orders to go on, no snoopy Imperials or Vardeners to properly bash, and I didn’t even have anything to do for the coalition of doom and hell. I was actually rather happy about that one- after the life-threatening misadventures I’d had on ‘op 1’, I was not exactly ready to lay down my life again for some stupid plant blight and the ending of the war that my organization’s economy actually depended on. And that didn’t even include the fact that I had to keep it secret from everyone, including my superiors- and insubordination in the Hive was worthy of death.

In fact, if one were to look carefully, it would be supremely unobvious that I had just suffered one of the most terrifying encounters I had endured in my nearly four hundred years of living. Besides the curled lip that revealed my irritation, I was entirely shipshape- my wounds were long healed, my hair had been recently hacked at with a razor so that it hardly reached my ears, and my face was clean-shaven. This morning, Renata had grabbed my chin and twisted it this way and that before declaring, “Mr. Kolbjorn, you look pretty!” and even that had only brought a faint smile to my lips. I was one sick puppy if even my daughter failed to bring me any joy. If something, anything, didn’t happen, I was sure I would descend into a madness-driven-

“K-K-K-KIERAN! Muf-alla-gwee-gah! HUUUUUUUUUUULP!”

The entire tavern froze. The voice, though comparable to a dying moose that had recently swallowed a chipmunk, was distinctly Kyemen Straethir’s.

Well, I had been idiot enough to ask for it.

I waited for the entire population of my inn to descend into screeches of joy as they attempted to capture a probably badly-inebriated Varden Rider, but the room was full of nothing but confused blinks, snickers, and perplexed glances at me. I frowned, rising to my feet and peering across the mass of heads. I hardly recognized Straethir- he was slouched over, his face smeared with grime and dirt, and he looked like he was about to have a heart attack- nothing like the deceptively quiet, unsure Rider that I currently owed my life to. At any rate, the place relaxed, probably taking him to be some drone of mine that had run into trouble. One of the girls, Sirena, even had the kindness to take a mug of beer, kneel gently beside him, and tip a bit of alcohol into his mouth. He coughed and spat, clearly in distaste, but it did seem to calm him down a little.

“Th-thank you,” he muttered. Then he glanced at me. Despite the intervening distance, the look in his eyes told me everything. He needed my help, and now.

Damn that Kyemen Straethir. All he ever did was cost me time, money, and my health.

“Alright, ladies!” I barked, clapping my hands together. “We’re closin’ early. Everybody out, right now!” The room became a cacophony of groans from the patrons and complaints of losing money from my staff. “I mean it! If you ain’t outta here in two minutes, we’ll give you a little hand. OUT!” As I spoke, I walked over to Straethir, who was leaning against a wall to support himself.
“You didn’t- I mean, you really shouldn’t have-”
“Shut it, drunkie. Yous on my land now. What-” I sniffed, but I detected no alcohol on him. And at closer glance, his eyes were clouded, and his wrists were covered with lesions, like he’d recently been bound. I clicked my tongue. Apparently, this was as bad, if not worse, than op 1. I waved at Naima again. “Oi, woman. Take him up to an empty room. The best one. Get freezing water and warm sheets- for fuck’s sake! Take off your shoes, damn you! I just cleaned that floor! And get Phaco and Zagan to guard the door. We’re lookin’ for thugs, prolly Impies. Make sure they ain’t welcome here.”

Naima had Straethir lean on her arm as she took him upstairs, chatting to him with soothing words as I picked up Straethir’s mud-soaked shoes, snarling at them. I immediately went to the broom closet in the back, got the sponge and bucket, and furiously scrubbed at the filth that had been tracked into my establishment. The Saloon only tended to those who had the decency or the money to keep themselves clean. I wasn’t about to let Hymen ruin that fine reputation. As I cleaned mercilessly, and the inn emptied of everyone except my workers, it wasn’t long before I heard a rattling at the door. Phaco and Zagan, both Nomads who cleared the seven-foot mark, took up their positions at the door. However, just as I suspected, Galbatorix’s soldier boys were not the knocking type, and they practically kicked my entire entrance down. A solid unit of four came marching in, heads held high for about fourteen seconds. And then they realized.

They were way out of their league. The Empire couldn’t touch the Hive, let alone a ragtag unit full of milksops. The looks of smug pride were immediately replaced by nervousness and fear as they got a proper look around at my Saloon’s inhabitants. Even the girls packed enough knives and self-defence moves to put impecunious customers in a very painful place. I rose from my scrubbing, giving them the very best death glare I could muster. Only the sarge didn’t waver under my gaze, positioning his pike and sticking his nose into the air, clearly about to launch into a speech.

“We are the forty-second unit of the Imperial Army!” he bellowed. “We are…”
“A pack of nancy cats who ain’t in their league!” I snarled. “Cut to the chase or get the hell out!”
“Er… we are tracking a suspicious personage who coincidentally entered your establishment shortly before every other patron left! Where is he?”
“Suspicious personage? I have no idea who the fu-”
“Then tell us, dear sir, about those.” He pointed accusingly at the muddy footprints and even-muddier shoes of Straethir.
“Um… well, they’re mine, jerkass. You see?” Hating myself, but most of all, Straethir, for every single second that I did it, I cautiously stepped into his shoes- he was smaller than me- and awkwardly marched across the floor, tracking even more mud.
“Alright, alright!” snapped the sarge, although he seemed more concerned about Phaco and Zagan than me. “We’re… in the wrong place, clearly. Boys, let’s move.”

I watched them leave with a fixated glare. The moment they cleared out, I swore vehemently, kicking off the shoes and attacking the mud with my sponge. The moment- the very moment- that I finished this cleaning, I would go upstairs, hack Straethir into pieces, sew him back up, question him, and then kill him again.

Words;; 1454
Muse;; Not that bad, actually!
Thoughts;; Not my best, but not bad either. ^^