Gale Extempore [Angmor]

[Formula]

It started with a crackle, and ended with a scream.

The sun had long since retreated beneath the cloud-smothered horizon, leaving only a tenebrous twilight to remain and claim the sky for its own. None of the people of Reavstone paid much heed to the distant announcements and warnings of thunder and lightning, such striking tempests more or less commonplace in their proximity to the sea. The ships they had made a home for were safely docked and the fishermen had come in to avoid the potential dangers.

All men on land; all heads accounted for.

Though Reavstone had few visitors for its ultimate lack of tactical worth in this time of strife, a few fresh faces had denoted themselves as tourists by gawking at the black clouds that rolled in with all of the malice and intent to kill of an angry sleuth of bears. They pointed and scurried off into shelter long before the rain had started, most of them barking about the intensity to come but some simply keeping to themselves as they disappeared into the local inn. Night was coming, and on his arm was the lady of choice for the evening; a lady of chaos and storms. As the day drew its final breath, the pair of them came together in harmony and sync, a ballroom dance of madness to the veil of nature that would leave all others at the masquerade to simply watch in awe and appreciation.

A bard began to sing a tune, a lovely young thing with blonde hair and green eyes, and curves that made even the married dare the angered slaps of their wives. The Blue Sage Inn was alight with spirit and a frenzy of activity that it had been left without for years. Men were jovial, women aggressive, and the staff of the floor level tavern overworked but pleased for the sudden influx of coin. A table of men sat close as they could to the bard woman – introduced by herself as Viyene Maroux – and leered as much as they cheered for her talents. Locals, intrigued by the unique commotion, became interested enough to brave the now abusive rains and traipse into the tavern room, becoming a part of the party and further filling the room. Few were not at least a minor part of the festivities, though some spoke quietly amidst themselves and seemed none the wiser to the oddities. Oddities that existed and that, much to Maeve's quietly and secretively onlooking chagrin..

.. No one had bothered to ask why.

And so it was that their unique night became even more peculiar, when one such private and quiet man had stood up and screamed something unintelligible – incoherent, even! – to another across his table. He'd slammed his fist against the table in his ire, knocking over his untouched drink and, suddenly, all things stopped to be reborn.

Rebirth did not come in the guise of smiles or laughter, but in the ensuing inferno and blazes of an explosion unexpected. Fire and shrieks of pain and startlement riddled through the air, blood and the horrific causes for its decorating so many things scarcely believable as the rain now raged in above their heads and yet could hardly combat the raging pyre once known as the Blue Sage. Some simply sat, shocked or dead, and others ran in futile panic to try for exits and freshly made escape routes. The yelling man was not to be seen, but to say anyone was distinctly looking for him would have been an outright lie – they were just looking to save their lives.

The short lived impromptu party was visited now by more guests, though the bystanders and would-be rescuers were helpless as they watched their loved ones and neighbors try and escape. A few managed to steel themselves against the fury and run into the flames to help, but most simply yelled and sobbed, assuming their comrades dead or, worse, watching them die.

Another crackle of thunder and a flash of lightning boomed overhead; and a thousand questions became ignited with the fire.

[Angmor]

Taraak wondered just how messed up he had to be when a trip to Reavestone was considered stressful.
Reavstone, after all, was nothing. Although it was formally Surda’s main seaport, since the start of the war, had been defunct to basically the status of a fishing village, with no strategic value to either side. It had become an idyllic island amid a sea of war, about the most stress-free place one could find.
For most people.
For Taraak, the complete lack of anything even resembling a threat always left him with just too much time to think. About his past, and even more, about his future.
Tonight at least was different from the usual amount of inactivity when he came here. He had been walking in the face of a light rain for the past few minutes, and was currently shielding his eyes against the spray to take in the towering shape of the incoming storm. He had always liked storms, for some reason. Rain and darkness always meant concealment, but turbulent winds and intermittent flashes of light helped even more to one who knew how to take advantage of it. Tonight would be the perfect night for a stealth operation. He lowered his hand again, sighing as he resumed his course. Unfortunately, that was not his errand here. His current objective was something far less superlative. Compared to his normal bag of tricks, the operation of this dark and turbulent night was a proverbial milk-run.

Two days before, he and several others of his profession had approached Rider Straethir with evidence of a conspiracy against the Varden, a mysterious shadow-faction responsible for sabotaging the peace summit of Feinster. Straethir, while not entirely convinced, had encouraged them all to look into the matter further, leaning on whatever sources they might have. Taraak smiled. As if they needed the permission. Still, he had personally taken it as proof that at least someone in the Varden command structure would eventually take this threat seriously, and was therefore just cause for approaching one very good source he had.
One very good source indeed.

Bye the time he reached the Blue Sage Inn, the storm felt as if it was about finished with its warmup exercises, like a lutist cracking his fingers before going on to a challenging song. And this was looking to be one powerful song.
Because of this, after a scan of the area, stepping through the doorway of the Inn was just about the same as stepping into another world.
Immediately he was confronted with a dazzling wall of warm torch- and candlelight, followed instantly by the overwhelming sound of droning conversation and laughter, presided over by a sweetly resonant female voice singing a lively ballad. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, the contours of a long, square room was slowly revealed to his sight. As far as inns went, it was rather typical of the furnishings: wooden-plank walls held in place by enormous oaken beams, long wooden tables arranged in neat rows, a long bar in the back with doors to what was probably a kitchen area, and a stairway on one side to the rented rooms on the second floor. This led up to a railed walkway that looked out over half the common room, and some part of Taraak's mind noted that an archer or two placed up there could command a very wide view of the situation, but he pushed it down. It was a tavern, not an imperial fortress. All in all, it was a typical inn, except for one critical difference; the people in it. On most nights in troubled times, there would be perhaps six to ten regulars at a tavern on a night like this. Now, it appeared that most of Reavstone was here, gathering merrily as if in a collective act of defiance against the fury of the storm outside. Almost every table had at least two people sitting at it, whether in heated games of dice or cards, boisterous conversation, or enraptured by the singing girl whose presence seemed to dominate the room. However, most of those gathered had a decidedly non-local look about them, and the ones that looked like they belonged here were primarily the ones ogling the bard. Alone, the crowding would have meant there was something off. As it was, it meant that he had probably come to the right place.

Throwing back his rain-soaked hood, he started deeper into the room, casually scanning faces as he threaded his way through the knots of patrons. Crowds were always better for his line of work, and the distraction of the young bard made sure that no one gave his unremarkable visage much more than a cursory glance.
Very quickly, he spotted the bodyguards. They were subtle in their way, of course, but they were not difficult to find for one who was trained to know what to look for. It was the way their sightlines both swept over the same spot every few seconds that gave them away. Like clockwork, their gazes always came back to a lone man sitting on one of the tall barstools at the back of the room, conversing amiably with the innkeeper. The problem with clockwork, however, was that it was predictable. It was but the work of the moment to spot a small gap in the pattern where neither guard was looking at his charge. Quickening his pace just slightly, he slipped neatly through the gap and slid onto the empty stool beside the man. "You usually travel a bit better protected than this," He commented quietly.
For his credit, the man beside him did not seem very concerned that a man had slipped past his bodyguards. "I usually have more polite enemies, too. And you are...?" He said, turning to scan him with a thoughtful look on his face. Taraak just waited. A man such as this would remember him eventually, and no further clarification would be needed after that. Sure enough, there was a look of budding recognition that blossomed across his face like the sun breaking through the clouds.
"Taraak! I'm sorry, I feel like I really should have recognized you when you came in." He said, subtly gesturing at the bodyguards that had been quickly making their way forward since they had noticed the spy's sudden appearance. Their expressions of concern were rather comical to watch, but they dutifully resumed their spots, this time doubly alert.
"I have that kind of face," Taraak chuckled, watching them go before turning his attention back to the man.
In appearance, Rygier Tahn was a man who never surrendered to his age. Although well on the sunny side of fifty, he was still intensely fit and trim. His sharp, hawk-like face did not show the slightest bit of sag, and piercing brown eyes were just as keen as ever. About the only sign of age he couldn't hide was the graying silver of his hair, so he did not even try, displaying it proudly as a crown of honor.
Tahn's reputation as one of the best information broker in the business was another thing that was undamaged by time.
Taraak however was slightly dubious. Normally Tahn would be traveling in a far less conspicuous manner, so he began to wonder if perhaps the man had become too set in his power to care about such things as operational awareness. Definitely something to keep an eye on.

Tahn gestured for the barkeep. "A warm drink for my wet guest, if you please. He's a bit of a lightweight, so better make it a mulled cider." With that, he turned back to Taraak. "So, what brings a man such as you into the middle of boring nowhere? Something happening around here that is carefully concealed from the eyes of the public?"
Taraak shrugged noncommittally. "Not really. Just running errands, the usual boring minutia, and I heard you were in town." It wasn't true, of course. He had come for one reason and one reason only, but he had learned a long time ago that haggling for price was always a lot easier you didn't let on just how much you needed the item being sold. This in mind, he inclined his head slightly in the direction of the young bard. "One of yours?"
Some part of his mind tried to tell him that she was about his age and ravishingly pretty, but the message didn't quite manage to reach his conscious before being intercepted by his training and being summarily dismissed as irrelevant.
Tahn smiled slightly. "Ah yes, my young Viyenne. I picked her up from some slave-traders a few months ago, and I figured I'd let her have some fun while we're out here. She's got a real talent, and she loves attention. A word of advice for you, there is no distraction quite as effective as a beautiful girl. You'd be amazed what she hears."
"I can imagine." And I don't think I want to.

[/Color] Taraak added silently. "Better keep her away from Uru-Baen. She has the look of a court scandal waiting to happen."
Tahn chuckled. "That's the idea. Look, I can see that all this petty smalltalk is a trial for you. Why don't you tell me what you're really doing here?"
Taraak suppressed a wince. "Is it that obvious?"
"Not really. But I haven't gotten to where I am by being unable to read faces. What can I do for you?"
Taraak opened his mouth to speak- then stopped, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye as the barkeeper deposited the steaming tankard in front of him. Tahn caught the hint, pushing back his stool and led the way toward one of the empty tables. A moment later, they were settled in probably the most private part of the gathering, the sound of any talking neatly masked by the echoing acoustics of the room. This wasn't the first deal that Tahn had transacted since he had been here, then. Good to know.
"So," The older man said, settling into full information brokerage mode as he lowered himself ponderously into the chair. "You were about to say?"
"I was about to say, I need some information." Taraak said as he unstrapped his bow and quiver and took the chair beside Tahn. "Think you can handle that?"
Tahn smiled. "I think perhaps I can. Coin or account?"
"We'll settle on price later, depending on how good the information is. Basically, I have some pieces of a particular puzzle, but not enough to guess at the picture. I need you to fill in the blanks. What can you tell me about a recent meeting of the thieves’ guild?" Up until that point, Tahn looked bored and disinterested, a man who'd heard all this before. At the mention of the thieves guild however, he sat up and took notice with a sudden jolt of energy. "The thieves’ guild, you say? Well, we may not need to settle on a price then, and instead go for an exchange."
Taraak frowned. Just what had he walked into here? "What do you mean exchange?"
"I mean that the whole reason I and my organization is here is because we too are seeking information on the thieves’ guild."

Physically, nothing in the room changed. The lights stayed bright, and the soothing cacophony of voices remained undimmed, even if Viyenne had switched to a mournful sonnet of two lovers dealing with separation. Despite this however, Taraak felt as if the entire atmosphere had changed. He had thought that coming out here would simply confirm what he already knew. But if a man like Rygier Tahn had come out here personally looking for information on the same thing as he, then he must have stumbled on something far bigger.
"Really." Was all he said, rather proud of himself for not letting his outward appearance of indifference falter even for a second. "Well, I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours."
Tahn chuckled lightly. "Agreed. I usually wouldn't, but I trust you to hold up your end..." He trailed off incongruously, his attention drawn elsewhere by something in the room.
Already cursing himself for lack of vigilance for not noticing first, Taraak looked up...
Just in time to see the final few steps in the approach of an unfamiliar man before the uninvited guest sat languidly in the chair opposite them.
"Hello, Rygier." The newcomer said pleasantly, setting a wickedly sharp looking throwing-knife on the table with one hand. "It's been a long time."

Taraak felt his heart thump once against his ribcage as adrenaline hit his system, sharpening his focus with a sudden blistering clarity. Apart from the man who had just sat down, there were five of them. All five had been men that Taraak had taken for idle revelers at first glance, but now they had undergone a subtle transformation, sitting up straight and suddenly focusing on Tahn and himself with hard expressions, three of them with one hand buried inside their clothes as if ready to draw out a weapon. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that there was three more behind him, with the same glowering expressions. Another interesting fact was that the position of their seating had neatly cut off Tahn from his bodyguards.
For his part, Tahn's single blink was the only thing to indicate that this development was the slightest bit unexpected. "Greetings, Jorath." He said lightly. "How are things in Mazin's organization?"
The man, now identified as Jorath, scowled deeply. "They'd be a lot better if you weren't muscling in on his territory. Mazin doesn't take kindly to people trying to work his turf without asking him first."
Ah, the picture suddenly became a little clearer. Taraak now figured he was looking in at a rivalry between Tahn's group and another fringe organization, and he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, perhaps the right place. If he helped Tahn live through this, then Tahn would owe him a favor. Being able to call in favors for the Varden was always a useful endeavor. But what could he do? His bow and quiver was sitting against the leg of his chair, but they might as well have been on the other side of Surda for how fast he could reach them. About the only advantage he had was the fact that he still had his hands below the level of the table...
Tahn raised an eyebrow, his tone still calm. "I've been muscling in on his turf? How do you mean?
Jorath's eyes flashed. "Don't play stupid. You've been down here asking questions and working sources. You're after intel on this Varden thing. So I'm here to tell you from Mazin, just once; get out. Gather your people, and go"
Taraak decided immediately that he did not like how the conversation was going. Ever so slowly, he reached into his left sleeve...
"I'm sorry Jorath, but I still don't know what you mean." Tahn said, his tone now decidedly wheedling. "What have I done but had a few drinks in a few inns? I'm just looking for a little relaxation while I satisfy a matter of personal curiosity, nothing more. Why don't I buy us all a drink, and we talk about this..."
Jorath apparently was of the type where it didn't take a whole lot to set him off. He jumped up, roaring. "I've had enough from you Tahn!" He snatched up the knife from the table, raising it for a throw that would neatly transfix Tahn through the heart-
Taraak didn't think. As soon as he saw the sudden movement before him, his body decided that it didn't need the permission of his conscious mind in order to act. In a single motion, he drew his knife from his sleeve and threw it as hard as he could, the blade revolving once under the table before burying itself into a lower part of Jorath's anatomy. Taraak didn't see where, but judging from the man's sudden incoherent screaming, it was a fairly painful area. Knowing that the danger was only just beginning, he swiveled to his right and placed both feet against Tahn's chair before pushing off hard, sending their chairs skidding apart just as the space between them was filled with a flashing length of steel.

His chair traveled several feet before one leg finally caught an uneven section of floor, sending him tipping backward. Having been expecting this, he channeled the momentum of the fall into a backward roll that carried him neatly to his feet...
In the middle of three enemies with drawn daggers in their hands.
Now, he was perfectly aware of the fact that he was now completely and totally unarmed and up against at least nine opponents. Yet somehow, he could not really find himself worried about this fact.
He would wait until after the fight. Then he would reflect on how hopeless it was.[/size][/blockquote]

[Formula]

Between the werecat and the curious human she'd been growing accustomed to tailing, their exchanges had been brief if noteworthy at all. She wondered more than once, though absently at best, if Taraak was even aware that she was still present at all times; that she followed well and keenly into territories better left alone. This was one such occasion, of course, Maeve's aureate gaze penetrating through the darkness as she peered in from the surrounding shadows and trees, from bushes and the cover of thick foliage pelted with rain, through the windows of the inn that wisely ignored her altogether. The safety of her hidden vantage provided her the ability to not only judge the room before he'd entered, but to keep a close and wary eye on her would-be charge – though he had already corrected her in saying he needed no protecting – and make sure he didn't get himself killed in his errand.

To her eyes, he bristled as he stepped in, and immediately she was comforted that he knew how peculiar these behaviors were; even if no one else in the room had the clarity to share in such knowledge.

Another crackle of thunder overhead and the werecat steeled herself against a wince, her movements controlled to avoid giving away the position of her bulkier, humanoid body. Though she was clad fully in dark shades of black and chocolate, with even her face hastily half masked in a light shroud of ebon silk, the lightning of the tempest overhead was unforgiving to the shadows she now depended upon. To have her position illuminated and then to move – even to tremble – would certainly catch at least one pair of eyes.

She grinned beneath her mask; perhaps only his, but he may have not known her to be here either.

The vicious smile, veiled as it was, remained steadily planted upon her hidden visage as the projectile landed firmly into the apparently soft wood of the table. Taraak looked surprised by the newcomer's presence, and Maeve felt herself bitten with the wild amusement that came when she'd overestimated his competence. To his absolute credit, it didn't happen all that often for how young he was, but, it only made such oddly prized 'victories' all that much sweeter.

"How much you have to learn, kitten," she cooed delicately to herself, the words sounding oddly recited as if she had already said them to his face. Simultaneously to her private scolding, one hand moved in a slow and deliberate motion to her chest strap, unfastening the single button to an intricately made hard leather pouch that nestled neatly against her body. The pouch, obvious as a container, was long and nigh sagittate in shape, mysteriously pretty and so perhaps fitting as the weapons it once hid came to light. Her dexetrous fingers pulled three delicate looking needles from their case. Her free hand, unrevealed in just which of the various concealed places on her body it had traveled to, was soon back in the line of easy vision with another odd looking container that she clicked open with her thumb. Dragging the needles one by one through the slippery looking ichor that the second open pouch contained, one could easily assume its nature: poison.

Poison not only to kill, but to lubricate. The needles, thin as they were, were incredibly sharp, and now properly slicked with the caustic fluid, they could slice through the glass barrier between herself and Taraak's woeful situation without a single shattered window or a patron all the wiser.

Of course, three would not cover all of her intriguing Varden's attackers, but the closest and most dangerous would certainly be dealt with and even the odds just a little in his favor. For all of her favoring his near death experiences and her ultimate joy in watching him fight his way through Hell and back to victory and life, she was never of a mind to actually let him fall prey to his more sticky situations.

.. She'd just never let him know that.

Still, Taraak seemed ultimately unpanicked, and she wondered if it was because of his training or because he could still feel her presence; that lingering sensation of her forced mental bond and the knowledge that her claws, teeth, and various and far more intriguing weaponry were his to count on. Was she so predictable to him?

One needle shot forward, hissing through the air at a breakneck speed and slicing through the window with little more than a tiny hole to its credit before it burrowed deep into one of the enemy throats. He gripped at his neck, clutching as the poison began to work its volatile magic and gagging on the blood that now spouted free from his punctured artery.

Maybe she'd ask later if he still felt her. She hadn't spoken on their 'bond' of sorts at all, and she almost wondered if he was afraid to ask – if he already knew on werecat ability and worried on the outcomes of inquiring too much into it.

The second needle released from her hand, and this time it sliced into the eye of another enemy. Similarly to his companion, he screamed and gripped at the wound, the poison pulsing through his veins almost instantly and releasing a burning sensation that only made the penetrating slice of damage all that much greater in pain and seriousness. Needles, of course, were fabulous for quiet precision kills, but the greater the distance, the more of a necessary insurance the poison became.

.. Or perhaps he didn't feel the bond at all, or at least could not acknowledge it. Perhaps she was giving him too much credit again.

The third needle flew forward, burrowing into the open mouth and thus, the back of the throat of the final and closest man. He had been yelling something as he'd lunged forward, making to slash at Taraak before he fell incapacitated as his comrades and, soon thereafter, dead without so much as a broken pane of glass to tell how or why.

Now, he could certainly find some impromptu weapon and take on six men, at least if he was worth the faith she placed in his ability. She settled partially in her foliage made hiding place, buried under rain and the sound of thunder, as if to watch the show–

–And then hopelessness truly did show its face, but it was not of a mind to allow either Maeve or Taraak to contemplate it at a later, more comfortable time.

"Boetk istalrí," came words so carefully hissed it was hard to pinpoint where their malice began and the great concentration poised behind them lurked; more troubling, it was even more difficult to tell just where they came from. A male's voice, older but perhaps not too old, and wise enough, if only in tone, to give the werecat some immediate pause to curiosity and worry alike.

Maeve perked instantaneously to the sound, but it was far too late and she could do far too little to stop anything as it ensued. Unexpected to the present werecat, it was unlikely anyone else could have predicted the chaos by any possible means. Fire consumed the building, and the bodies she created seemed suddenly inconsequential to the true myriad of destruction that the evening had in store.

The blast was enough to throw the almost fragile looking woman from her hiding place, knocking her back from the bushes and across the muddy earth with little more than an agitated grunt in spite of the wind being knocked clean out of her lungs. Dazed and suddenly confused, she could only count three – and it was an unsure number at best – of the men who now darted out of the crossroads that the Blue Sage rested in on horses she hadn't once seen in her reconaissance of the area. Their bodies were shrouded in black, loose fitting and even torn materials that successfully veiled their shapes just as much as any defining features.

Mustering the strength to lift her head and begin forcing her aching body to its feet, her eyes darted back towards the building with a flash of silent concern for who might still be alive inside.

[Angmor]

It was the split-second hesitation that did it. After all, most of the relatively untrained thugs he had ever encountered would usually expect their enemies to arrive via a rapidly propelled chair, especially if they were only there to serve as backup muscle. Taraak didn't waste time thinking of the reason. In this kind of fight, he knew, it was the man that struck first and struck fast would have the advantage, and he would need whatever advantage he could get to survive the next few minutes.

Spinning around to gather momentum, he kicked out in a blurring side-stamp, feeling the jolt run up his leg as his foot connected solidly just beneath the center thug's chin. The man was sent sailing backward, jackknifing over the table a few feet away and landing more or less out of it for the next few minutes. As he had calculated beforehand, Taraak was now in between the remaining two, too close for either to bring their knives to bear without an awkward adjustment of their stances. As they were in the process of doing this, Taraak spun and slammed his elbow into the first one's jaw, turning on the same movement and sending the edge of his hand across the face of the other, sending them both stumbling backward slightly. Having done everything he could do with his opportunity, Taraak dropped into a fighting crouch, eyes flickering between his opponents and the rest of the room, forming a mental map of all the prevailing threats in the area, overlaying it with his memory of the layout of the inn to create a diagram behind his eyes.

It always interesting, the altered state of time the he experienced in a fight. The hesitation lasted a bare two seconds, and yet Taraak was able to reflect on everything that he had learned about close-quarter combat over his expansive, -if short- career. He found it always helped to do this. After almost seven years of pursuing his profession, he could usually find some incident in the archives of his memories that more or less matched the current one. At the very least, Ferial Baric would live again in his mind, along with all of the valuable training the man had dispensed, depraved and brutal as the methods might have been. With this wealth of knowledge, he could recall similar situations and the strategies and tactics he had used to survive them, anything that might be useful in the present.
"Anything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Had been one of Baric's favorite mantras. Taraak felt the truth of this statement all his life, especially now.

He was also amazed at the state of hyper-awareness that came over him on a rush of adrenaline, even more than his usual state. He found that he could take in almost everything that was going on around him. Every puddle of a dropped drink, every overturned table, every frantic patron as they surged for the exits, fleeing the sudden melee. He could see both of Tahn's bodyguards on the other side of the room from him, fighting valiantly against six assailants. Taraak could see they were thoroughly outmatched. Even as he watched, one of the guards took a slash across the back of his leg, sending him down to one knee before another thug drew his knife across his throat. Taraak could see Rygier, hauling himself up from where the chair had deposited him, drawing a short-sword from a hidden sheath. He could see it all, as if the entire scene was happening inside his head. He did not even need to turn his eyes as the man on his right recovered from his wallop. He simply reacted to the new threat, turning to feign a jab with his left hand to draw off his opponent’s knife hand, throwing an identical punch in instant later that took the man neatly across the side of the head. The man had apparently seen the trick before however, as he simply spun on the momentum of the blow, slashing out viciously with the dagger. Taraak felt the steel draw across the side of his face, but he did not feel any pain. Rolling with the blow, he retaliated with a spinning kick, impacting in the same spot as his previous blow, stunning the man long enough for Taraak to turn in close enough to clamp his arm around the wrist of the man’s knife arm and give a sharp twist. There was a snick of bone, and the dagger dropped to the floor. Taraak followed it with his eyes, figuring how he could get his hands on it…
The distraction almost cost him his life. Hearing the whistle of metal, Taraak just barely managed to duck just in time to prevent himself growing a new mouth with the help of the second man’s dagger. His arm still gripping the arm of the first man, Taraak spun, placing him between his companion as a human shield. Disengaging, Taraak kicked out hard, sending both men down in a heap.

At last, Taraak allowed himself to relax just slightly. Now, to find Tahn…
Something hit him hard between the shoulderblades, sending him stumbling forward closer to the center of the room. Immediately he remembered the third man, who had apparently crawled back over the table in time to land a kick. Even worse, Taraak found himself pushed directly toward the rest of the thugs, who had finished off the last bodyguard and were looking about for fresh targets. Their eyes instantly set on him, each one like a bird of prey sighting on a helpless animal.
In an absent part of his brain, Taraak reflected that he was in very deep trouble. He was good, but there was no way he could block the five knives in front of him and the one behind, especially when they were all about to set on him at once. His mind flashed through all of the routines for danger that it had collected, flicking through his senses looking for a table, a chair, anything at all within reach in the next half a second that he could use to buy himself time, but there was nothing.
So, that was it then. After so very many close calls within the depths of the Empire, in the very bowels of the enemy, and now he was going to die in a tavern. In Reavestone.
Still, he decided, although it wasn't the way he would have wanted to go, he decided he was ready. He had been at this for too long. Even now, he didn't know why he did it. After all, he had saved his friend and had his revenge on Baric, so why was he even bothering to go on? No, he had been living on borrowed time, and it was now the time to collect.

Just then, something totally unexpected happened. One of the men before him suddenly collapsed, clawing at his neck. This caused a split second of consternation among his opponents, during which time another followed his companion to the floor, this one screaming incoherently. Taraak could only watch, fascinated, his mind frantically searching for some kind of even halfway possible explanation. In the mean time, the second death seemed to galvanize the remaining two into action. They rushed at him, knives raised...
Before they were halfway to him, one stumbled, emitting a gurgling sound as he met the same fate as the previous two, leaving only one. Not quite willing to waste this miraculous opportunity, Taraak neatly dodged the last thug's angry slash, moving in on the backswing to bring his elbow hard across the man's face before seizing his arm, twisting him around into the path of the thug behind him.
Keep them off balance, keep turning them against each other. Don't fight them both at once.

[/Color]
The next few seconds passed in a flurry of motion, blocks, parries, punches, kicks, and evasions, rolling over tables to provide quick barriers. Finally, he was only fighting one opponent. This man was however very well trained, playing very defensively, holding onto the advantage without over exerting himself. Twice Taraak made a grap for the knife, and twice he stumbled backward after a kick to his side or stomach. The second time, his back met another table. Suddenly getting an idea, he groped the surface behind him, looking for...
His fingers at last found what they were looking for. Taking advantage of his apparent distraction, the thug struck, lunging for his gut...
Taraak batted the man's arm aside with his free hand, bringing the heavy, beaten-iron tankard he had found up hard under his opponent's chin with the other.
There was a wet crack. The man stumbled back, knife clattering from his fingers they flew up to clutch the jaw bone that had very nearly been snapped from its hinges. He was probably quite out of the fight even then, but Taraak did not feel very inclined to show mercy. Raising the tankard, he smashed the top of the thug's skull, sending him down.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, he found himself without another enemy to fight. The tavern was suddenly very quiet, save for the pounding of his pulse in his hears and the intermittent clanking of metal from somewhere. Looking around, he found Tahn on the other side of the room, dueling in the classic style with the remaining thug, who had also drawn a short sword. Even at a brief glance, Taraak could tell that Tahn was far more skilled, but the thug was younger and faster, with the kind of quick footwork of a dancer. He could tell Tahn was tiring rapidly, slowly but surely spinning the odds away from him.
Well, I can change that...[/Color]
Very quickly, he found the body of Jorath, lying still where he had been left after apparantly bleeding out from the wound in his thigh. Taraak picked up his knife at last, striding quickly toward the last thug from behind. As calmly as if embracing a friend, he locked his arm around the unsuspecting man's throat and slid his blade in the back of his neck between the third and fourth vertebrae, causing instand paralysis and almost certain death.
Finally, there was silence.

Taraak lowered the limp body to the floor, retrieving his knife. "You alright?" He asked Tahn, cleaning the blade on his sleeve. For his part, the information-broker seemed winded, but unharmed.
"I am, thanks to you." He answered breathlessly. "It seems I owe you a debt. And I'll tell you now, I hate being in debt."
Taraak smiled, sheathing his knife and turning to retrieve his bow and quiver. "We can discuss payment options later. Hopefully at a bit more suitable location."
The tavern was more or less empty now. The few people that had been unable to get out in the mass exodus were mostly cowering under tables and against the walls, staring at him with awe and fear in their eyes. Finally finding himself with a free moment to start thinking again, he could finally give some thought to just why he was alive. Maeve.[/Color] He thought, feeling himself flooded with the same inscrutable emotion he always did when the name serfuced in his conscious. So, she had followed him here after all. He hadn't seen her for almost three days, so he had figured she had at last lost interest in him. It seemed however that he had been wrong, and for the first time, he was unoquivocally glad she hadn't. Strange, however. This was the first time she had actually gone as far as to save his life. either she was in a particuarly good mood today, or...
Or she was actually getting to enjoy his company.

At last, Taraak found his bow, knocked over and moved several feet from where he had left it. Sighing, he bent down to retrieve it...
Just as his fingers closed around the wood, a hand shot from beneath a table, latching onto his wrist with a vise-strong grip. Taraak was halfway through raising a backhand punch before he managed to catch himself, finding the beautiful face of the young bard Viyenne staring at him with eyes even larger than before.
"You..." He gasped out, her voice laden with fear. "You... killed them..."
"Easy, it's alright." Taraak said as kindly as he could, offering his hand to help the girl up. Reassurance was not his strong point, and he knew it. He wasn't surprised when she reacted as if the hand was a poisonous reptile, scrambling out the other side of the table and sprinting to her master, burying her face into Tahn's chest. Taraak sighed, strapping on his bow and quiver. So, it had finally happened. It had been a long time since he had killed so cold-bloodedly, and he had almost thought perhaps he wouldn't have to. But he was wrong.
The assassin was back.

"Is that everyone?" He said, making his way back toward Tahn.
The older man nodded. "Aye, that's all. My men are dead, poor devils. I'm glad they didn't harm Viyenne, though.
"They fought bravely." Taraak said, stepping over a body. "Now..." The thought trailed off. He wasn't sure what did it, or where it came from, but he was suddenly flooded with a foreign feeling that something bad was going to happen, and it was going to happen now. Frowning, he stopped, trying to find the source of this premonition...
Just then, the wall one side of the room burst inward in a wall of flame.

Taraak was thrown backward in the blast, flying nearly ten feet before crashing back first into the bar, hard enough to send brightly colored lights swimming across his eyes. As his vision cleared, he looked up to find nearly the entire tavern kindled into flame, especially in a neat line of fire that cut him off from the front door. As he watched, Tahn was disappearing through that very door, cradling a limp form in his arms. Good, Taraak thought. His charge had gotten away. Now the only one he needed to worry about was himself.
He could tell already, he did not have much time. While it might have been raining buckets outside, the inside of the building was dry tinder. The fire was spreading rapidly. He had perhaps minutes before the whole room was engulfed in flames, in which case he might or might not burn completely to death before the building collapsed and rendered the question academic.

Rising into a crouch under the smoke, he assessed his options. He was completely cut off from the front door and the windows there. The back door behind the bar might still be viable, but he would almost certainly have to pass through store rooms and kitchens, places with stores of volatile alchahol that could burst into flame at any moment.
The thought was punctuated from a burst of fire from behind the bar, forcing him to jump out of the way of the blaze. No, he had stayed too long, and there really was only one decision anyway. If he could not go out, the only place left to go was up.

He sprinted up the stairs, breathing through the edge of his cloak to help shield himself from the smoke. The heat of the room receded somewhat behind him, but only barely. Even as he ran, he could feel the boards beneath him sagging, growing thinner by the second as this unnatural flame devoured them. He sprinted past the rooms, counting as he went. Most inns were usually designed with...
Finally, he skidded to a halt at the end of the hall, in front of an unmarked door. He opened, seeing that it was indeed the linen closet he had hoped for it to be. Or, more importantly, the ladder at the very back, behind the stacks of laundry and sheets.

Be burst through the trapdoor that led to the roof of the inn, at last breathing properly as he emerged into the cool air and rain. the sudden transition made him shiver slightly as he stood up, casting about for his next step.
Very quickly, his hopes were dashed. He had thought that there might have been buildings nearby of similiar height he could jump to like in most of the cities of the Empire, but there was not. Here, space was not at a premium, and so the buildings were actually built some distance apart. Looking over the edge of the roof, he found he was nearly twenty feet off the ground, enough of a fall to easily break a leg or two. still, it was quickly looking to be as if there was no other choice. Benath him, the building swayed noticeably, threatening to come down at any second.
Taraak sighed.
No, there was no other choice. He had to get off this roof, and broken bones were infinitely better than burning alive or being crushed to death.
Bracing himself as best he could, he stepped forward, taking a step beyond the roof...
And fell.[/size][/blockquote]

Erg. I am sorry for both the lateness and the extreme suckitude of this post. I just haven't had any Taraak muse lately. >.<