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Duty
Apr 13, 2009 16:40:17 GMT -5
Post by Angmor on Apr 13, 2009 16:40:17 GMT -5
Taraak exited the room carefully, making sure that everything was exactly the way it had been before entering. Before he struck out into the corridor, he lingered for a moment to determine his exit strategy. He would be unable to pull the Banger trick a second time, but he would still need to get past the guard station to get out. Just then, there filtered from around the corner the sound of a pair of heavy boots colliding rhythmically against the floorstones. This was follow swiftly by two male voices, slowly growing louder as the men drew nearer. “So why are we still here? We were relieved, let's get out of here.” “I told you thick’ead, were going to find out what made that noise. If we do, that’ll mean promotions for th’ both of us.” “I’m not sure I want to know.” “Just shut your yap. We’ll search a bit more, then we’ll give up if we don’t find anything. But not a word about that noise, got it?”
Taraak instantly remembered that the second voice belonged to one of the guards he had slipped past. He assumed the other voice belonged to the second, and that they had decided to look for him. Going that way was out, then. He knew that down the other way were only more rooms like the one he had just left, with no access the rest of the building. A not-so-proverbial dead end. But then, he remembered that there was an exterior window at the very end of the passage, at the very outermost wall of the structure, open to the empty air. Of course, it was five stories up… Taraak weighed the options, and decided to take his chances with the window. Without further thought, he turned and raced away from the approaching men.
He reached it a few moments later, a rather small, broad expanse that opened out to the side of the citadel, just beneath where the conical spire began to climb its way to the beacon at its crown. Taraak saw with satisfaction the masonry was rather rough, providing plenty -if small- handholds all the way to the deserted ground below. The five-story drop was daunting, but it didn’t even come close to training.
In his last days with the Empire, Taraak and the other Spearshadow trainees had been carted away from Uru-baen for a climbing exercise. The temporary training ground had turned out to be a large cliff, nearly eighty feet high, with a particularly narrow section of the Ramr River raging below. Compared to that, the obstacle facing him now was so paltry that he barely hesitated before climbing onto the sill and beginning his descent.
After several moments, he was seven feet below his starting point. He froze where he was as he heard the sounds of the two soldiers above, but soon they moved away. So far so good… [/Color] It was just as he resumed climbing when Kyra’s words flooded his mind. She had before reduced the contact to only just holding a presence in his mind, feeling something like a splinter in his head, something that was trickling Kyra’s thoughts into his mind in such a quantity that he was only just aware of it. Now though, the words flashing to the forefront of his consciousness disrupted his concentration and balance for a crucial split second during which he lost his grip on the stone. He fell several feet before his groping right hand managed to catch a small projection with strength born of fear, cutting his arm and wrenching his shoulder painfully. Quickly he consolidated his position with the rest of his limbs, seeking out more holds before his hand slipped. Only after he was safe from falling did he take time to find out what Kyra was trying to tell him. …A bit too enthusiastic. This wrecks our plans a bit. How far are Bralag and his friend? Taraak hung in a state of bewilderment, the realization hitting him like a thunderbolt of all the implications. He was about to answer when she spoke first. We might have to divert the soldiers somehow, and get them away from the estate. It might take me a while to meet up with you, if I'm needed. I'm a bit... A pause, a slight shift in concentration. ...occupied at the moment. Bralag and his friend need to somehow be delayed. Can you see what you can do alone, for now? We just found ourselves two giant messes to clean up, and one of them is my fault. Taraak waited, fighting down the shock of his fall and considering the problem with the cold, systematic precision with which he conquered any difficulty. After a moment, he responded. Right, I’ll try to delay Bralag as long as I can. I probably don’t need to tell you this, but make avoiding capture your first priority, but lead the soldiers away from the house if you can. If Bralag gets wind of this…[/Color] He allowed the thought to trail away as Kyra lessened the connection again. Taraak did his absolute best not to be worried. After all, his companion had shown first-hand that she could take care of herself, so he knew he should not fear for her safety. It was hard though. But no, the only way he could help was to carry out his part of the plan, and delay Bralag from getting to his home. He looked down dubiously. First I need to get to the ground… [/Color] Moments later, he dropped to the floor of a paved alley behind the rear wall of the citadel. Luckily there was no one around to see his descent, and he was able to examine his injuries before continuing. And again, I get hurt by going to the citadel.[/Color] He thought wryly himself, gritting his teeth. The cut on his arm was not deep, although it took him some time to stop the bleeding against the torn sleeve. His shoulder was rather more problematic, for it shot warm flashes of pain down his arm when he moved it. Unable to do anything about it, he moved out of the alley and began traversing the building, trying to intercept Bralag somewhere along his route. He was unsure what he would do when he did, but he would have to think of something. Prudent Improvisation.[/Color] He sighed in lamentation. Winging it.[/Color] As he reached the street that crossed the front of the fortress, he stopped to get his bearings. At the speed that he had been walked, he was reasonably sure that Bralag and friend had already exited the Citadel, and were either walking together or going their separate ways. 3945 Rutwell's…[/Color] He went over the mental map of the city that he had been the result of long experience in the city of Tierm. …That way.[/Color] He began running at a fast lope, hoping that his target had not taken a horse. If he had, there would be no way he could catch up. He doubted it though; not many people took horses about the city in the warm months. It was no good running though, better to pace himself in such a way to move a quick pace the whole way. The sun was almost fully down now, ending the day with awesome splendor. The final rays of the disk cast a darkened light upon all, turning the undersides of the patchy clouds from cotton to purple, leaving the sky like the embroidery of some nobleman’s rope. Taraak hardly noticed these things, as he trotted through the thinning crowds and along backstreets. He was just beginning to get a sinking feeling when he spotted the edge of a cloak disappearing around the corner of the abandoned street he was treading. Taraak blinked. No, it was the same color and brocaded design as the one he had seen Bralag wearing, there was no mistaking it. As he rounded the corner himself, he confirmed that the hooded man walked with the same high-stepping gate of a noble, although still with a slight trace of the grounded fighter-grace that he had noted in his brief glimpses of Bralag. But he had to be sure… Just then, the man shot a brief glimpse over his shoulder, exposing his face to Taraak’s line of sight. It was him alright. The street was entirely void of any other personage besides the spy and the noble, and the latter of the pair was far enough ahead that he did not pay much notice to the first. It would be the best opportunity to delay him that Taraak would get. But what would he do? [/blockquote][/size]
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Frægr
Novice
Call me Sabs. ;]
Posts: 42
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Duty
Apr 13, 2009 16:42:08 GMT -5
Post by Frægr on Apr 13, 2009 16:42:08 GMT -5
Right, I'll try to delay Bralag as long as I can. I probably don't need to tell you this, but make avoiding capture your first priority, but the lead the soldiers away from the house if you can. If Bralag gets wind of this... The thought trailed off, but Kyra couldn't stop herself from laughing slightly. That was something that she had planned to say to him, not the other way around. She let her good humor leak into her thoughts, with a trace of wit. It was unnecessary, but thanks for the concern. I'm touched. Keep me posted on whether you're alive or not, okay? My nerves can only survive so much. Their mental connection subsided gradually to a neutral presence, and the elf's attention immediately focused on the situation at hand. Footsteps were beginning to parade outside the door more frequently now, making her escape that much more difficult.
The voices outside the window began once more, making Kyra prick up her ears in breathless expectation. If the soldiers had come to their decision by now, the elf's little hope for time was dashed. She quickly caught their conversation, as the wind happened to be blowing in her direction, nevermind the stone wall in between them. Relief flooded through her veins as they the sound of passionate argumentation came into earshot, even without the help of her remarkable hearing. "I swear it, General! I saw her! She was this pretty woman with long blonde hair!" "Are you in dire need of a woman, soldier?" The tone was steely, sarcastic, biting. "I SAW HER GENERAL." A string of curses were evoked from both parties, eventually accompanied by the voices of others, and Kyra's attention wavered. Eventually, it came to a full stop, and without wasting time, Kyra's attention snapped back to the office. The single window was immediately thrust out as a means of escape, as avoiding the eyes of the soldiers was an obviously impossible task. The door was not, but close, and there seemed to be no other choice.
But then, a sudden impulse spurred Kyra to turn her eyes to the shining sword above the fireplace. The blade gleamed unnaturally in the dim light, and gave her the impression that Bralag really loved to clean the sword. Without a second thought, the elf walked swiftly towards the fireplace and plucked the sword effortlessly off its restricting hooks. She would not use magic for this easy task. That needed to be saved for later. In almost no time at all, the blade was placed uncomfortably near her neck, but then, she paused. Would she really do it? Was this mission really worth it?
It was.
And with a single stroke, Kyra's long blonde hair, a source of her pride and beauty, fell to the floor in a shapeless heap of mixed emotions. More and more was haphazardly cut off, until all that was left on her head was a few inches of blonde mane. There was no time to moan over her loss, however, as she heard the low, reverberating rumble of shuffling feet outside the window. The two fighting soldiers had evidently ended their dispute, and the result had been their deciding on an all-out invasion of the Bralag estate. For her. Suddenly, an idea presently itself in her head, a wisp of memory that Kyra had assumed been long forgotten. In training, her teachers had presented this scenario to her many times over, and the solution had been obvious each time. If I can't defeat the enemy, I become them.
As she glanced out the single window, one thought led to another as Kyra gathered up every single strand of golden hear that gleamed upon the floor, and faced the door. She crept towards it, keeping her footsteps light and her mind open, sensing any incoming presence, but there were far too many on the other side of the wall for the elf to just waltz on out to freedom. Seconds ticked by as she waited for the servant crowd to subside to a single set of footsteps, and then moved quickly. The frightened eyes of the young cook met her own in a single glance, but no pity entered her clear blue depths. "Slytha." The man's body slumped immediately in Kyra's grasp --- but before he hit the floor --- a few choice words were whispered into his ear. Magic made the body jolt for a moment, and then he was still. Good thing he's blonde."
It was only a matter of time before their garments were switched, and the elf was strolling down the hallway from which she came with her chef's cap tipped a bit too far down her forehead. It was a hard struggle to keep her breathing steady as Kyra passed by investigating soldiers as she worked her way towards the entrance. She had chosen to take the route of a confidently sarcastic cook, off to do a few errands for his master. As the soldiers immediately stepped in front of her at the iron gates of the estate --- the act began. "You, there! This building is on lock down. No one can get in or out until further notice from the general." The v between Kyra's eyebrows furrowed deeply as a frown formed on her lips. "Lock down? Is that why soldiers are invading my kitchen searching for some girl while I have some important dishes to make?" Her eyes bored holes into the two men before her with a stare that could kill. Yet, they did not budge an itch. "I'm sorry sir. You cannot leave until we get orders from the general." "You fools!" She hissed, "Do you think getting a reprimand from your general compares to getting your position taken by our master? His influence is far greater that your general's, and his anger is tenfold that when hungry." The two glanced at each other, looking slightly uneasy. Her words were reaching them through their stubborn army. Poor lads. "Fine. I'll just leave you to your fates when our master returns to find an empty dinner table and soldiers invading his living space to find some girl that isn't even here." And with that, Kyra whisked around on her heels and stomped back towards the door. Her fingers were reaching for the door nob when they called the elf back. With her back towards them, she grinned slightly. It took them long enough. and walked back. "Alright cook. We'll let you through this one time. Get what you need and hurry back. Keep this a secret from the general." Kyra's expression loosened slightly, but aggravation still emitted from every word she spoke. "I knew you fools would come to your senses. Your whole regiment is saved on account of you both." They pushed her out onto the streets quickly, and slammed the gates with a word of warning. "Hurry."
She waited until the soldiers stopped staring after her stomping body before changing course. Shedding the cook's cloak, the elf simply went with the flow of the crowd to find just the right house for her plan. In her pocket, the blonde locks seemed to grow weighty, as if the seams were about to burst in anticipation. Time was of the essence, and if this plan failed, then the two of them were done for. She looked back to the Bralag estate that was gradually beginning to grow smaller with every passing moment, and then ran her eyes over the nearest house. It was close enough to be seen by the naked eye, but far enough to draw the soldiers away. It took a few seconds of struggle to push through the throng citizens, but Kyra finally made it through --- and regretted her choice immediately. The sign above the doorway simply read: "Herbs and Spells". She hoped for a scam, or extreme inexperience. Magicians were much too aggravating to lie to.
And so she pushed open the dusty oaken doors, a grimace planted firmly on her face.
"Hello?" Kyra's melodic voice seemed to vibrate in the very cracks of the ancient building. Twisting vines clung to the walls, winding their way around stone and brick alike in what seemed like an office turned makeshift greenhouse. The intense smell of greenery completely contradicted the seafaring activities occurring outside. Overflowing potted plants stood next to stuffed chairs; tables were covered in dirt and giant spell books. The elf's cheeks colored slightly in aggravation. This looks like the real thing. Most of the magicians I've known have lived their lives like this. Horrible, really.
A rather loud crash sounded from somewhere in front of her, a storage room perhaps? Kaldr was immediately drawn out its sheath and pointed readily at the source. An ancient human man --- he appeared to be around eighty, or even older --- entered through the doorway, laden with boxes. She could see the remnants of what once a handsome face, before the immense accretion of flesh descended upon his person like a flood of lava of on a doomed village somewhere around his midlife. He seemed to have accepted this change philosophically, however, as she could see that he had not used spells to enhance his appearance. The man gave her a single glance before returning to his packing. "You are an elf." "Why would you say that?" Kyra was panicking, though her voice did not waver an inch. How can he know such a fact? I have always been careful. "Your ears are showing. The elf reached up to confirm the man's statement, and found he was right. There they were, two distinct points at the top of her ears that were no longer covered by her hair. What a fool I am. I forgot that short hair comes with this price. The chef hat must have loosened in the crowd. "...Besides, I know an elf when I see one." It's too late to change houses now. I've already wasted so much time. I suppose I just have to do this the hard way... Instead of responding, Kyra nodded stiffly at the man, though he could not see it --- still being occupied by his load, and then realized that she was still frozen in the doorway. Carefully, the elf wound her way through the mess towards him -- her sword still drawn. This rendezvous had to be over quickly. There was still too much to do. "So, what have I done to be honored with such a presence, elvish friend?" The magician had still not looked her in the eye. "Nay, you should not be so bold as to say that, magician. I shall leave soon enough. Are you able to lie fairly well?" He seemed to hold enough common sense to not question her, but his tone was still curious. With a final grunt of effort, the man loaded his burden, swished his hands along his tunic, and stared her straight in the face."I pride myself on that skill. For what is it required?"
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Duty
Apr 13, 2009 16:45:19 GMT -5
Post by Angmor on Apr 13, 2009 16:45:19 GMT -5
Taraak thought frantically, considering all the possibilities. More physical methods of detaining Bralag would not be very helpful in this instance, for they needed him alive and undamaged tomorrow if the plan was to succeed. It then struck him exactly how little he knew of his target. He knew nothing of his personal life, his habits, not even his exact profession or associates. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was inspecting the Superior Might. Mentally he ran through an impressive repertoire of expletives. He cursed the stupid mistakes he had made, the stupid mistakes Kyra had made, and the horribly ill-planned op that fate was now forcing him to undertake.
...Inspecting the Superior Might… [/Color] And suddenly, it all became so simple. A plan blossomed into clarity inside his mind, making a smile play at the corner of his mouth. It would be risky and unpleasant for him, but it at least had a chance to work. He knew if he did not, then the whole mission would go up in flames, and all of what he had been through would be for nothing. He again sighed resignedly and began to work. He made sure that his target’s back was turned, then began walking with a heavy limp on his right leg, and he held his right arm totally limp at his side. If he had to have an injured shoulder, he might as well use it to help his act. He sped up his hobbling until he caught up with Bralag, close enough to tap him on the shoulder, which he did. The older man whirled around with a speed that surprised Taraak, but to his relief he did not see any glint of steel in the fading light. The man merely looked him up and down with a disapproving eye. Just another vagabond on the street, probably asking for a handout. “What do you want?” He asked finally. Taraak decided that getting his attention right from the start would be the best way to begin. “Nothing you can’t provide.” He stated, making his voice low and husky, and thus sounding older than he was. “I understand that you will be inspecting a large vessel tomorrow. The Superior Might I believe.” He found the flabbergasted expression that planted itself on Bralag’s features intensely satisfying. “But how did… How could you…” He spluttered. Taraak let his smile show on his face. He hoped that his hood concealed some of his features in the half-light of dusk, but he had no way of knowing. “So hard to keep a secret these days, isn’t it? Yes I know about it. And having that information, I have an offer for you. One that I think you shall find very rewarding.” He saw the indecision on the man’s face, considering exactly how this ragged man off the street could possibly be in on such a secret. In the end though, greed and curiosity won out. “I’m listening.” It was then the spy knew his bait had been taken. He was obviously the sort of man that would follow one off a cliff if one were merely to dangle profit in front of them. “We can’t talk here. Do you know of a bar around here?” He knew of one already of course, but he kept up the pretense and allowed Bralag to suggest it and lead the way. The third tavern he entered since the mission began was distinctly average in every way. But Taraak knew it; in fact, he had been captured here on his previous assignment. His glance swept across the table where he had sat with Thayra Meren, and where had fought the two men. He wondered how well Thayra was adjusting to life in Surda, but he quickly shut down those thoughts as he was led to a booth near the back. There was just enough people to provide ambient noise, but none took any real interest in them. “Now.” Said Bralag after ordering a pint for both him and his newfound “Friend”. “What is this offer you wish to extend to me?” Taraak waited until the beer arrived, trying to draw it out as long as possible. “You haven’t been told exactly what is on that ship, but I represent a few people who would very much like to acquire what it contains.” He paused to take a swig of his beer. It was important that the man across the table from him felt comfortable enough to drink his. Taraak fought the gag reflex, not made any easier by knowing just how much it would cost him later. The alcohol burned his throat and almost made his eyes water, but he forced himself to swallow. “Your action will be simple.” He continued after heroically avoiding a violent coughing fit. “Just pronounce that the ship is unsound and must be careened for repairs, and we shall take care of the rest.” He paused to sip more of the disgusting brew before him, glad to see that Bralag had drained his already and motioned for another. Despite the lure of wealth, it seemed speaking of potentially treasonous subjects was stressful to him. Now all that remained was to drop the line that his listener had really waiting for. “We are willing to pay you seven hundred crowns for your help.” It was a huge number, but not unprecedented. Bralag looked totally aghast at the thought of such wealth. He leaned back in his chair, nursing his wooden beaker. That’s right, take a good long while to think it over…[/Color] “I’m in.” Taraak blinked. He had been expecting a bit more deliberation than that. This man was even more foolish than he had thought. He would now need to use his secondary plan, one which he had desperately been hoping not to use, even though he had been mostly expecting to. He leaned over the table, whispering in the man’s ear. “Good. You will have no contact from me until your part is done, after which-“ His right hand, the one that he had been holding limp and lifeless throughout the act, shot forward to Bralag’s neck clasping a small needle that he had been working from the seam of his torn sleeve during the conversation. It was coated with the sap of a small plant that grew in the mountains, a chemical powerful enough to knock out a grown man with only the slightest pierce of the skin, when applied in the right place. This it did with great success, and almost instantly Bralag was slumped against the table, dead to the world for the next few hours. Hopefully plenty of time for Kyra to lure the soldiers away and salvage the mission intact. Taraak withdrew he arm to his side again and glanced around. No one gave any indication that they had witnessed what had transpired, so he stood up nonchalantly. Bralag had drained two tankards of ale and Taraak made it look like the remains of his own also belonged to him. It was conceivable that he had merely been unable to hold his beer and collapsed, or at least more believable than being knocked out by a shady figure. If he had even seen the attack at all, Bralag would probably even wake up confused as to whether or not the experience had actually happened. Taraak turned and casually exited the tavern, taking a deep breath of the salty air. Now Kyra’s mess had been cleared up from his end, and the rest was up to her. He had succeeded, but he knew he would be suffering for it soon. When his eidetic memory had first started plaguing him, he had tried everything he knew to dull the pain. For others in his place, alcohol was normally the sedative of choice. To his frustration he discovered that it did nothing to dull his memories, if anything it further destroyed his ability to block them out. Another side effect was that it would almost immediately induce an agonizing headache. He could now feel it coming on, a nagging ache which he knew would soon develop into enough pain to make anyone else experiencing it think that their head was being run over by a cart, if such an event could be strung out for hours. He sped into a trot, trying to make as much progress towards the safehouse as he could before the full brunt hit him. He almost cursed Kyra under his breath, but he was reminded that he himself had royally messed up not four hours before. She had been the one who had hauled his tail out of the fire, and she had even been willing to forgive his mistake. Now, when the roles were reversed, it was the least he could do to do the same. He gritted his teeth as the pain grew worse. Our debt is settled Kyra. Our debt is settled.[/Color][/Size][/Blockquote]
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Frægr
Novice
Call me Sabs. ;]
Posts: 42
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Duty
Apr 13, 2009 16:45:43 GMT -5
Post by Frægr on Apr 13, 2009 16:45:43 GMT -5
[/url] Kyra did not answer his query. She, nor the magician even bothered to break the silence that had materialized as soon as their eyes locked. His silent challenge did not need to be voiced; the intense gaze that bored into her own blue depths spoke plainly enough. "I will not assist you until you speak your purpose. Try me if you dare."
Exasperated, and even a little angry, it took much will power on the elf's part to resist the urge to unsheathe Kaldr and strike him down right there on the spot. However, there was, of course, the obstacle of magic to think about, and the problem of dealing with the authorities after they found the dead mage. In all her years of experience, Kyra had learned that unnecessary deaths always cause unnecessary problems, and their mission had already encountered enough for many to come. in the end the elvish woman was forced to be satisfied with simply leaving the impulse to play itself out in her imagination. Mind racing with possibilities, she also made sure her own feelings about his challenge got across quite clearly with a loud --- and slightly obnoxious --- sigh.
She tore herself away from his gaze in an effort to gather her own thoughts, and make the situation appear more unimportant and frivolous than it really was --- that every second lost did not have deadly potential. Maybe then, he would be more willing to follow her blindly, or would be more susceptible to an all-out attack. The latter was unlikely, but it was worth a shot, and much more realistic than simply attacking him with her sword. The problem, however, was time. I might be too trusting of Taraak's abilities. I don't doubt at all that he'll be able to divert Bralag, but it's a matter of how long he'll give me. The thought whispered itself in her mind, growing louder and more influential with every word. However, instinct told Kyra to trust her gut, follow her original plan, and brush away all uncertainty. Wavering was never even an option --- she had just been making excuses.
As the clock ticked on, Kyra's mind reached out to the magician's, feeling for the foreign touch of his mental aura. Surrounding his mind with her own, the elf felt out his borders and guessed his limits --- while guarding her own from his touch. To her dismay, her careful search had revealed no weak spot, no crack to enlarge. His defense appeared abnormally strong for his age, but not unbreakable. She had experienced worse in her three decades in this profession, and the only option was a full-on attack. The key to this approach was strength and brutality. There was no trick, no extra devise to increase her chance of success, only total and complete concentration on the situation at hand. Mentors and experience had drilled that into her head from the very beginning.
Not receiving a reaction from the man, Kyra searched for a distraction to bide time, until her eyes rested on a particular potted plant, the leaves of which she used for a few salves that lay packed away in her bag. It was odd how digesting the raw stalk could place a gravestone too soon over the unlucky victim's head, but when boiled it's many useful medical properties included burn alleviation. Both the poison and Two opposite sides of the same entity. she thought absently, repeating the words of her mentor while attempting to focus her pupils on the weed encircling the plant like a cobra around its prey. Tough green spikes of herbal flesh discouraged any sympathizers from unwinding the greenery. When pulled from the ground, she knew the roots would snap easily, leaving a strong foundation for the weed to start anew. Such veracity! Such will to live! How come we are not like that?
Her apparent disregard forced the mage to give in to his curiosity with an aggravated cough, forcing the flight of double chins along his chin to flap in unison. He showed no visible sign that he felt their mental contact, but Kyra was not idiotic enough to believe that the man truly was unaware of the situation he was in. Age and experience told her that everything was probably not all that it seemed. He had said himself that lying was his specialty. The odd symphony of chin and cough brought Kyra's mind back to the situation at hand, and a small smirk to her face. Her methods had prevailed.
"Elf, I do not have time for your whims." The old mage drew his immense self to his full height: an intimidating five and a half feet. "Say what you need to, or leave. Your objective is obviously not a normal one, from your dramatic introduction. Lying is usually not required for love potions and future-telling --- especially not to elves." Kyra decided to play with him a bit, to whittle down his defenses with the sacred art of aggravation and procrastination. Her posture slackened as the elf leaned back as she seemed to look the mage over from head to toe. When seemingly satisfied, her eyes rose to his face, and she raised an eyebrow --- radiating the emotion most would title "Doubt." "Well, sir, with all due respect, I'm not sure if you'd be able to handle it...being so advanced in your years and all." Kyra's eyesight must have fooled her for a moment; did his mouth turn upwards at the corners? The elf could not confirm, for when she blinked, the smile had left as quickly as it came. Her trickery was over before it had even started, as she wasn't idiotic enough to ignore such an obvious fact: the mage knew was she was playing at. It was at that moment when she decided to throw caution to the wind.
Out of habit Kyra took a deep breath, and cleared her face and mind of any detectable emotion or thought. Her past and all other unseemly events of her life were swept away in her mental safe in a matter of seconds. He must be preparing as well for what he knows sure to come. She thought, cursing herself for being such a fool, for being overly confident in her abilities. Sloppy. Working quickly, an image materialized itself in her mind: of the mage speaking to the very soldiers who had let Kyra out of the estate. She would force it into the man's mind, and repeat it enough times to make him remember every one of his lines in this deadly game of theatrics. Simultaneously, her normal weapon sharpened itself for the attack. A shimmering silver dagger, it would smash through the defenses of...
He attacked.
Kyra had been right; the man was stronger than he appeared on the outside. A tremendous pressure enclosed her mind from all angles, blanketing it in icy daggers that pried and pushed in places the elf did not even think it possible to reach. Instead of the offense, she found herself thrown inevitably into defense-mode. He did not smash through her barricades, necessarily, but it was enough to make the spy's mouth quiver slightly, and her determination grow that much stronger. Exploding with energy, the pain began to lessen ever-so-slightly as the wall that was her mind struggled to reinforce itself. All the while, in the corner in her mind nagged a thought, by now almost as familiar as her own. Focused too entirely on her own mental safety, the connection between the two partners opened unannounced, and his words appeared in her mind. Pain in all its entirety was laced in every one of them. Our debt is settled, Kyra. Our debt is settled.
It was impossible to block the flow of Taraak's memories as it unleashed itself inside every fiber of her being, overcoming all else. Fighting for her sanity, the elf scrambled to rebuild her mental wall, keenly aware of the images that were presenting themselves in her mind as she did so. They went beyond her imagination, marked by blood and events that even Kyra could not imagine were possible in her 137 years. And she could not even stop it. Spearshadow? Wasn't it an Imperial spy organization? The image of a man appeared, a mixture of blood and tears streaming down his face. He screamed something about innocence, and then the image blurred into another scene, and a loud "I refuse." resounded through her body, in a voice Kyra instantly recognized as Taraak's. All hope for mental defense was now lost in a fight simply for survival.
Cracks had infested her mental barrier like an incurable disease as the pressure returned, and grew with every passing second. Sweat or tears --- by this time the elf could not even tell --- rolled down her cheeks with the immense effort of holding back the mage and attempting to stem the tide of Taraak's memories. It was not enough. Her wall shattered like glass, and Kyra fell to her knees, biting her lips until they bled. She would not scream. Empty blue eyes caught a glimpse of the plant that had so recently caught her interest, more specifically, the vine that surrounded it. Weeds. They can survive anything.
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Duty
Apr 19, 2009 18:14:12 GMT -5
Post by Angmor on Apr 19, 2009 18:14:12 GMT -5
Yes, it was just as bad as last time. The pain wasn't really the problem. After all, he was trained to handle pain, even the kind of pain that came in burning waves against the inside of his skull. The problem, as ever, was the memories. With the alcohol dulling his senses, the walls and barriers he had built to hold his memories in check weakened and cracked, images of his past leaking into his consciousness without order or connection. He did his best to ignore them, setting his mind on where he was going, and on putting one foot in front of the other till he got there. There was no other objective, no other mission, but to get somewhere safe. He ignored the vivid images like a mocking voice over his shoulder, a constant companion for which he had no way of ridding himself. He didn't bother taking his usual way of switching streets and doubling back to check for tails If someone wants to try and kill me now, they're welcome to it. The only question is whether or not I'd actually try to stop them. [/Color] He thought glumly to himself. Just then, something changed. It was subtle at first, but it grew until he could no longer pass it off. While the order with which his memories had swirled around his conscious had at first seemed to be random, as if he was asleep, but it became clear that there was a pattern. They were moving steadily backward through his life, as if some observer was in his head, rifling through the catalogue of his memories as they searched for a specific... He stopped in midstride, his stomach dropping in a frozen knot. No![/Color] It must have been too late. Before he could even begin using his training and seek out the malignant presence to force it from his mind, it seemed to find what it was looking for. In an instant, the street he was walking, the people around him, all of Teirm disappeared, seemingly drowned out by the past... …He blocked the strike with both arms, pinning his opponent in a vulnerable position just long enough to kick the legs out from under him. Taraak slashed him three times across the chest almost before he had time to hit the ground. Or at least, he would have if the knife had been sharp. Torska hit the dirt of the sparring field with a thud, but he was on his feet again almost before it could register. But he was disciplined enough to know that he was dead, so he simply sheathed his longer blade. “I guess you win again.” He said good-naturedly, sparking a smile from Taraak. “We’re even fighters and you know it.” He demurred, handing his small dagger to his friend so he could remove the blocking spell. It was true: having been trained by the same man and in the same way for the same amount of time, they were perfectly even as fighters. The slightest tip in the balance could mean victory for one or the other, and as a result their kill count on each other was almost always equal.
They were more than equal though, they were brothers. The few times they were allowed to conduct partnered exercise missions, their individual strengths complemented each other so well that they became one entity, two halves of a single unit. Torska was the only man Taraak had ever trusted, and he was the only one who knew of his strange memory ability. He knew that Torska would always support and comfort him, no matter what happened. His friendship was the only thing that was ever certain in his life, and they both clung to it like a man might to a rock as he was swept down a raging stream. Nothing would ever tear them apart. Nothing ever could.
“All the same, nicely done.” Replied Torska, handing the blade back to Taraak who slid it into the sheath on his arm. The sun was just then disappeared behind one of the taller buildings of the complex, shrouding the field in darkness. “Come on.” Taraak said, glancing up at the former position of the great orb. “We’re done for the day. Let’s go and get some sleep.” He did not need to look at his friend to know that he felt the same thing. Training was almost over, Baric had said so. Everyone knew that any day, they might be called out at last to do their service for the Empire. All felt great excitement at the thought, being able to use their skills in a real assignment. No one questioned whether or not they were ready. After nine years of training, they knew they were.
Taraak was reaching down for the bow and quiver that were the normal component of his kit when he noticed the approach of a soldier not much older than he was. He knew the soldiers assigned to defend and assist at the Spearshadow complex found him and the other trainees rather disturbing, and so he exploited this fact by straightening and strapping on his quiver far slower than he was capable, his emotionless grey eyes locked onto those of the young soldier the whole time. The man seemed to gain a sober understanding of what one of these human weapons could do to him, but he seemed to fear something else enough to keep coming. An instant later, he found out what. “You. Sergeant Baric has ordered your presence at the cellblock. Now .” That figured. Nothing was scarier than Baric when he was angry, and he had a reputation to match. “Very well. Just me?” “Just you.” “Alright, on my way.” He felt rather than heard Torska tense behind him, and knew he was unhappy that he had to let his friend face Baric alone. But there was nothing to be done, and they both knew it. Disobedience was unthinkable. Taraak gave his friend a hand signal that meant Stay strong, and he reciprocated with a you too before he was lost to sight. He followed the soldier inside and down the many corridors and passages of the Spearshadow complex, accepting the escort even though he knew the way perfectly well. He thought about slipping silently away down a side passage and arriving before the soldier, but decided it wasn’t worth getting Baric angry at the man just for the sake of a little amusement. It wasn’t fitting of an Imperial Assassin.
They arrived at the courtyard outside the long corridor that was the cellblock. Training Sergeant Ferial Baric was standing there, staring straight at him. Taraak felt an unconscious shiver down his spine. The years he had spent here had given him a fear of the man standing before him that transcended any other he knew, to the point where he was tense and alert to his every action, waiting for subtle cues that he should prepare himself for pain. At the moment, Baric looked as close to enjoyment as he ever did, but Taraak knew that it was no gauge for what his actions would be.
The young soldier marched forward and saluted crisply. “Trainee Taraak, as ordered sir.” Taraak could see that he had not been here long enough to fully appreciate the danger he was in, but Baric seemed so cheery that he merely nodded and turned toward him. “Ah, Taraak. I need your help with something.” His tone might have suggested light conversation for the young soldier, but the seventeen year old assassin knew better. Behind his back, one fist clenched instinctively as Baric went on. “Your training is almost over, but there is one more small assignment that I think will do you good.” Just then, a group of soldiers entered the courtyard, bringing a battered looking man. He looked to be about thirty years old, and his body still retained lean muscles, suggesting an active profession. His face and clothes were streaked with dried blood, but his eyes still showed the fire of defiance. The soldiers forced him to his knees in front of Baric, then withdrew to the edges of the courtyard. “This here is Cliven. He was a blacksmith, once a husband and father of three children, and a fine hard working citizen of the Empire.” The training sergeant said conversationally. “And a spy.” He added as an afterthought. “You see, he’s been reporting the whereabouts of the Imperial army whenever he could, but just last week ago he got sloppy and we caught him. They sent him to me, and he and I have been having some nice long talks.” Taraak knew exactly what that meant. “Anyway, we’ve gotten everything we’re going to get out of him, so there’s only one more piece of business that needs to be taken care of.” He turned and laid a hand on the young assassin’s tensed shoulder. “Kill him.”
Taraak blinked. That was all? He had been brought all the way here for that? Baric had often shown that he was capable of taking care of that piece of business by himself, so what call him for this case? But he did not have time to wonder. Baric had given him an order that would be carried out quickly. He took a step forward, drawing the dagger he had been sparring with minutes before and placing the keen edge against the kneeling victim’s throat. For his part, Cliven did not seem to put out, sad, but not afraid. From what he had seen, Taraak knew that most of those of his type were either brave, or had simply lost hope during the course of the interrogation. He did not know which it was in this case, and he had to admit that he really didn’t care. Just one more training mission, one more dissident that needed to be dealt with… “Aren’t you a little young for this boy?” The man said suddenly, inducing a blink of surprise. “What?” “Do your mother and father know what happened to you?” The man queried, a tone of gentle scolding in his voice. Taraak stopped short. Why did the man bring that up? Why would he ask a question in seeming concern of the person who was about to end his life? And little could he know the effect that the statement would have. All it took was that single mentioning to send images flashing behind his eyes.
The care-lined face of his father, smiling down at him with purely uncomplicated love in his eyes. He shook his head slightly, clearing the thought away with a negligent flick of his will. This man was an enemy of the Empire, and therefore a target. He had been trained almost all his life in the elimination of such men, so why did he suddenly find it so difficult?
But he realized in a moment that he knew exactly why. The questions he had carried with him since the day he was brought here, questions that he had been reasonably capable of pushing to the back of his mind the longer he tried. What if what he was doing was wrong? What if his targets did not deserve to die? He had asked them of course, several times, but each time he had been thoroughly beaten. Eventually he buried them so deeply he could come as close to forgetting them as he could with anything. But even through all of the indoctrination, they were still there, whispering in the back of his mind. But now a new one joined their ranks. Why was he doing this for an Empire that had killed his parents and taken him from them before he was even old enough to understand? He could remember the day, the very hour when there came the insistent pounding on the door of the house, when he heard the sound he now knew was a blade being driven through the gut of a middle-aged man, followed by his mother’s soon to be halted screams. He never did ask why, for if he did it would reveal that his memories were intact. If the Empire was so wise and just, why did his parents, or anyone for that matter, have to die? It was a question for which his training held no answer. And yet, every instinct was screaming that he should avoid the pain and the aggravation of thinking for himself and simply draw the blade across Cliven’s throat, severing the trachea and several arteries for almost instant death. He felt as if he was being torn in two, with all the pain such a thing would entail. Both beliefs could not be held at the same time. He needed to decide. To make his choice…
But then it occurred to him. What did the Empire use for justification? The fact that their actions would bring about peace and security for all. And yet Galbatorix had been using these methods for the past hundred years, and did anyone feel more peaceful and secure then they did before? It all seemed so simple that he wondered why he had not thought of it before. The only real justification that Galbatorix could have was the fact that he was swinging the biggest stick. All he really needed to decide was if he was more loyal to a corrupt Empire, represented to him by a man who had forcefully beaten skills into him in order to make him a weapon for them… Or the simple ideals of resistance that had cost his parents their lives. In the end, it was not even a choice at all.
Ever so slowly, he removed his knife from the man’s throat and turned to Baric. “No. I won’t do it.” Everything about his quiet words sent a shock through him, as if his brain couldn’t believe was his mouth was saying. But he knew that he meant them, every one of them. There was steel in those words, the implacable resolve of a man who was drawing the line. Baric sighed as if he had been expecting this. “That’s what I thought. I saw it in you from the moment you came here. You are weak Taraak. Weak and useless. I have no further use for you. He turned around and strode toward the door, gesturing to the soldiers as he went. “Kill them both.” Taraak sheathed his knife, giving the illusion of acquiescence as the five soldiers began to draw closer with drawn swords. He glanced at Cliven, who nodded subtly. Taraak knew the situation was impossible, that he was within one of the most secure facilities in the Empire, but none of that mattered. He had made his choice. To turn away from the man that had destroyed him, to turn away from his only friend with the hope that one day he too could be saved, to turn away from everything he knew. As soon as the soldiers were least expecting him to resist, his compound bow was in his hands with a shaft drawn, aimed at the nearest soldier…[/size][/blockquote]
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