Faces of the Zahir

There's the ring of steel on steel, and I watch as two opponents circle each other, swords at the ready, knees bent. Their position is terrible, their grip even worse, and their actual technique... sarth, don't even get me started on their technique! It's so bad the pain of watching them spar is practically physical. Their guard is too low, they hardly move their feet, and they almost drop their swords every time they hit each other with them!

Honestly, I don't understand why in Vaëlddra's name people enjoy watching these brawls, yet the Crooked Hook inn is full to the brink of scruffy lowlives, minor barons and even a few higher placed nobles whose attempts at disguising their wealth did not go unnoticed. Not by me, and not by any of the sharp eyed pickpockets lurking in the darker corners of the mess room.

A most unsavory place, might I add. The air's so smoky it's hard to see five feet in front of you and it reeks of decomposing bread, piss and stale bodies. If you want ale, you'd better hope to the holy mother that you look poor as Gorgoz, or else there might be something you didn't really expect in your drink. Something that makes you wake up in the back alley, only in your loincloth with everything you own gone. And that's if you're lucky. Then there's the matter of who comes in here. I already mentioned lowlives and pickpockets, but I didn't mention the sailors, slave masters, crime lords, whoremongers or prostitutes. They're all part of this jolly band of people I'm currently watching.

And sarth, my ass hurts. These barstools really aren't comfortable.

I slam my now empty goblet onto the sticky, worn wooden plank balanced on two barrels that is the bar, catching the attention of the bartender, a young man called Gerald whose habit of spiking drinks makes him the best friend of the thieves--and the worst enemy of nobles. Luckily for him, more than a few crime lords have him in their favor, so if a noble complains about Gerald and a crime lord catches wind of it (and they always do, believe me), a few assassins will gently visit the noble in question and leave him a message from the crime lords. A slit throat.

"One more." I growl, making my voice slur a little to appear drunk. "And don't spike it. I'll know."

I didn't drink any of the ale. I've been systematically dumping it on the floor, adding to the mix of liquids already pooling on the planks of wood. It's not as though Gerald cares. For him, so long as the coins keep rolling, there's no problem, even if your drink ends up on the floor.

"Aye, sir. But between us, I doubt you'd know." He answers, his high pitched voice betraying his age even more than his face, then slides my ale to me.

I sip it, the ale tasting terrible as always, and a faint stinging in my jaw tells me my anti-poison Talent has kicked in. A talent is essentially a magical ability that makes it so that you have a special capacity that is only functional to you; some have the strength of ten men, others the ability to walk through fire unscathed. I have two Talents; the ability to detect and resist poison is one of them. The other... we'll get back to it.

I raise my eyebrows at Gerald.

"An extract of rhedd? Really? Did you want me gone that bad?"

Gerald's ears turn pink as he mumbles an apology. Rhedd is a highly poisonous weed, capable of killing a man in one minute. Its extracts, if diluted enough, make the death as painful and long as possible. As I said, looks like Gerald wanted me gone pretty bad. Either that, or he just wanted to see the effects of the drug firsthand and I just so happened to be one of the only men at this bar.

I turn away from Gerald and look back at the brawl. Sarth, you must be kidding me!

The tallest opponent is now running around his adversary, looking less like the sword for hire he tells himself to be and more like a chicken whose head has been cut off. Really pathetic. Gee, I'm half tempted to jump into the ring and settle the scores myself!

I sigh and quickly rescan the room. In the corners, where the smoke is thickest, a few shady looking men are dealing, be it to obtain a whore for the night or to procure for themselves a certain type of drug only the black market offers. At tables constructed much like the bar, a few men are drinking themselves dead, their hand on the exposed thigh of the prostitute on their laps. I glimpse a few card games here and there, as well as a few merry parties of assassins conversing with the crime lords to which they vowed allegiance. Towards the center of the room, beneath the rusty old chandelier, a cleared space in which the well-known brawls occur.

No slave dealers in sight.

Yet.

I hear the creaking of a door, and cold night wind comes rushing inside the Crooked Hook, giving me a well needed waft of fresh air. I look at the open main door, the door that's directly across the room from me, and see a tall, muscular man step into the flickering candlelight. His dirty blonde hair is swept sideways from the wind, and the light puts evidence on his eyepatch, and the wicked scar running from a bit over his eyebrow to his cheekbone. His hawk like eyes sweep the rapidly quieting room, and stop when they get level to me.

Sarth. As if I need this kind of attention.

I turn to face the bar, hoping the man will just write me off as another drunkard.

Then the door gets slammed shut, and footsteps grow closer to me. Sarth, looks like my luck's out. He noticed me, all right.

"Hey, Shadesteele!" Someone calls tentatively.

Shadesteele doesn't reply.

I slosh some more ale onto the floor, and meet the eyes of Gerald, who quickly turns away as I click my tongue and shift my shoulders in such a way that light falls on the sword I wear strapped to my back, the pommel visible from beneath my cloak..

There's the sound of wood against wood, followed by a bit of splashes, then a voice says:

"Ale."

I look to my left. Wrapped in his signature dark cloak, Shadesteele looks menacing, and even more so as soon as he extends his arms, throwing emphasis on his black leather vambraces.

"You're such a sarthing show off." I tell him as he receives the ale.

"Nice to see you too, brother." Shadesteele, or as I know him, Colin, replies.

Noises gradually resume, but slowly, not at the same intent as they did before. Not now that the king of the Rogues of Fyron joined the party.

"Just so you know, Gerald seems to have procured himself some rhedd."

"Really? Must be a coincidence, unless he's trying to tell us he wants a visit from him."

Gerald turns pale beneath his pimples.

"No, sir, I swear, I didn't know--"

"Didn't know what? That Lightning Sword is one of my men?" Colin asks, his voice sultrily soft.

"Keep flattering yourself." I mutter to him.

"No, sir, I didn't!" Gerald stammers.

"Oh, well, looks like Rhedd has one last person to visit tonight." The king of the Rogues says dismissively.

Gerald practically whimpers and stumbles backwards, away from us. I roll my eyes and turn myself so that I'm completely facing Colin.

"Do you really enjoy seeing men piss themselves so much that you deliberately throw around the name of the best assassin in Andellion?"

Colin picks at his nails, ever the diva.

"Well, she does answer to us..."

"Sort of. She deliberately screwed up her last mission, Shadesteele."

Shadesteele nods, his lips a thin line.

"Regrettably, I have to say that's Rhedd."

Yes, Rhedd is a part of the Rogues, but from that to saying she answers to us... She might be the best, but she's a wild card. She does what she wants, when she wants, the way she wants. And she takes a guilty pleasure in making what she wants as gory as possible. So being visited by her... Well, let's just say you'll most definitely die.

Colin takes a sip of his ale, turns green and spits it on the floor, then straightens up and calls to Gerald:

"What is this piss that you dare call ale?"

I chuckle and turn to look at the room again. The brawl seems to be finally coming to a close, the chicken-with-no-head now so winded I can hear him wheezing from here and his opponent so dizzy it's a public hazard to see him with a sword. I scan the whole of the room for any--there! A man, so obviously rich it's appalling, talking to a crime lord and not getting gutted by assassins. Slave trader.

Sword fodder.

I tap Colin on the shoulder, getting up as I do so. He raises his eyebrows at me.

"Can't you see I'm arguing?"

"Nope, I wasn't listening. I'll be out for a few minutes, if you're looking for me."

Colin frowns and inspects my face.

"Why?" He asks. I don't have to answer. The expression on my face tells him all he needs to know. "Ga--Lightning Sword, you need to stop this."

His face is serious, his jaw set, and he's giving me an order.

"Yeah, I will." I say, then crack my neck and walk towards the slave trader. I start overhearing their conversation.

"--a hundred, well trained. Been in our care since they were ten years old." The slave trader says.

I don't need to hear anything else. I'm now close enough to them that the assassins get up, drawing their swords.

"Go back." One of them orders.

I nod, then draw my sword and attack. The assassins are good, but not as good as the Rogues, and I can tell by their eyes that they know that, even as I kick one over the table and onto the crime lord.

The slave trader flees. I see it out of the corner of my eye. Sarth, I need to disengage from these assassins.

"My quarrel isn't with you or your master." I say.

"Then leave, and quick!" An assassin growls. I nod and run out of the inn. The slave trader's there, desperately trying to untie his horse.

"What do you want?" He asks, his eyes wide with terror. I step over a drunk man--or his corpse, I don't care--and twirl my sword.

"I want to know how it feels to remove my sword from your corpse." I say, then attack. The man is slow. He's slow to unsheathe his jeweled, decorative sword, slow to parry the stroke I aimed for his head.

I kick him in his flabby stomach, sending him toppling over the fence to which he tied his horse. I take five seconds to cut through the restraints on the animal and send it galloping away before jumping over the fence, my feet hardly making a sound as they land on the wet earth.

"Who--who are you?" The slave trader asks, desperately trying to scramble away, but his fur cloak is caught in the mud.

"The man who killed you." I say, then kick the man's sword away from him and stab him in the chest. Once the light leaves his eyes, I whisper "My name is Gavin Asureles." and pull my sword out from the body.