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The Journal of Eamon Vigil (Ravenloft: Legacies of Darkness)
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<blockquote data-quote="MDSnowman" data-source="post: 2091224" data-attributes="member: 6255"><p><strong>Stepping Out...</strong></p><p></p><p>Natheme opened her eyes on the Lucinian night and glanced around the small room. Eamon was asleep, finally, sprawled inelegantly with the book on his chest. Connor appeared content, contemplating whatever dream absorbed him for the moment. It was time.</p><p></p><p> The elven woman rose silently to her feet and lifted the window-latch, slipping outside into the chilly March air. She slid down the side of the building and paused in the street, making certain that all her gear was secure and readily available, then wandered off among the cobblestone boulevards towards La Société des Rasoirs.</p><p></p><p> Natheme approached the rear wall of the compound and listened carefully. She expected guards and was somewhat surprised to hear a clink of glass and the sound of drunken stumbling on the other side. She waited with growing impatience for the drunk to move on. After a lengthy wait a loud thud marked the drunk passing out.</p><p></p><p>Climbing was not her forte, but she managed the 15 foot wall without too much difficulty, getting a hold of the top and peeking over. On the ground below was a young man dressed in a worn Société uniform, passed out on the sand. One of his hands held a wine bottle, and the other was wrapped in a bloody bandage.</p><p></p><p>Neatly and gracefully Natheme leaped down from the wall, landing soundlessly and kicking up a find powder of sand. She prodded the drunk’s injured hand curiously and was not too surprised to discover what appeared to be a gunshot wound through the palm, apparently several days old.</p><p></p><p>Looking up, she discovered she was standing only a few feet from the back door to the building, so she slunk over to it and tested the handle. It was unlocked, quite probably by the drunk on his way outside. No sound came from within, so she opened the door and slipped inside.</p><p></p><p>Giving the abandoned armory a perfunctory glance, Natheme slipped towards the stairs, gliding noiselessly up and pausing at the top. She could hear someone, and, peeking cautiously around the corner she spied a duelist firmly engrossed in conversation with a young woman by one of the many bookshelves. From his smiles and exaggerated hand gestures she assumed he was attempting to court her. </p><p></p><p>She waited while the conversation became more intense, hoping in their distraction that she wouldn’t be noticed, then dashed towards the stairs, but the duelist looked around. Ducking behind another bookcase Natheme held her breath, wondering whether she should attempt a bluff or strike this man down quickly if she were discovered. He approached slowly, but before he passed her bookcase and spied Natheme the woman whined, “C’mon, luv, I’m getting bored . . .” and he turned away, grinning. Their footsteps retreated from the room, to be replaced by other sounds that caused Natheme to smirk and shake her head.</p><p></p><p> Unimpeded, she slipped up the next staircase to the double doors outside Frances D’Pointu’s office. She could clearly hear voices on the other side.</p><p></p><p> “Lord Bendick, I assure you that failure was an aberration.” That was clearly D’Pointu’s voice.</p><p></p><p> “Aberration or not, Frances, it is a failure . . . something that will not be tolerated.” Lord Bendick’s voice was heavily accented, although the origin of the accent was not clear. He spoke coldly, evenly, but it was clear that he was enraged. “You let a simple child get away . . . you send seven men and they fail . . .”</p><p></p><p> D’Pointu’s voice became nervous. “My lord, I told you the boy arrived earlier . . . he wasn’t alone. There was a foreigner with him and an elf.”</p><p></p><p> “Do I hear an excuse coming, Frances?”</p><p></p><p> D’Pointu was silent. After a moment Bendick continued, “I don’t know what would be a more fitting punishment. Perhaps the dance of a thousand knives . . . do you know what that is, Frances? That’s when I lash you to a post and we take turn throwing knives at you . . . it can go on for days. Or perhaps I should just let you live out your worst fear . . .”</p><p></p><p> “Sir, one more chance. I still have dozens of men I can trust. There are only three of them. That many men and I will have to succeed.”</p><p></p><p> Bendick’s voice grew quieter and more intense. “Yes, you have to succeed. Because if you don’t place the book in my hand the next time we meet it will be the last time we meet in this world.”</p><p></p><p>It sounded very much as though Bendick were about to make a dramatic exit, so Natheme scurried down the stairs and hid behind a bookshelf. Behind her she heard, “Something tells me, though, that numbers won’t be enough. Those three are more cunning than they look.” A roaring sound, as of a great wind, followed that sentence.</p><p></p><p>Natheme waited, uncertain, but nothing appeared to happen. She went to a window, climbed out, and leaped to the top of the wall, grabbing hold of it and hoisting herself up. Finding her footing on the ledge, she suddenly felt the cold edge of a dagger press against her back and the now-familiar sound of Lord Bendick’s voice. </p><p></p><p>“Eavesdropping isn’t a ladylike pastime, you know.”</p><p></p><p>Natheme bowed slightly and glanced at him, saying, “Indeed. Yet neither is sending armed men to do robbery work for a gentleman.” The moment her eyes caught his face she knew she’d made a mistake . . . her heart began to pound and she felt suddenly weak with a frantic need to do whatever he said. She thought suddenly of Eamon, sleeping peacefully at Stephan Gearling’s home, and the feeling faded, but it had been a very near thing.</p><p></p><p>Thinking frantically and desperately fighting terrible fear, she asked, “How may I please thee, my lord? The book is a trivial matter to me . . . perhaps I could obtain it for you?”</p><p></p><p> Bendick appeared convinced that she had fallen to his power. “There are many ways you can please me, Milady, but I’m afraid business must come before pleasure. Deliver the book, and your friends, to a place where D’Pointu and his men will best be able to take care of the matter.”</p><p></p><p>“And where might that be, my lord?”</p><p></p><p>“There’s an abandoned warehouse on the pier, slowly sinking into the bay. Take them there; tell them that D’Pointu is meeting his master there.”</p><p></p><p> Natheme glanced over at the Société building. “’Tis such a pity you must rely on that simpleton. He will no doubt bungle matters again.”</p><p></p><p>“That is my concern, your instructions are simple . . .”</p><p></p><p>“Tish, you are wiser than I, my lord. Simple enough even for my feeble brain to comprehend. I shall away on my task . . . if you permit?”</p><p></p><p>“Good.” He sank into the darkness, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Natheme waited a moment, then jumped down from the wall, hurrying through the streets. She was shaking all over with dread, hideous mind-tearing dread of what had almost happened. What she might have done. She walked until the first light of dawn began to creep over the buildings, then went back to the room they were using and climbed through the window again. </p><p></p><p>The men were still asleep; Connor snoring loudly, Eamon looking young and fragile and precious. She crept to his side and bent over him, wrapping her arms around his head and kissing him tenderly, still shaking.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="MDSnowman, post: 2091224, member: 6255"] [b]Stepping Out...[/b] Natheme opened her eyes on the Lucinian night and glanced around the small room. Eamon was asleep, finally, sprawled inelegantly with the book on his chest. Connor appeared content, contemplating whatever dream absorbed him for the moment. It was time. The elven woman rose silently to her feet and lifted the window-latch, slipping outside into the chilly March air. She slid down the side of the building and paused in the street, making certain that all her gear was secure and readily available, then wandered off among the cobblestone boulevards towards La Société des Rasoirs. Natheme approached the rear wall of the compound and listened carefully. She expected guards and was somewhat surprised to hear a clink of glass and the sound of drunken stumbling on the other side. She waited with growing impatience for the drunk to move on. After a lengthy wait a loud thud marked the drunk passing out. Climbing was not her forte, but she managed the 15 foot wall without too much difficulty, getting a hold of the top and peeking over. On the ground below was a young man dressed in a worn Société uniform, passed out on the sand. One of his hands held a wine bottle, and the other was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Neatly and gracefully Natheme leaped down from the wall, landing soundlessly and kicking up a find powder of sand. She prodded the drunk’s injured hand curiously and was not too surprised to discover what appeared to be a gunshot wound through the palm, apparently several days old. Looking up, she discovered she was standing only a few feet from the back door to the building, so she slunk over to it and tested the handle. It was unlocked, quite probably by the drunk on his way outside. No sound came from within, so she opened the door and slipped inside. Giving the abandoned armory a perfunctory glance, Natheme slipped towards the stairs, gliding noiselessly up and pausing at the top. She could hear someone, and, peeking cautiously around the corner she spied a duelist firmly engrossed in conversation with a young woman by one of the many bookshelves. From his smiles and exaggerated hand gestures she assumed he was attempting to court her. She waited while the conversation became more intense, hoping in their distraction that she wouldn’t be noticed, then dashed towards the stairs, but the duelist looked around. Ducking behind another bookcase Natheme held her breath, wondering whether she should attempt a bluff or strike this man down quickly if she were discovered. He approached slowly, but before he passed her bookcase and spied Natheme the woman whined, “C’mon, luv, I’m getting bored . . .” and he turned away, grinning. Their footsteps retreated from the room, to be replaced by other sounds that caused Natheme to smirk and shake her head. Unimpeded, she slipped up the next staircase to the double doors outside Frances D’Pointu’s office. She could clearly hear voices on the other side. “Lord Bendick, I assure you that failure was an aberration.” That was clearly D’Pointu’s voice. “Aberration or not, Frances, it is a failure . . . something that will not be tolerated.” Lord Bendick’s voice was heavily accented, although the origin of the accent was not clear. He spoke coldly, evenly, but it was clear that he was enraged. “You let a simple child get away . . . you send seven men and they fail . . .” D’Pointu’s voice became nervous. “My lord, I told you the boy arrived earlier . . . he wasn’t alone. There was a foreigner with him and an elf.” “Do I hear an excuse coming, Frances?” D’Pointu was silent. After a moment Bendick continued, “I don’t know what would be a more fitting punishment. Perhaps the dance of a thousand knives . . . do you know what that is, Frances? That’s when I lash you to a post and we take turn throwing knives at you . . . it can go on for days. Or perhaps I should just let you live out your worst fear . . .” “Sir, one more chance. I still have dozens of men I can trust. There are only three of them. That many men and I will have to succeed.” Bendick’s voice grew quieter and more intense. “Yes, you have to succeed. Because if you don’t place the book in my hand the next time we meet it will be the last time we meet in this world.” It sounded very much as though Bendick were about to make a dramatic exit, so Natheme scurried down the stairs and hid behind a bookshelf. Behind her she heard, “Something tells me, though, that numbers won’t be enough. Those three are more cunning than they look.” A roaring sound, as of a great wind, followed that sentence. Natheme waited, uncertain, but nothing appeared to happen. She went to a window, climbed out, and leaped to the top of the wall, grabbing hold of it and hoisting herself up. Finding her footing on the ledge, she suddenly felt the cold edge of a dagger press against her back and the now-familiar sound of Lord Bendick’s voice. “Eavesdropping isn’t a ladylike pastime, you know.” Natheme bowed slightly and glanced at him, saying, “Indeed. Yet neither is sending armed men to do robbery work for a gentleman.” The moment her eyes caught his face she knew she’d made a mistake . . . her heart began to pound and she felt suddenly weak with a frantic need to do whatever he said. She thought suddenly of Eamon, sleeping peacefully at Stephan Gearling’s home, and the feeling faded, but it had been a very near thing. Thinking frantically and desperately fighting terrible fear, she asked, “How may I please thee, my lord? The book is a trivial matter to me . . . perhaps I could obtain it for you?” Bendick appeared convinced that she had fallen to his power. “There are many ways you can please me, Milady, but I’m afraid business must come before pleasure. Deliver the book, and your friends, to a place where D’Pointu and his men will best be able to take care of the matter.” “And where might that be, my lord?” “There’s an abandoned warehouse on the pier, slowly sinking into the bay. Take them there; tell them that D’Pointu is meeting his master there.” Natheme glanced over at the Société building. “’Tis such a pity you must rely on that simpleton. He will no doubt bungle matters again.” “That is my concern, your instructions are simple . . .” “Tish, you are wiser than I, my lord. Simple enough even for my feeble brain to comprehend. I shall away on my task . . . if you permit?” “Good.” He sank into the darkness, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Natheme waited a moment, then jumped down from the wall, hurrying through the streets. She was shaking all over with dread, hideous mind-tearing dread of what had almost happened. What she might have done. She walked until the first light of dawn began to creep over the buildings, then went back to the room they were using and climbed through the window again. The men were still asleep; Connor snoring loudly, Eamon looking young and fragile and precious. She crept to his side and bent over him, wrapping her arms around his head and kissing him tenderly, still shaking. [/QUOTE]
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