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<blockquote data-quote="Delemental" data-source="post: 5101040" data-attributes="member: 5203"><p>Again, updating later than I would have liked. Work is not being kind to my writing/posting schedule.</p><p></p><p>----------------------------</p><p></p><p> “A Solar,” Zanka repeated.</p><p></p><p> “Or something of similar power,” Ghost said, “someone like Nine Wounds Laughing, for example. The feats this killer is capable of are beyond the powers of any God-Blooded or Terrestrial Exalt.”</p><p></p><p> “So, where do we go from here?” Ayama asked. “We have very little information to follow.”</p><p></p><p> “The first step is to make sure that Rutendo is placed in hiding with the remainder of the Silver Guard,” Kaliel said. “I will also check the security around them and around Lady Rinalta.”</p><p></p><p> “I will not hide from this assassin,” Rutendo protested.</p><p></p><p> “It is only until we have more information about who the assassin is and have a plan to confront them,” Ghost said. “Until then, you would be little more than an open target.”</p><p></p><p> “That arrow was fired from within the city, in the middle of the day,” Rutendo pointed out. “Surely someone would have made note of this. I can tell you roughly what part of town the shot was fired from.”</p><p></p><p> “I can look into that,” Zanka said. “I will go to Storyteller first, however – surely such an unusual event would have generated gossip.”</p><p></p><p> “I will check with my contacts in Lynnisbrook’s underworld again,” Ghost said. “I may have been too specific in my inquiries earlier. I will also visit the riverboats and ask of rumors of similar assassinations occurring in other cities in Creation. I suspect that this assassin has left a trail of bodies.”</p><p></p><p> “I will ask around to see if any other Dragon-Bloods live in the city besides those in the Silver Guard,” Ayama said. “They may have information, and they are also potential targets.”</p><p></p><p> The four Solars went their separate ways early the next day. Ghost made his way to the docks, and after conversing with the captains and crews of several Guild riverboats, he learned that there had been reports of several Dragon-Bloods being assassinated all throughout the East. Ghost listened with some amusement when some described the killer’s first victims as a small Wyld Hunt in Cherak that had been slaughtered and then left on display outside the city, for he of course knew who was truly responsible for that act. Once he discounted this story, he learned that the killings had begun about five months ago near Greyfalls, and had followed an overland route heading north and west. The assassin had claimed the lives of several Immaculates, a few outcastes, and at least one Imperial magistrate. One outcaste Dragon-Blood had been killed in the midst of capping a demesne with a manse, and the resultant explosion of Essence had been quite spectacular.</p><p></p><p> Ghost then made his way into the poorest sections of the city, looking for contacts among the criminal element of the city. His found himself directed toward a small hovel in the midst of several large tenements, where an informant lived. The stink of offal and unwashed humanity was palpable as he made his way inside; once again Ghost gave thanks for the pendant he wore that repelled such filth.</p><p></p><p> Inside the ramshackle structure, a half-dozen people lounged, at least four obviously under the effects of or recovering from some narcotic.</p><p></p><p> “I was told that you might know of someone who arrived in town recently,” Ghost said. “Within the past month, if not sooner. This person would have been looking for information on the palace security, particularly the Lady’s new personal guard. He probably wore a bow, and carried himself as a warrior.”</p><p></p><p> The men and women in the hovel looked at each other. “People come, people go,” one of the men said. He wore an eyepatch on his right eye, and was missing the two smallest fingers of his left hand. “Hard to remember details.”</p><p></p><p> Ghost tossed the man a small sack of silver. “I have heard that the cure for such memory loss can be expensive.”</p><p></p><p> “Yeah, I know who you’re looking for,” the man said once the silver had been tucked away. “But I ain’t seen him. Truth is, no one in this city has seen him. Right, boys?” The others in the hovel mumbled their agreement.</p><p></p><p> “I see.” A sudden urge struck Ghost; a small part of his mind told him to resist, but he ignored it. “Perhaps you need to reconsider my questions from a new perspective.”</p><p></p><p> Ghost rushed forward, grabbed the man by his shirt, and leapt into the air, crashing through the flimsy roof of the hovel. Thirty feet in the air, he landed atop a clothesline, balancing as the man screamed and thrashed in his grip.</p><p></p><p> Ghost pulled him close. “So. I assume that the man I am seeking came to this part of down to make sure that no one would talk. I assume that threats were made.”</p><p></p><p> “He said he would kill us!”</p><p></p><p> Ghost shook his head. “Then he was letting you off easy. You would be surprised what one could survive. So many parts of the body are not strictly necessary to live.”</p><p></p><p> “I’ll tell you what you want!” the man gibbered. “Just get me down safely!”</p><p></p><p> “I suggest you talk first,” Ghost said. “But I warn you that when people lie to me, my palms get sweaty.” Ghost relaxed his grip for a fraction of a second, enough for the informant to feel the quick tug of gravity.</p><p></p><p> “His name is Tearful Mountain!” the informant said. “He arrived in Lynnisbrook fifteen days ago. He is a large man, an Easterner, with short dark hair and green eyes. He carries a large golden bow, bigger than any I’ve ever seen! He wanted information on the Silver Guard, which he paid well for. He also wanted to know where he could buy ingredients for poisons, and arrows. And he wanted whores, too!”</p><p></p><p> With a feral grin, Ghost leapt into the air again, carrying the screaming informant to a nearby rooftop, dropping the man a few feet in the air so he landed sprawling on the hard clay roof.</p><p></p><p> “You have been most helpful,” Ghost said. “Enough that I will consider not revealing where my information comes from. I do understand the importance of discretion in such matters.”</p><p></p><p> “I won’t say nothing either! I’m real good at that!” he babbled, oblivious to the irony of his words.</p><p></p><p> “One more thing before I leave,” Ghost said, towering over the informant. “You said he asked for a fletcher, an herbalist, and a whorehouse. Where, exactly, did you send him?”</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">۞</p><p></p><p> Ayama sat on a small overturned crate, peering into the mouth of a middle-aged woman, a frown on her face. It had been a disappointing day.</p><p></p><p> She had gone that morning to the captain of the city guard to ask about any known Dragon-Bloods living in the city other than the Silver Guard. The captain had promised to gather some information and send a report, but could provide no names. He did mention that several Dragon-Bloods had come to Lynnisbrook in the past few months, looking to join Lagan’s new army, but many had not had the military training necessary, and had been sent away with recommendations that they sign up with a mercenary company for a few seasons. Though they had no way of knowing who had followed their advice, the guard captain suspected that most had left.</p><p></p><p> She had then gone down to the poorest sections of the city, where she had hoped she might be able to generate some sympathy for the murdered Silver Guards and instill some civic pride, which might result in someone coming forward with information. However, Ayama found her words had little effect; the people who lived here had little sympathy for the Silver Guard, as many of them had been on the wrong side of the law. Her words led only to angry shouts and insults; when one tried to escalate the situation, however, Ayama was forced to educate him personally.</p><p></p><p> The final moment of futility came when Ayama had begun ministering to the people living in the shanties near the river, and discovered that none of the advice that she had given them the last time she was here had been put into practice. The people still suffered from the same pestilences as before, and surrounded themselves in the same filth that could so easily be avoided.</p><p></p><p> Suppressing a sigh, Ayama closed the woman’s mouth, then handed her a wrapped bundle of leaves. “Brew this into a strong tea, and drink while hot,” she said. “The sores should go away within a few days. And remember, boil your water before drinking it to prevent this from coming back… again.”</p><p></p><p> The woman bowed, and moved away. She saw a younger man walking slowly toward her, bent over nearly double at the waist, wincing as he shuffled closer with one hand on his lower back.</p><p></p><p> Ayama took a moment to examine the injury, and then applied pressure to the proper points and pushed firmly. With a series of pops, the man stood upright, a look of relief on his face.</p><p></p><p> “Avoid heavy labor for the remainder of the day,” Ayama said. “And learn to lift with your legs, please.”</p><p></p><p> She began to motion toward the next patient, when she saw the eyes of the man before her widen. At that moment the arrow struck her in the back.</p><p></p><p> Essence flowed in pure reflex, triggered in the split second between the sensation of the arrowhead piercing her clothing and when it struck her flesh. Her skin took on a golden metallic hue as the Essence hardened it, and the arrow bounced off, unable to penetrate. It hung from her back, caught in her tunic, as she shoved the man she had just healed out of the way and began to turn.</p><p></p><p> A golden disk flew by her head as she turned, floating level with her eyes as she whipped around, so that it seemed to hang motionless in her gaze for a moment. Then it sped on, flying down an alleyway behind her, bouncing from wall to wall. At the far end of the alley, a hundred yards away, stood a tall, well-muscled man wielding a golden bow. Even from this distance, she could see a look of confusion on his face, perplexed as to why his victim still lived. He ducked as the golden wheel flew at his throat, and then he turned and ran, fleeing at a supernatural rate of speed down another street.</p><p></p><p> Ghost ran up to Ayama, reaching out a hand to catch the Left Eye of Mars as it flew back to him. “Have you been hurt?” he asked.</p><p></p><p> She shook her head. “Only my pride… and my tunic.”</p><p></p><p> “Be grateful it was only that.” He pulled the arrow out of Ayama’s clothing, and showed it to her. The head of the arrow, a frog-crotch, was coated with a thick greenish fluid.</p><p></p><p> “How did you know I would be attacked?” Ayama asked.</p><p></p><p> “I did not. I was looking for you, and happened to come at the right moment. Fortunately, I knew to simply look in the part of town that had the most sick, dirty people in it.”</p><p></p><p> “Your arrival was fortunate, then,” Ayama said. “At least we now know what he looks like.”</p><p></p><p> “I know far more than that,” Ghost said with a smile. “Come with me. We have a few shops to visit.”</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">۞</p><p></p><p> The cool sherbet melted on Zanka’s tongue as she sat in an elegant little teahouse, contemplating her next move.</p><p></p><p> She had gone first to Storyteller’s temple, hoping that he might have gathered rumors about the mysterious assassin, especially after his daylight display of archery. The god had appeared to speak with her, but when she made her request, he had frozen in place for several seconds, so still that the breeze did not disturb his robes.</p><p></p><p> “I am afraid that I am unable to assist you,” Storyteller said.</p><p></p><p> “Unable, or unwilling?”</p><p></p><p> “In this matter, they are one and the same.”</p><p></p><p> “May I ask why?”</p><p></p><p> “There is a force opposing you in this endeavor, which is at least as puissant as yourselves. I cannot say more, as I have no desire to be in the midst of this conflict. However, I believe that you and your friends are resourceful enough to already know what you need to know about it.” *</p><p></p><p> Zanka frowned as she considered the conversation. She had tried to drop some subtle hints, suggesting that she could easily turn her own talents against Storyteller just as she had used them to enhance his worship. The god had held his ground, however, and eventually they parted. She had then gone to speak with Storyteller’s priest, Namal, who had shed some more light on the situation. Namal confirmed that Storyteller had in fact received a visitor wanting to speak with the god directly, about two weeks ago. The priest described him as a large Easterner with dark hair and a large golden bow. He told Zanka that the man had been very forceful, pushing his way into the temple and roughing Namal up a bit before Storyteller appeared. Namal had not heard the conversation, but the stranger’s tone was very stern and demanding.</p><p></p><p> Since coming here to cool off, Zanka had also turned her conversation with Storyteller over in her mind. She had realized that by describing the assassin as equals to them, he had confirmed that he was a Solar, perhaps one of several. She also surmised that the assassin had learned of Storyteller’s nature soon after arriving in Lynnisbrook, and had come both for information on his targets, and to make sure that the consequences of revealing secrets would be known.</p><p></p><p> Still, none of this told her where the assassin lived. She had hoped to avoid it, but she realized she would have to go into the part of town where Rutendo said the arrow had come from.</p><p></p><p> An hour later, she found herself in the area, a collection of lower-class merchants and shops. She made a few inquiries, but made little progress – none had seen a man firing a large golden bow into the sky the previous day. But while searching, she came across a fletcher’s shop which seemed to be somewhat more successful than the surrounding merchants. On a hunch, she entered the small shop.</p><p></p><p> The man behind the counter was old and wizened, with large, knobby hands covered with calluses. He squinted at Zanka as she came in.</p><p></p><p> “Excuse me, good sir,” Zanka said. “I was looking for a man who I believe might have been a customer here. He is a large man from the East, with short dark hair. He may have been carrying a very large bow that looked as though it was made of gold. He would have come here looking to purchase arrows for that bow, most likely needing to be custom-made.”</p><p></p><p> “I ain’t seen him,” the old man grumbled. “He ain’t been here.”</p><p></p><p> “Then where might one go to find such arrows?”</p><p></p><p> “Beats me, not around here.”</p><p></p><p> Zanka leaned forward. “I think you are lying to me.”</p><p></p><p> “Why would I lie?” The myopic man squinted at her again. “You’re a fine upstanding young boy.”</p><p></p><p> “Well, I see your point. I imagine that no one must frequent your business. After all, if you have such difficulty even determining the gender of your customers, you must know little of arrows.”</p><p></p><p> “Clients are one thing, but I know arrows,” the man complained.</p><p></p><p> Zanka made a contemptuous noise in the back of her throat.</p><p></p><p> “I’ve got the best arrows this side of Creation!” the man roared. “Anyone who wanted really good arrows would come here!” His wrinkled face twisted into a snarl, but then suddenly fell as the fletcher realized exactly what he had just admitted.</p><p></p><p> “I thought so,” Zanka said. “So, what kind of arrows did you sell him?”</p><p></p><p> The man’s shoulders slumped. “In the back.”</p><p></p><p> She followed him to the workshop in the back of the store. Propped up against the back wall were several large arrows, with shafts over three feet long and as thick as Kaliel’s thumb. A variety of arrowheads were affixed to each one.</p><p></p><p> “He paid me in advance, in jade,” the fletcher said. “Basically keeps me on retainer for him while he’s in town.”</p><p></p><p> “When was the last time you saw him?” Zanka asked.</p><p></p><p> “Yesterday. I don’t expect to see him for two or three days yet.”</p><p></p><p> “Do you know where he stays?”</p><p></p><p> “No idea. Don’t care to know.”</p><p></p><p> Zanka looked around the room. “I or my companions may be back,” she said.</p><p></p><p> “Wonderful,” the man groused. “Tell my son that I keep my savings where I hide the whiskey.”</p><p></p><p> “We will do our best to keep you out of harm’s way,” Zanka said. She walked out of the back of the shop and into the street. She was greeted almost immediately by Ayama and Ghost, who came walking toward the fletcher’s shop.</p><p></p><p> “I see your efforts have led to the same place,” Ghost said. He held up a large arrow, identical to the ones inside. A green substance coated the head which Zanka assumed was poison.</p><p></p><p> “Our assassin has been here,” Zanka said. “There are several more arrows like that inside, though none of them were poisoned.”</p><p></p><p> “It is called Silent Death,” Ghost said. “It instantly paralyzes the muscles of the face and throat, keeping the victim from crying out. Death comes only seconds later.”</p><p></p><p> “We have been to an herbalist,” Ayama explained. “One that our assassin, Tearful Mountain, has been frequenting much as he has our fletcher here. But the herbalist only sells the reagents; Tearful Mountain makes this poison himself.”</p><p></p><p> “If nothing else, we now know places he may be,” Zanka said.</p><p></p><p> “Strange that you should mention that,” Ghost said. “We have one more visit to make. Come along.”</p><p></p><p> Zanka fell in behind Ghost and Ayama as they turned down the street. She saw with dismay that they were heading to a less reputable part of the city. “Where are we going?” she asked.</p><p></p><p> “To a whorehouse,” Ghost replied. “Where else?”</p><p></p><p>-------------------------</p><p></p><p>* For those unfamiliar with the Exalted setting, Storyteller's reaction is easier to understand when you know that experienced Celestial Exalted (Solars, Lunar, and Sidereals) are considerably more powerful than gods in Creation, especially those who are terrestrial-based and not aspected toward any sort of military or combat role. Thus it is not out of the ordinary for Tearful Mountain's threats to be effective against Storyteller.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Delemental, post: 5101040, member: 5203"] Again, updating later than I would have liked. Work is not being kind to my writing/posting schedule. ---------------------------- “A Solar,” Zanka repeated. “Or something of similar power,” Ghost said, “someone like Nine Wounds Laughing, for example. The feats this killer is capable of are beyond the powers of any God-Blooded or Terrestrial Exalt.” “So, where do we go from here?” Ayama asked. “We have very little information to follow.” “The first step is to make sure that Rutendo is placed in hiding with the remainder of the Silver Guard,” Kaliel said. “I will also check the security around them and around Lady Rinalta.” “I will not hide from this assassin,” Rutendo protested. “It is only until we have more information about who the assassin is and have a plan to confront them,” Ghost said. “Until then, you would be little more than an open target.” “That arrow was fired from within the city, in the middle of the day,” Rutendo pointed out. “Surely someone would have made note of this. I can tell you roughly what part of town the shot was fired from.” “I can look into that,” Zanka said. “I will go to Storyteller first, however – surely such an unusual event would have generated gossip.” “I will check with my contacts in Lynnisbrook’s underworld again,” Ghost said. “I may have been too specific in my inquiries earlier. I will also visit the riverboats and ask of rumors of similar assassinations occurring in other cities in Creation. I suspect that this assassin has left a trail of bodies.” “I will ask around to see if any other Dragon-Bloods live in the city besides those in the Silver Guard,” Ayama said. “They may have information, and they are also potential targets.” The four Solars went their separate ways early the next day. Ghost made his way to the docks, and after conversing with the captains and crews of several Guild riverboats, he learned that there had been reports of several Dragon-Bloods being assassinated all throughout the East. Ghost listened with some amusement when some described the killer’s first victims as a small Wyld Hunt in Cherak that had been slaughtered and then left on display outside the city, for he of course knew who was truly responsible for that act. Once he discounted this story, he learned that the killings had begun about five months ago near Greyfalls, and had followed an overland route heading north and west. The assassin had claimed the lives of several Immaculates, a few outcastes, and at least one Imperial magistrate. One outcaste Dragon-Blood had been killed in the midst of capping a demesne with a manse, and the resultant explosion of Essence had been quite spectacular. Ghost then made his way into the poorest sections of the city, looking for contacts among the criminal element of the city. His found himself directed toward a small hovel in the midst of several large tenements, where an informant lived. The stink of offal and unwashed humanity was palpable as he made his way inside; once again Ghost gave thanks for the pendant he wore that repelled such filth. Inside the ramshackle structure, a half-dozen people lounged, at least four obviously under the effects of or recovering from some narcotic. “I was told that you might know of someone who arrived in town recently,” Ghost said. “Within the past month, if not sooner. This person would have been looking for information on the palace security, particularly the Lady’s new personal guard. He probably wore a bow, and carried himself as a warrior.” The men and women in the hovel looked at each other. “People come, people go,” one of the men said. He wore an eyepatch on his right eye, and was missing the two smallest fingers of his left hand. “Hard to remember details.” Ghost tossed the man a small sack of silver. “I have heard that the cure for such memory loss can be expensive.” “Yeah, I know who you’re looking for,” the man said once the silver had been tucked away. “But I ain’t seen him. Truth is, no one in this city has seen him. Right, boys?” The others in the hovel mumbled their agreement. “I see.” A sudden urge struck Ghost; a small part of his mind told him to resist, but he ignored it. “Perhaps you need to reconsider my questions from a new perspective.” Ghost rushed forward, grabbed the man by his shirt, and leapt into the air, crashing through the flimsy roof of the hovel. Thirty feet in the air, he landed atop a clothesline, balancing as the man screamed and thrashed in his grip. Ghost pulled him close. “So. I assume that the man I am seeking came to this part of down to make sure that no one would talk. I assume that threats were made.” “He said he would kill us!” Ghost shook his head. “Then he was letting you off easy. You would be surprised what one could survive. So many parts of the body are not strictly necessary to live.” “I’ll tell you what you want!” the man gibbered. “Just get me down safely!” “I suggest you talk first,” Ghost said. “But I warn you that when people lie to me, my palms get sweaty.” Ghost relaxed his grip for a fraction of a second, enough for the informant to feel the quick tug of gravity. “His name is Tearful Mountain!” the informant said. “He arrived in Lynnisbrook fifteen days ago. He is a large man, an Easterner, with short dark hair and green eyes. He carries a large golden bow, bigger than any I’ve ever seen! He wanted information on the Silver Guard, which he paid well for. He also wanted to know where he could buy ingredients for poisons, and arrows. And he wanted whores, too!” With a feral grin, Ghost leapt into the air again, carrying the screaming informant to a nearby rooftop, dropping the man a few feet in the air so he landed sprawling on the hard clay roof. “You have been most helpful,” Ghost said. “Enough that I will consider not revealing where my information comes from. I do understand the importance of discretion in such matters.” “I won’t say nothing either! I’m real good at that!” he babbled, oblivious to the irony of his words. “One more thing before I leave,” Ghost said, towering over the informant. “You said he asked for a fletcher, an herbalist, and a whorehouse. Where, exactly, did you send him?” [center]۞[/center] Ayama sat on a small overturned crate, peering into the mouth of a middle-aged woman, a frown on her face. It had been a disappointing day. She had gone that morning to the captain of the city guard to ask about any known Dragon-Bloods living in the city other than the Silver Guard. The captain had promised to gather some information and send a report, but could provide no names. He did mention that several Dragon-Bloods had come to Lynnisbrook in the past few months, looking to join Lagan’s new army, but many had not had the military training necessary, and had been sent away with recommendations that they sign up with a mercenary company for a few seasons. Though they had no way of knowing who had followed their advice, the guard captain suspected that most had left. She had then gone down to the poorest sections of the city, where she had hoped she might be able to generate some sympathy for the murdered Silver Guards and instill some civic pride, which might result in someone coming forward with information. However, Ayama found her words had little effect; the people who lived here had little sympathy for the Silver Guard, as many of them had been on the wrong side of the law. Her words led only to angry shouts and insults; when one tried to escalate the situation, however, Ayama was forced to educate him personally. The final moment of futility came when Ayama had begun ministering to the people living in the shanties near the river, and discovered that none of the advice that she had given them the last time she was here had been put into practice. The people still suffered from the same pestilences as before, and surrounded themselves in the same filth that could so easily be avoided. Suppressing a sigh, Ayama closed the woman’s mouth, then handed her a wrapped bundle of leaves. “Brew this into a strong tea, and drink while hot,” she said. “The sores should go away within a few days. And remember, boil your water before drinking it to prevent this from coming back… again.” The woman bowed, and moved away. She saw a younger man walking slowly toward her, bent over nearly double at the waist, wincing as he shuffled closer with one hand on his lower back. Ayama took a moment to examine the injury, and then applied pressure to the proper points and pushed firmly. With a series of pops, the man stood upright, a look of relief on his face. “Avoid heavy labor for the remainder of the day,” Ayama said. “And learn to lift with your legs, please.” She began to motion toward the next patient, when she saw the eyes of the man before her widen. At that moment the arrow struck her in the back. Essence flowed in pure reflex, triggered in the split second between the sensation of the arrowhead piercing her clothing and when it struck her flesh. Her skin took on a golden metallic hue as the Essence hardened it, and the arrow bounced off, unable to penetrate. It hung from her back, caught in her tunic, as she shoved the man she had just healed out of the way and began to turn. A golden disk flew by her head as she turned, floating level with her eyes as she whipped around, so that it seemed to hang motionless in her gaze for a moment. Then it sped on, flying down an alleyway behind her, bouncing from wall to wall. At the far end of the alley, a hundred yards away, stood a tall, well-muscled man wielding a golden bow. Even from this distance, she could see a look of confusion on his face, perplexed as to why his victim still lived. He ducked as the golden wheel flew at his throat, and then he turned and ran, fleeing at a supernatural rate of speed down another street. Ghost ran up to Ayama, reaching out a hand to catch the Left Eye of Mars as it flew back to him. “Have you been hurt?” he asked. She shook her head. “Only my pride… and my tunic.” “Be grateful it was only that.” He pulled the arrow out of Ayama’s clothing, and showed it to her. The head of the arrow, a frog-crotch, was coated with a thick greenish fluid. “How did you know I would be attacked?” Ayama asked. “I did not. I was looking for you, and happened to come at the right moment. Fortunately, I knew to simply look in the part of town that had the most sick, dirty people in it.” “Your arrival was fortunate, then,” Ayama said. “At least we now know what he looks like.” “I know far more than that,” Ghost said with a smile. “Come with me. We have a few shops to visit.” [center]۞[/center] The cool sherbet melted on Zanka’s tongue as she sat in an elegant little teahouse, contemplating her next move. She had gone first to Storyteller’s temple, hoping that he might have gathered rumors about the mysterious assassin, especially after his daylight display of archery. The god had appeared to speak with her, but when she made her request, he had frozen in place for several seconds, so still that the breeze did not disturb his robes. “I am afraid that I am unable to assist you,” Storyteller said. “Unable, or unwilling?” “In this matter, they are one and the same.” “May I ask why?” “There is a force opposing you in this endeavor, which is at least as puissant as yourselves. I cannot say more, as I have no desire to be in the midst of this conflict. However, I believe that you and your friends are resourceful enough to already know what you need to know about it.” * Zanka frowned as she considered the conversation. She had tried to drop some subtle hints, suggesting that she could easily turn her own talents against Storyteller just as she had used them to enhance his worship. The god had held his ground, however, and eventually they parted. She had then gone to speak with Storyteller’s priest, Namal, who had shed some more light on the situation. Namal confirmed that Storyteller had in fact received a visitor wanting to speak with the god directly, about two weeks ago. The priest described him as a large Easterner with dark hair and a large golden bow. He told Zanka that the man had been very forceful, pushing his way into the temple and roughing Namal up a bit before Storyteller appeared. Namal had not heard the conversation, but the stranger’s tone was very stern and demanding. Since coming here to cool off, Zanka had also turned her conversation with Storyteller over in her mind. She had realized that by describing the assassin as equals to them, he had confirmed that he was a Solar, perhaps one of several. She also surmised that the assassin had learned of Storyteller’s nature soon after arriving in Lynnisbrook, and had come both for information on his targets, and to make sure that the consequences of revealing secrets would be known. Still, none of this told her where the assassin lived. She had hoped to avoid it, but she realized she would have to go into the part of town where Rutendo said the arrow had come from. An hour later, she found herself in the area, a collection of lower-class merchants and shops. She made a few inquiries, but made little progress – none had seen a man firing a large golden bow into the sky the previous day. But while searching, she came across a fletcher’s shop which seemed to be somewhat more successful than the surrounding merchants. On a hunch, she entered the small shop. The man behind the counter was old and wizened, with large, knobby hands covered with calluses. He squinted at Zanka as she came in. “Excuse me, good sir,” Zanka said. “I was looking for a man who I believe might have been a customer here. He is a large man from the East, with short dark hair. He may have been carrying a very large bow that looked as though it was made of gold. He would have come here looking to purchase arrows for that bow, most likely needing to be custom-made.” “I ain’t seen him,” the old man grumbled. “He ain’t been here.” “Then where might one go to find such arrows?” “Beats me, not around here.” Zanka leaned forward. “I think you are lying to me.” “Why would I lie?” The myopic man squinted at her again. “You’re a fine upstanding young boy.” “Well, I see your point. I imagine that no one must frequent your business. After all, if you have such difficulty even determining the gender of your customers, you must know little of arrows.” “Clients are one thing, but I know arrows,” the man complained. Zanka made a contemptuous noise in the back of her throat. “I’ve got the best arrows this side of Creation!” the man roared. “Anyone who wanted really good arrows would come here!” His wrinkled face twisted into a snarl, but then suddenly fell as the fletcher realized exactly what he had just admitted. “I thought so,” Zanka said. “So, what kind of arrows did you sell him?” The man’s shoulders slumped. “In the back.” She followed him to the workshop in the back of the store. Propped up against the back wall were several large arrows, with shafts over three feet long and as thick as Kaliel’s thumb. A variety of arrowheads were affixed to each one. “He paid me in advance, in jade,” the fletcher said. “Basically keeps me on retainer for him while he’s in town.” “When was the last time you saw him?” Zanka asked. “Yesterday. I don’t expect to see him for two or three days yet.” “Do you know where he stays?” “No idea. Don’t care to know.” Zanka looked around the room. “I or my companions may be back,” she said. “Wonderful,” the man groused. “Tell my son that I keep my savings where I hide the whiskey.” “We will do our best to keep you out of harm’s way,” Zanka said. She walked out of the back of the shop and into the street. She was greeted almost immediately by Ayama and Ghost, who came walking toward the fletcher’s shop. “I see your efforts have led to the same place,” Ghost said. He held up a large arrow, identical to the ones inside. A green substance coated the head which Zanka assumed was poison. “Our assassin has been here,” Zanka said. “There are several more arrows like that inside, though none of them were poisoned.” “It is called Silent Death,” Ghost said. “It instantly paralyzes the muscles of the face and throat, keeping the victim from crying out. Death comes only seconds later.” “We have been to an herbalist,” Ayama explained. “One that our assassin, Tearful Mountain, has been frequenting much as he has our fletcher here. But the herbalist only sells the reagents; Tearful Mountain makes this poison himself.” “If nothing else, we now know places he may be,” Zanka said. “Strange that you should mention that,” Ghost said. “We have one more visit to make. Come along.” Zanka fell in behind Ghost and Ayama as they turned down the street. She saw with dismay that they were heading to a less reputable part of the city. “Where are we going?” she asked. “To a whorehouse,” Ghost replied. “Where else?” ------------------------- * For those unfamiliar with the Exalted setting, Storyteller's reaction is easier to understand when you know that experienced Celestial Exalted (Solars, Lunar, and Sidereals) are considerably more powerful than gods in Creation, especially those who are terrestrial-based and not aspected toward any sort of military or combat role. Thus it is not out of the ordinary for Tearful Mountain's threats to be effective against Storyteller. [/QUOTE]
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