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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Destan" data-source="post: 1159695" data-attributes="member: 12157">A Death Too SoonThe man pulled his cloak about him, fighting and failing to ward off the autumnal chill.  Gods, but this weather goes straight to the bones.  The winds were coming directly off the Bucklers, unabated, tasting of salt.  Within bowshot of the Coastgate, the man suddenly halted his stroll.  No guard.  He cupped both hands, blew warm air into them, and let his gaze drift along the mist-shrouded ramparts with feigned indifference.  The torches blazed merrily enough above the closed gate, but the firelight only revealed an empty catwalk.  Red Brungart may not be the most capable mayor, but nor is he a fool.  With rumors of Gordian raids drifting down from the Amber Coast, the man was certain Brungart would have Ciddry’s walls manned, and manned well.Just as a spell was upon his lips, the silhouette of a guardsman’s helmed head peered over the wall.  Sleeping, were you?  The man frowned; he had no doubt that these central Valusians, who had so long basked under a veil of peace, would soon learn the price of lacking vigilance.  But I am not his guard captain, nor am I citizen of this town.  It is not my place to chastise.  At least, not yet.The man waved to the guardsman, watched the head disappear once more, and then pulled a pipe from his robes.  With well-practiced efficiency he thumbed some root into the bowl, tamped it down, and used a minor cantrip to set it alight.  A few puffs, a few long exhales, and the tension eased from him.  “Foul weather breeds fools and felons,” he murmured, remembering a former mentor’s words.  The man had felt oddly uneasy all this day; something was brewing.  Yet the town slept around him, the guard was on watch – or some semblance thereof- and the gates remained locked.Why, again, am I out here?  I’m prowling about like a constable.  This is not my duty.  He had no answer for his own question.  With a shrug the man upturned his pipe, stepped on the ashes, and replaced it within his robes.  Enough.  Time for a drink, perhaps some cheese, and then the scrying.Still, when he once more placed his hands under the shelter of his robes, he allowed his fingers to pull back the leather lid of an arcane component pouch.  Only then did the man recommence his walk, head bent against the wind, and if his pace was only a trifle faster – Well, one could never be too careful.A drop of cold rain splattered against his cheek, then another.  Talos, you inconsiderate ass.  I suppose it would have been too much to ask for you to allow an old man to reach his inn before you commenced your pissing?  The rain, as if in answer, increased in intensity.Above him, unseen in the utter blackness, storm clouds roiled with thunder.  The man spotted the glimmer of the continual flame at the base of the town’s statue, and he made for the illuminated plaza like a wayward ship toward a beckoning lighthouse.He never reached it.***Held!He bent his will against the force, but it was useless; he was as powerless as he was paralyzed.  Interesting, interesting.  Since he could do little else, the man scanned the ubiquitous shadows as he willed his heartbeat to slow.  He was fairly certain his assailant – whoever he might be - was an accomplished spellcaster.  Hold Person was not an enchantment that would normally work against him.  This particular dweomer, however, was uncommonly powerful.  Perhaps it was heightened?  A figure detached itself from the darkness of a nearby alley.  Breof?!  If his facial muscles had not been paralyzed, doubtless they would have twisted into an expression of utter disbelief.  By libram and lover, have I been bested by a pig farmer? Just then, however, a flash of lightning revealed more of the situation.  Breof’s face was a ruin – bruised and swollen, with one of his cheeks shorn and hanging like a flap of meat.  The pig farmer’s homespun tunic was covered with blood, and his eyes were wide with terror.  So, hapless farmer, if you did not ensnare me, then who did?On cue, a second figure stepped from the shadows, stopping just behind Breof.  The newcomer spoke, and his accent marked him as a southlander.  “Is this him?”  His question was directed to the pig farmer.Though his face was concealed by the night, the sound was unmistakable – Breof wept.  “Aye, h-he is the one.” Another sound came, then – an abrupt tear of garments and flesh.  Breof crumpled to the ground and his murderer stepped over him without delay.  “You are Poridel Poriden, Tower Sage of Valudia.”  It was not a question.  Poridel tried to nod, realized he was still held, and resigned himself to standing mutely.  For now, at any rate.Lightning again spiderwebbed across the heavens.  The killer wore the breastplate and cloak of a Ciddry guardsman.  He was slender, nearly effeminate.  In one hand was a thin blade, red and glistening.  In the other, a rag or cloth of some sort.For the first time this evening – indeed, for the first time in many, many evenings – Poridel Pordien tasted fear.  His terror was not born from the bloody knife, nor from the body at his feet.  Rather it was the killer’s face, highlighted briefly from the harsh whiteness of the crackling sky.His face…his face was melted.  His nose was a mass of formless flesh, his cheeks appearing verily like kneaded clay.  He had no eyebrows, no eyelids – these had been ritually burned away with his former identity.  One ear lobe dangled nearly to his collar, and the other ear was but a swath of ruinous flesh.  Poridel had seen a similar countenance years ago, outside Pell, and that encounter had ended in terrible tragedy.  Please gods, I beg of you – this time, let it end differently.***Poridel’s vision swam with green and purple swirls as darkness mercifully covered the visage once more.  Easy, sage - stand easy.  The spell will not hold forever. The Tower Sage swallowed with effort.  He wants something from you, and will need you to speak.  Just…be patient, be calm.“You are him - the one who offers aid to those who fought upon Olgotha?”  The disfigured man stepped forward.  “Blink once if this is true.”Blink.  Poridel felt confidence begin to seep back into his sinews.  No sense in denying his involvement or attempting to dissemble.  The killer would not suffer evasion or hesitation; his kind never did.  Yet, if I can blink, then – the enchantment already begins to fade.“And these men of Olgotha – they departed Ciddry yesterday morn?”Blink.  Poridel’s fingers twitched, he wiggled his toes within his boots.  With each heartbeat more feeling returned to his extremities.  A few more moments, but a few more…Poridel’s index finger curled around a slender rod of iron within his component pouch.  He debated opting for something more dramatic – his fingertip brushed against a clip of fur and a prism of amber.  Aye, sizzling this miscreant with a bolt of the same stuff that flashes above us – that would be most enjoyable.Poridel, however, let his finger return once more to the iron; there was a perverse joy in knowing he would soon have his assailant held much the way he now was.  A dimension door would have been the wisest course, all things considered.  But he had opted to prepare a scrying in its place, so that he might witness the Olgotha band’s progress later that evening.  Memorizing more than one such dweomer at any single time was beyond his ability.And so both men – hunted sage and hunting southlander - reached an impasse.For Poridel understood what the next question would be – “To where do these men of Olgotha now travel?”  No amount of blinking could answer such a query.  Thus, Poridel mused, even as more of his fingers began to flex and curl, the assassin must wait; he must wait until I have the power of speech.  And then…then, by the sixty great gods, this charade will end. First things, first. Poridel’s eyes moved with the killer as the man stepped yet closer.  He stank of fish and sweat.  First, find out who hired him; men from his sect do not offer their services cheaply.  Then-The assassin interrupted his reverie.  “I must know where these men of Olgotha now travel.”  The voice was high-pitched, somewhat pubescent, and seemed odd issuing from the mutilated face.If he dared or had he been able, Poridel might have smiled.  Yes, yes – I’m sure you do want to know.  But that answer, friend, must wait until I can speak.  And I believe I shall then have a few words to utter, not all of which you will enjoy.The killer’s eyes narrowed as he observed Poridel’s face.  He glanced downward at the sage’s hidden hands, and when he looked up once more - his eyes held a hint of wary indecision.  At that precise moment, yet another man entered the scene.  Hellfire!  How many others hide in that damned alley!  Poridel studied the newcomer as best he could in the pervasive gloom.  This man wore armor, a white skull on purple sunburst emblazed upon his rain-soaked surcoat.  A Cyric priest - and the Twin Prophecies have barely yet begun their course!  The sage was startled for the second time in as many minutes; he had never expected the Cyrics to act so overtly.  Or so soon, dammit. The priest spoke, his sonorous voice the opposite of the southlander’s falsetto.  “The enchantment fades.  Finish it.”The assassin stepped forward without hesitation, expertly thrusting a blade into Poridel’s stomach even as he shoved the rag into the sage’s gaping mouth.  Poridel was still held; he toppled like a statue to lay inert upon the ground, still frozen in mid-stride.The priest hitched up his surcoat and knelt, his mouth close to Poridel’s ear, his voice like a lover’s.  “We shall ask our questions later, sage.  Speak with dead, yes?  Until then.”Only then did the Hold Person expire.  Thus it was that Poridel Poriden, famed Tower Sage of Valudia, regained full command of all his faculties; he was completely free to clutch at the hole in his belly as life bled from him.After a moment, the priest stood.  “He is dead.  Too painlessly, but it could not be helped.”  He studied the assassin’s melted face – it was as unreadable and unmoving as stone.  “One can never be too careful, yes?” When lightning next lit the avenue, only the body of Breof remained, alone upon the mud.</blockquote>

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