Prince of Thieves

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Coyote -> Prince of Thieves (6/26/2008 2:03:38)
Comments thread: http://forums2.battleon.com/f/tm.asp?m=14063543 Meet Rychaeth Leithyr. He'd as soon joke around with you as he'd rip out your guts-- as a word of caution, take everything he says seriously but with a hint of mistrust. He might be serious. But for all you know, that "harmless corridor" might be trapped (by yours truly) with several lethal spring-based poisoned barbs that will skewer you and leave your belongings for (his) plunder. And, for the love of all that is holy, don't mess with his clothing at nighttimes. He likes that hood in place, thank you very much. Table of Contents: Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Coyote -> RE: Prince of Thieves (6/26/2008 2:06:05)
Prologue "Stand an' deliver: yer money or yer life. Either way, I get th' goods." A young man jumped in surprise as he felt powerful arms grab him and hold him still, but his struggles ceased as he heard the hiss of metal sliding against metal. He gulped. A dagger pressed itself against his neck. Its touch chilled his skin and sent shivers down his spine — and not just from fright. A cold chuckle sounded from behind him, sending beads of cold sweat down his face. Reality hit him, as piercing as the moonlight on his waylayer's dagger. Its luster was cold, but soft at the same time. A hellish divinity. He shuddered to think that such beauty could kill so easily — but he didn't. This was not a situation he wanted to make any sudden moves in. P-please, sir!" he stammered. "I'll do anything!" He heard no worded response — only another cruel laugh from the man behind him. That man laughed. In amusement. It worried him that he dealt with a man who found a game in killing. He worried for his life, now, as much as he worried about his property. And then the man behind him lowered his head and whispered into his ear, "Good boy. Now jes' be nice an' go over there." His head was turned to a thick tree. "I need some private time with yer wagon." He could imagine that his assailant was smiling. The man's ragged voice hinted at inhumanity. There was something odd about his voice, about how he enunciated his words. But whatever he was, he wasn't human. After all, how could someone retain humanity when eking out a rugged living like this? "Move along, already — but try to run, an' I get yer money and yer gold." He obliged, beginning his walk to the tree. Its bark repulsed him. He had better things to do that night than stand, facing a bug-infested tree, while a highwayman robbed him of his possessions. But he did not dare voice his anger. Even after he felt the dagger release his neck — he let himself relax for a moment, but felt its pointed tip press against his back. He picked up his pace. "Now, jes' stay there an' keep yer face to th' tree, an' well get along jes' fine." He heard footsteps leading away from him and then mumbling as the man rummaged through his belongings. But a second pair of feet approached the first, announcing its presence with confidence. Compared to the gentle padding of the first, the second carried himself with a royal fanfare in his step. "Rychaeth Leithyr!" the newcomer called out. "It's about time we met." The sound of Rychaeth looking through the wagon ceased. But he wasn't startled. He could tell from the lack of any sudden, startled movement. That man was collected — then again, he'd have to be in order to survive as he did. He heard the swish of fabric as Rychaeth spun around to confront this new arrival. "So?" he responded. "Wassit to ye?" "My name is Achasund. I come as an ambassador from King Darron Damantium, the Fourth." The traveler stiffened. First a highwayman, then a man sent from the King himself. This night kept getting stranger and stranger... "Ambassador?" Rychaeth snorted. "So, yer 'ere fer m' head?" "How could you have guessed?" He could imagine Achasund smiling a cold, businesslike smile. Rychaeth wouldn't be the only one grinning in amusement. "Stab in th' dark," Rychaeth replied. "Like how you killed Randall?" Achasund countered. He could hear it: the tension as steeled minds parried mental blows and verbal jabs. A slow creak sounded into the night as Rychaeth leaned back against the wagon, undisturbed. "Somethin' like that," he replied after some silence. "Th' name's wrong, though." "Really? Enlighten me." "Yeah. Th' name of th' dead guy is Achasund." "Wha—" There was a dull muted thump and a cry of pain. Achasund shouted in surprise, but protests became gurgles as another sword was drawn. There was a swish. A gurgling cough. A gag, a last gasp for life. The thud of a falling body. Then he heard the sound of two blades retreating back into their scabbards. Rychaeth chuckled. "Give that message to yer king, will ya?" There was the rustle of moving items. Then footsteps. And then he heard nothing. He remained against the tree for a little while longer, but when it became evident that the man was long gone, he let himself relax. Fearing the worst, he turned around. There was blood. A dubious but official-looking man, Achasund, lay on the ground, dead. His clouded eyes stared up at the sky, asking the heavens a silent question. Blood poured forth from both a stab wound and a slit throat. Both his and Achasund's belongings were missing. A full moon gazed down on the carnage in the center of the road.

Coyote -> RE: Prince of Thieves (8/1/2008 0:28:14)
Chapter 1 "C'mere, li'l Foxy..." A lone child squatted on the woodland floor, his back turned to a large tree that stretched its branches out towards the setting sun. The falling light struggled through the canopy to reach the ground, even as the sun itself struggled to stay alight. The blotched sunlight cast itself on the stick the boy held in one hand, creating minute shadows and giving it ethereal thorns. Not three yards from that stick stood a red fox. "C'mon, Foxy. I won't hurt ya. It's jes' me." The boy edged forwards, moving closer to the fox. The fox's tail bristled; its lips twisted into a snarl. "Don't ya remember me, Foxy? I gave ya meatloaf yesterday." The boy waddled forward another inch. The tail bristled again. Its eyes betrayed no familiarity, no sense of recognition. But they sparkled with a cold intelligence the boy had never seen before. "Foxy?" he asked, now puzzled. He lifted the stick again. It was a sudden move. A benign move. But still a sudden one. The child ran home screaming. Tears flowed from his eyes and ran down his face. His sandals pat-patted against the unpaved streets — a steady beat to combat his orderless wails. He clutched his hand, a rivulet of blood leaking down from between his fingers. The stick was nowhere to be seen. The last of the sun's light caught the crimson droplets as they dripped down onto the street. It managed one last peek over the horizon before falling in defeat, exhausted. The once fiery, brilliant reds and oranges faded to shades of purple. But in the woods, one last flash of orange could be seen. Amongst the dull browns and muted greens, one last vibrant flash of orange made its presence known before hiding away back in the shadows. A flash of orange. A flash of orange fur. A soft clink broke the nightly silence, followed by the rustle of disturbed leaves. A muted thump added to the disturbance. A cloaked form paused on a windowsill, fumbling with something in his gloved hands. A breeze rustled the leaves again. A flash of orange was visible for a split second before flicking back into the shadows. The figure readjusted his cloak, still fiddling with the lock. There was another moment of silence. Then a soft click. And then the window slid open. With the slightest rustle of fabric, the dark figure stole into the household. He hopped down from the window and landed on all fours with the faintest whoosh of cloth moving in the wind. He leaped back up to his feet with nary a sound and glided to the wall. The solid black of his garments blended in with the shadows. He was a shadow, a wraith flitting about in the darkness, moving closer to his goal in this calm, unsuspecting household. He froze as he tiptoed down the hallway. Blankets rustled in the neighboring room. Fearing the worst, he held his breath. A moment passed, then two. His heart pounded in his ears. He tensed, readying his escape. There was a muffled sigh. More rustling of blankets. And then silence once more. He skipped the next doorway, opting instead for the room just past it. The door opened with no complaint; it slid on is hinges, gliding to a stop. The cloaked figure grinned beneath his hood. He depended on the filthy rich to afford to oil their doors. He snuck throughout the room, opening drawers, eying shelves. He removed some objects, avoided others. Everything he placed in separate cotton-filled bags and pockets, the larger of which he set inside a larger, cotton-padded sack. Everything was padded. There was no need for noise. He gave the room one last glance. This was enough. Never take the most expensive goods; never rob a room clean. That way, they'd make less of a fuss, and fewer people would come looking for him. He grinned. He loved it when they came in small groups. Larger groups were more difficult to have fun with in the proverbial game of cat and mouse. Or, rather, fox and hound. And despite all appearances, he was never the fox. He climbed out the window and sat still, rummaging for his lockpicks again. They clinked together as he pulled them out from his bag and clinked more as he searched among them for the tension wrench. He'd have to do something about that, later. He separated the tension wrench, then waddled backwards, further out the windowsill. Then, he... Damn it. He looked back at the windowsill. In order to close the window, he needed to move out further, but he didn't know if the windowsill could support him. It had withstood his weight before, but now he had gold on his hands. Gold was heavy. A vague notion surfaced in his mind. There was a story he had heard once, as a child, of a man who turned everything he touched into gold. The memory made him grin; he, too, made gold from thin air. Or, so it seemed to everyone else. The pawnbrokers were always the last people to ever see it after he laid his hands on it. He crawled outwards. The windowsill creaked beneath him. He froze, straining his ears to hear another telltale creak. This thing wasn't going to support his weight. But then again, it didn't have to. He smiled to himself. Making sure his loot bag would not fall, he pulled a rope and a grappling hook out of his supply bag. It took little effort to hook the bag on the hook and lower it down to the ground. When he was certain the bag now rested on a firm surface, he dropped the rope to free his hands. He moved further outwards and closed the window. A quick turn with the tension wrench locked the window again, and he scurried down the tree and landed on the grass without a sound. Good. But what wasn't good was the crunching of grass he heard behind him as he recovered his loot. He turned around. A curious man approached him, probably out for a moonlight stroll and curious about the bag that dropped itself from the sky. The two of them stared at each other. The second man's eyes remained locked on the first's face, while the thief examined the man up and down. Then he realized why. The moon must've moved through the night, and now, it illuminated the entire alleyway. He saw it shine off his black, wet nose. The other man's visage shifted to a look of horror. He slung his loot bag over his shoulder and flashed the man a vulpine grin from beneath his hood. Always act natural, he told himself, as if seeing strange strange creatures break in an out of a neighbor's house was a nightly occurrence. His teeth and amber eyes reflected moonlight. "My, my, how unfortunate," he started. "I'd love ta stay an' chat, but I've really gotta get goin'. Ta-ta." He gave a mock salute and whipped around, power-walking in the opposite direction. The man screamed. "Crud," the thief muttered to himself, picking up the pace. He needed to make for the woods, run to the cover of trees. Towards the woods. He always ran for the woods. Each and every time, he ran for the woods. And for the love of his dear life, he ran. He ran from his past, his home, what his future would have been — from everything he didn't want to leave behind. "Get him!" someone shouted from behind him. It wasn't the first time, either. Words spoken about him began small, whispered in hushed tones by small children. But rumors grew, warped him into a man-eating monster that ate bad children while they slept. Then good children, too. Groups of children ventured forth to slay the beast. Then his own friends turned on him, leading small armies of little kids beating down on him. Then there were armed men. What had he done wrong? Was this retribution for some unspoken sin? Was it fate, that he should be cast out like this? Was it his destiny? The pungent odor of the villagers' sweat stung his nose. The sound of thudding feet, the fear of the fox hunt... It was just a disease! It wasn't his fault! It didn't merit the mob of armed, angered villagers chasing him like religious zealots in a witch hunt. But, in a way, it wasn't much different. He couldn't comprehend why they chased after him. He couldn't understand the mindlessness of the mob, of the superstition that drove them forwards. He couldn't fathom what it was about him that angered the townsfolk. He loved his family, played nice with his friends — he didn't deserve to be chased out of his hometown, the place he was born and raised! Bur regardless, he left it behind. He had developed a bond with it, and now he forced himself to sever it with each pounding step towards the woods. The woods would be a barrier, to keep angry neighbors away... ...and to keep bonds from forming. As if to emphasize that point, a man behind him brandished a pitchfork and lobbed it in the air after him. The pitchfork arced through the air, whistling through the still night air— A pitchfork embedded itself in a tree with a splintering thud. Snapped out of his thoughts, the thief focused again on losing the crowd behind him. As disgruntled as he was about the weapon's sudden appearance, he had to admit he was lucky that it didn't strike home. But at least, it wasn't a threat anymore. So he left the thought behind with the pitchfork and ran away from it. He didn't let these sorts of things bother him. But what did bother him was what refused to be left behind. Men followed him, shouting for more to follow. Damn. There was more than one, now. He'd have less fun than the thought he would. In fact, they might prove to be a bit of a problem. He glanced at his stolen booty, reassuring himself that it was still there. Something fragile in the bag clinked against itself. That was reassuring, alright. He sprinted down the street and ducked into an alleyway. Maneuvering through the winding, narrow lanes was difficult, but would be even more difficult for a mob. But the woods were his only true respite — he'd rather deal with a single animal than with fifty armed men. He pulled his hood down further; it had started to fall down. The black fabric of his garments concealed him in the shadows for now, away from the all-seeing moon. The moon — it beamed down upon him with its relentless gaze, setting the streets ablaze with its cold light. The odor of burning wood permeated the air as people following behind him brandished torches. Torches and clubs — against a meager child. The moon wasn't even full: it was waning. The troubled time was past, but that was no excuse for the villagers. The harsh light illuminated the area, bearing down upon him and leaving him exposed. Though he was untrained, an inkling of sense screamed at him for his mistake. He was now a lone target amidst the light brown of the dirt roads. He was exposed. He was laid bare. He was ripe for the taking, for the beating... He twisted through a familiar series of turns. He knew this path; he'd taken it several times in the past. In fact, the woods stood just beyond that street corner. In the woods, he could fine solace among the trees and hide from the men that chased him. He already knew basic woodlore, and much more than his peers. He dreamed of eking out a rugged living in the wilderness, sustaining himself in the woods. He was confident in his abilities. He just had to make it to the woods. He turned a corner. Finally. God damn finally, the woods. He would be safe in the wilderness — this group of people couldn't tell the difference between an acorn and a chestnut. He saw it: the final stretch. There was a single, albeit wide, expanse of street before the safety of the woods. He felt exposed, vulnerable as he sprinted without the comfort of cover. The moon laid him bare yet again, open for anyone to take a shot at. He was the only target, here. His shoes padded against the dirt, while the horde behind him made the earth rumble. His lungs burned. He didn't do this sort of exercise on a daily basis — in fact, the biggest idea behind his job was to avoid doing it in the first place. He felt himself falter. The mob gained on him. It was just like before. The woods were so close... But success fell through his fingers as a man grabbed his sleeve and jerked him back. He choked on his own shirt collar and was brought, coughing, to the ground. The future taunted him from just a few meters away — the future that was almost his taunted him from just beyond the tree line. The people whooped, a harsh, grating sound on his sensitive ears. They had him. They beat him with their clubs, with their brooms and their fists. They delighted in the beating of a small child. They hit him with their instruments of torture. Why did it have to happen? His eyes burned with tears, even as he screwed them shut and cursed his own fate. Fate selected him out. Fate gave him a thousand welts on his back and a hundred bruises on his arms. Fate made blood trickle down his legs and collect in pools on the dirt path. Fate forced him in a fetal position, unwilling to let the mob scar his stomach, too. But what hurt him most was the smiles on their faces. Those men smiled. Each and every one of them smiled. It was a sick pleasure. What entertainment was there in beating small, hapless children? He made a vow. Then and there, he denounced fate. He denounced the gods, denounced that anything had control or influence over him. He was in control. He would decide his own destiny. If fate gave him to the hands of these child-beaters, it was not a fate he would accept. Damn. So close. While he was distracted, someone grabbed his sleeve and jerked him backwards. He swore and glared at his captor. The one holding his sleeve was young boy of about sixteen. A youth, perhaps uncorrupted by society. Perhaps this youth had a future ahead of him. The black-garbed man smiled at his captor and used his other hand to replace his off-centered hood. Then he grabbed the boy and slammed him face-first into a tree. A sickening crunch echoed through the night air as his nose gave way. He let go of the boy and the youth crumpled backwards, unconscious. Blood coursed down both his face and the tree bark. The other men, older and unused to running, faltered at the sight of blood, but were catching up. The thief grinned as he picked up his stolen belongings. "So unfortunate. Wish yer child luck." He turned towards the woods, but looked back. His eyes glowed from beneath the hood. "Ya dun seem very hospitable, so I'm outta here. Ta-ta." And then he turned tail into the woods. The townsfolk paused, startled and unsure of what to do next. They pursued a ruthless, lawless villain for exactly that reason — his actions against the boy served to prove his motives. Only a few ran forward to help the unconscious boy, but the masses, with their torches, rusty sabers, and clubs, stood silent. A brave few adventured forwards, one brandishing a sword, a couple armed with clubs, and one with a fire poker. The others crowded around them, pushing them forward into the trees. Without warning, and with a muted thump, one of them fell over. He spasmed on the ground, clutching the dagger that pierced his lung, before expiring with a halfhearted gurgle. Blood dribbled out of his open mouth, and clouded eyes gazed up at the moon. No one dared move. There was silence. Finally, one man stepped forward on steady feet, a clear sense of resolve shining on his face. "Send a messenger to someone who can help us with this problem. Somone make sure that the dead gets his proper burial and the hurt their treatment. Burn their clothes and send for the priest. We do not need this foul pestilence to overtake this village." With that, he stepped back into the crowd and helped move the bodies. A couple more adventurous people stepped into the woods. But by then, Rychaeth Leithyr was long gone. A hunched, broken figure limped out of town and into the safety of the trees. The cruel men were gone, now. It was a wonder he hadn't broken anything — they had left him for dead and had taken their clubs and pitchforks with them. Beating children wasn't fun enough for them, anymore. He was without a home, without a family, without anyone to support him. But he would find his own way around. He could live alone. He was sure of it. Positive. But he couldn’t help but feel regret as he stepped past the barrier of trees. Their trunks hid him from the cruel, xenophobic townsfolk. Their trunks hid him from his friends and family. He couldn’t live alone in the woods. The loneliness was unbearable. It pressed down on him, slowed him down, gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Wild fruit couldn’t fill up the emptiness he felt inside. And so he wandered… A new town lay on the horizon. * * * "Well, well, well. What do we have here?" A door creaked shut, a latch clicking into place. Footsteps sounded — hesitant footsteps, unsure of where their place was in the shadowy room. The newcomer paused, uncomfortable. Light from the lone lantern sitting on the desk seemed to cast even more shadows about the room. The newcomer looked around. There were no windows. "I'm looking for Ethandur," he said at last to the figure behind the desk. "And what would you need of Ethandur?" The figure looked up, his interest piqued. "I have a... problem." He twiddled his thumbs. "A... supernatural problem." The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow. "We can deal with your problem easily enough. Tell me, what sort of problem?" He leaned forward on his desk. "We won't let anyone know." "A were-fox, sir." "Not many were-foxes in the area," he remarked. "No, there aren't. That's why everyone else directed me to Ethandur." "Then look no further. We already have tabs on your problem and will see to it as soon as possible." The newcomer breathed a sigh of relief. He was thankful that he was just another supporter instead of the one funding the hunt. Then who was funding the hunt? "He was last seen in Chadera. He got away." "Thank you for your information. I'll make sure Ethandur gets the message. He’ll get to fixing your problem right away." He smiled, but his eyes glinted in anticipation. "Yes, right away…"

Coyote -> RE: Prince of Thieves (8/1/2008 0:46:36)
Chapter 2 Birds chirped merrily and sunlight streamed down on a winding woodland path. A lone man walked down that road as cheerful as the sun and blue skies above him. Green and brown clothing and his leather armor passed him off as a ranger; his few possessions lay inside a brown sack slung over his shoulder. He smiled as he walked, but the smile was far from pleasant simplicity. It was a look of anticipation. He made little effort to conceal his presence; his feet padded audibly on the dirt trail, his clothing swishing with his movements. An air of confidence belied his carefree actions. Men this careless were either fools or knew very well what they were doing, and this man was certainly not the former. The message "Touch me and die" was written and buried beneath his nonchalance. He continued forward at his own pace, smiling. But a glint in his eye further betrayed his innocence. He knew something that others traveling down the road didn't. A group of bandits had received an anonymous tip-off earlier that week, saying that a lone, rich traveler would be traveling down the road at that very time. The man's smile broadened to a grin. It was too bad that those bandits didn't know the biggest rule in being highwaymen, a rule that he learned well and took advantage of. Never, for the love of your own life, trust 'anonymous' tip-offs. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath of forest air, then looked around him. By all appearances, he was unaware of any danger. Naïve. A perfect target. His grin slowly became just as smile as he walked further down the path. The sun traveled through the heavens, and his smile disappeared just like his grin. More clouds appeared, ran across the sky, and disappeared into the distance. The man's face became a look of concern. Something was wrong. He walked faster. Somewhere in his plan, someone screwed up, or something interfered. The bandits were scheduled to attack today. It was already late afternoon. He continued to ponder as he walked. And then he turned a sharp bend in the road. The road just ahead of him became a bloodbath, vitals lying strewn over the ground. Corpses lay heaped on the side of the road. Red filled his vision, threatening to overtake the pleasant greens and browns. Already, hawks circled overhead. In the center of it all stood a man. He stood tall and erect, a lone island in the sea of blood. He carried two short swords, both unsheathed and both held loosely at his sides. Both blades were identical in appearance. Both blades dripped red. A single moment of silence seemed to stretch and drag for an eternity. Neither man dared to breathe. Neither man moved a muscle. Both were aware of each other's presence — and that knowledge hung as tangibly as the silence. Then, as suddenly as the silence began, it was broken by the hiss of a drawn blade. There were now three swords in play. "Rychaeth Leithyr," the man spoke. "How fortunate of you to show up." His stance betrayed nothing as he continued. "I did you a favor and saved you a bit of work." Rychaeth rolled his eyes. "Very nice a' ya, Nadiel," he replied. "Ya saved me th' fun, too." "And tell me: where, exactly, is the fun in work?" The man stared straight into Rychaeth's eyes, a stern countenance belying his verbal sparring with Rychaeth. He took a step forward, readying his swords in a fighting position. He was ready for just about anything. But only just about. "Yer right. 'S never any fun when I gotta clean up after someone else." Without warning, he jumped forwards and swung his blade downward. The man sidestepped the swing and counterattacked with a horizontal blow. However, a dagger flew out of its sheath and blocked the attack. Rychaeth came back with another swing. Nadiel's second sword blocked Rychaeth's and they became locked in a death stance. Neither dared move, lest the other take advantage. "They're just bandits. Nobody will miss them. What do you have to clean up?" Rychaeth grinned as he kicked the man in the shin. "You." Nadiel's iron grip faltered and Rychaeth ducked in for another swipe. One sword knocked aside the attack and the other flew at Rychaeth's neck. He ducked and somersaulted back onto his feet. The two combatants weaved in and out, dancing a cruel, metallic dance of death. Mosquitoes buzzed and crickets chirped around them. The world began to redden and the sun wavered in the horizon. Yet the two of them continued. Sword was blocked by scimitar, dagger was parried by short sword. Neither relented in his attacks, even as the sun slipped slowly from the sky. The two sidestepped blows, dodged swings, and continued to block attacks. Neither appeared to tire anytime soon. Rychaeth slipped on a pool of blood and Nadiel darted in to score a hit. However, reduced visibility and Rychaeth's dark clothing cut his precision and his misplaced attack was again blocked by Rychaeth's scimitar. "I suggest ya surrender while ya still have th' chance." Rychaeth blocked another blow. He grinned. "Yer good; jes' not good enough." Nadiel sneered and dodged another attack. "Bite me." "Gladly." He grinned as he felt the ever-familiar needlepricks growing through his skin. Nadiel's eyes widened. His pause gave Rychaeth all the time he needed to whack both short swords out of Nadiel's weakened grip. One flew into the bush; the other clattered on the road next to a dead body. Rychaeth grinned, his teeth becoming more pronounced. "Stay back!" Nadiel raised his fists in feeble defense, but it only served to amuse Rychaeth further as he shifted to something inhuman. He grabbed Nadiel's shirt with a gloved hand and dragged him closer until the man's face was only inches away from his muzzle. "Th' games' over. I win." Rychaeth nipped him on the nose. His teeth broke skin and Nadiel was thrown back with a bleeding nose. Rychaeth spat and then grinned. "First blood." Nadiel wiped some blood off his nose and stared down, horror-struck. He didn't make a single sound as Rychaeth wiped his sword on his cloak and walked away. Rychaeth left the loser's blades back with him. He didn't even bother to loot the corpses of the dead bandits. But just before darting off into the distance, he turned and stared directly at his former assailant. A malicious amusement sparkled in his eyes. "Ta-ta. Have fun." And then he disappeared into the night. * * * "He what?" "He already dispatched two—" "Get out!" The nervous-looking, lower-ranking man shuffled hurriedly out of the room and closed the door behind him. The man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, a look of stress pervading his normally calm features. His fist dropped down on the table, rattling various objects on his desk. He opened his eyes slowly and stared blankly at the door opposite of him. "Rychaeth Leithyr," the man growled. "You'll pay for this one. You'll pay it in blood." There was a knock. "Sir, there's someone here for you." "Send him away." "He says it's urgent." Without waiting for his consent, the door opened slowly and Nadiel walked in. He glanced out the window nervously, as if watching for something. He then looked at the man, keeping his gaze down. "Ahh, you. Did the hunt go well?" "You see, that's what I was here to tell you about." He twiddled his thumbs. From the nervous look unfamiliar to such a calm face, it was evident that something went wrong. It was obvious that something went drastically wrong. "What is it? Spit it out." "Rychaeth… He's stronger than I thought." The man behind the desk looked at him directly in the eyes. Nadiel twiddled his thumbs, still pausing. But the other man's impatient look said for him that he wasn't going to take any excuses. "What did he do to you?" he asked bluntly. "Pardon?" "What did he do to you?" "N-nothing, s—" "He bit you, didn't he?" There was a silence. It hung heavily. "Answer me." "Y-yes," Nadiel reluctantly admitted. "Yes, he did." The man behind the desk glared up at the standing man, a look of malice, resentment, and disappointment clouding his eyes. "Get out of my sight." "Thank you, sir." The man walked out quickly. The man sighed. Poor fellow was always loyal to him. In fact, it was his first botched mission. But he wasn't surprised. Rychaeth Leithyr had fine tastes in irony, and by now, probably knew that he didn't allow any of those… things in his employ. There was a reason Nadiel was thankful that he simply let him out. Nadiel had plenty of time before the sun went down. The man behind the desk stared at the door for a moment longer. Nadiel was a good man. It was too bad he had run afoul of Rychaeth. But his only failure was the failure that counted. It was too bad for him. He slammed his fist on his desk again, sending objects scattering everywhere. A name card fell to the floor. In ink, with a flourish denoting a professional scribe's hand, was written the name "Ethandur". * * * "Give me my money. Now." A burly man slammed his meaty fist on the table for emphasis, causing the ale tankards to rattle. "I do the job, and you pay me. That was our agreement." The man opposite of him betrayed nothing with his actions. Any facial reaction was otherwise concealed by a black hood, any stiffening was hidden by a black cloak. In the shaded back corners of the tavern, it was impossible to tell where man ended and shadows began. This man waved his black-gloved hand in the air, ignoring his hireling's anger. "I assure ya, ye'll get yer pay later." "No. I want my money now." The hooded man sighed and threw his hands up in exasperation. "How many times do I gotta tell ya? I dun have yer money on me." "No money? You have enough money to pay for both of our drinks!" "These're just drinks, an' not very good ones. 'Sides, 's outta m' own personal fare." "I swear, if you pull something on me..." He shook a fist at the man across him. The cloaked man laughed in response. "Very intimidatin'." He leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Tryin' ta get money off a man that dun have any." The barmaid showed up with their meals. The thug got a simple beef stew. The cloaked man... He tore into his steak, even as the barmaid set down a plate of steaming fish. "I don't know how many favors you had to pull to get that, but enjoy," she said with a wink before walking off. The thug stared down in disbelief. The man finished his bite of steak and dug his fork and knife in for a second, but the thug reached across the table and grabbed his collar. He pulled the man backwards and started him face-to-face. "Leithyr, you will give me my money, now! You don't expect me to believe..." The man's hood fell back and revealed an inhuman face. His mouth opened in surprise, ears folded back in annoyance, but a shocked expression gave way to an annoyed scowl. He growled. The thug leaped up. "Demon! Back!" He aimed a punch at Rychaeth, who jumped back and out of his chair. The thug missed and tripped over the table. Most of their food fell on the floor. "Such a pity," Rychaeth said, eying the food on the floor. "I wanted ta eat that." Shaking his head, he readjusted his hood, grabbed a tankard of ale, and poured it on another man's head. "What the hell was that for?" that man shouted. Rychaeth's empty tankard sat on the table, next to the thug. The thug got up and avoided a punch. Angered, he shoved the table aside and decked the drunkard. The fallen man crashed backwards into his seat, out cold. That drunkard, however, had friends. Five other man sprang up from their chairs and charged the thug, inciting a similar show of rage from those who wanted to continue drinking undisturbed. People charged, chairs flew, things broke. And not just the furniture. Even the many standing on the sidelines found themselves involved in the fight. People cheered. People booed. Coins clinked as people made bets. But those unfortunate enough to sit in a center table ducked (and in some cases, flew across the room) as punches were thrown. Crass insults flew as readily as jabs, often slurred under alcohol's influence. Anyone who was not involved got involved quickly. All but two people. One, Rychaeth Leithyr, wormed his way between brawlers to a corner of the tavern, watching the fight play out with great amusement. But pleasure gave way to practicality, and as fun as they were, bar fights were not very practical. He tossed a large, smooth rock up in the air and caught it, threw it up and caught it again. How the hell could he get himself out of this one? His thoughts scattered as another man, the sole other uninterested in brawling, approached him. "You started this, didn't you?" he asked, as if he knew the answer already. Rychaeth looked up at the man. "An' what if I did?" The very tip of his nose protruded from beneath the shadows. The man smiled. "Rychaeth Leithyr, I may presume?" "Has m' fame really spread that much?" Rychaeth leaned back into his chair, resting his feet against the table's legs. "An' who're you?" "I'm Ristao, and I suppose it has. Nice to meet you." "Whaddaya want, m' autograph?" "No." A blade flew from its scabbard; a standard longsword, but to Rychaeth's trained eye, one that had been modified. Balanced for easier fighting. Unnaturally sharp tip. He smelled magic on that sword. "I want your head." "Great. 'Nother bounty hunter. I've got m' own fan club chasin' after me, now..." Ristao swung his sword. In less than a second, Rychaeth's own flew out of its sheath and blocked the blow. It, too, was crafted by an expert, but unlike the other, it shone visibly. Gems encrusted its hilt; a large ruby sat at the end of its handle. Dragons and other ornate designs made the sword easier to hold — artistic and functional. Rychaeth grinned. "I dun go down that easily. Did I mention how much of m' fan club already fell?" He grabbed the table with his other hand and shoved it into his assailant's stomach. The man stepped backwards, a shocked expression flickering on his face. But it was more surprise than pain — surprise that continued as Rychaeth got up and out of his chair, shoving the table aside. "Havin' fun?" he asked. Ristao gave him a snarl and attacked with his longsword. Rychaeth parried and swung in at another angle. At the last second, he redirected his weapon, bypassed the man's block, and caught him across the arm. However, Ristao jumped back and the blade nicked the skin. It wasn't quite as crippling as Rychaeth intended, but it served a purpose. "First blood," Rychaeth observed as he returned with another attack. It rang against the longsword, which then then maneuvered itself into a lunge, a stab into Rychaeth's stomach. However, he jumped back and knocked the sword aside with his own. "Have fun tryin' ta hit me." He spiraled around and swung with all his force. Ristao blocked the attack with ease. The metal of both of their swords rang. Rychaeth nearly dropped his sword from the force of the impact — the shock from the blocked blow traveled down the blade and up his arm. His adversary grinned at Rychaeth's stupid mistake. Not only had he expended all of his energy into a single, easily-blocked blow, he had spun around in doing so, leaving him wide-open and vulnerable. Or so he thought. Rychaeth grinned. This put him at a perfect angle for attack. Not with the scimitar. No, if he attacked again with his numbed right hand, he was done for. Ristao staggered back, grasping at an object in his chest. "You…" he gasped. Then Rychaeth stepped forward and cleanly slit his throat. His hand fell away from his chest. Blood flowed freely from his throat and pooled out from his chest. A throwing knife protruded from his lung. Everyone stared. Nobody had ever before dared draw blades in a barfight. Aware that all eyes were focused on him, Rychaeth walked up and retrieved his weapon, sheathed both in one fluid motion, and ran. He ran out of the inn and down the street. People chased after him, shouting and waving whatever objects were handy at the time. He could easily take down the crowd of drunkards, but he didn’t want to. More dead people meant more corpses to explain and more reason for the ones that did pose a threat to come at him. He ducked into an alleyway and exited into the market street, which was still somewhat crowded. As tempted as he was to pilfer a few goods as he shuffled through, he kept his focus on losing the crowd behind him. It wasn’t too difficult, keeping track of them, as people parted for the angry mob out of fear. Darting into a side street, he paused for a moment to catch his breath. No matter how many sharp turns he made, there remained a small crowd of people chasing him. Some got lost here and there, but it was clear that they would outrun him in their rage. He needed a safe spot. Ironically enough, he found himself in the outskirts of town, running towards the nearby woodland. How many times had he done that? He didn’t know the answer. He didn't want to know the answer. But what he did know was that he could could easily lose them there. There, he was safe. He dove into the foliage and crawled to under a different bush, watching as his pursuers arrived and began poking around the area. He heard the steady crunch of leaves as people walked about. He looked around, making sure he wasn't exposed. Leaves covered his back, branches covered him from his sides— He nearly jumped as a set of boots appeared directly to his left. He could smell the man's breath almost directly above him. That man paused there, searching for what was right under his nose. Rychaeth held his breath. "Any luck?" the man called to his comrades. "No. I can't even find footprints," another man called back. "Then look harder!" shouted a third man, louder than the other two. Rychaeth recognized that voice as the one that led the charge. "I think I found something!" Rychaeth cringed, as the voice came from directly above him. Those boots took two hesitant steps closer... ...And searched the bush to Rychaeth's left. "Nevermind. It wasn't anything." The voice pounded in his sensitive ears. And then the boots walked away from him. He let out a slow sigh of relief. That was far too close for his comfort. "I give up," mumbled a man. A couple others joined him and their combined footfalls faded into the distance. The rest continued to search, but their pursuit lost fervor. Rychaeth's jet-black clothing continued to conceal him in the shadows. As more people left to go back to their drinks or their families, Rychaeth let himself relax. The few times someone looked directly at the bush, their wandering eyes walked right over it. One by one, they all gave up and went home. One by one, they left the few still searching, until one man searched alone. No doubt, he was still looking to receive his payment. Rychaeth crawled out from under the bushes. He dusted a few twigs and leaves off his clothes. "Rychaeth Leithyr!" the man called out. "Demon or not, you promised me my pay, and I intend to get it!" "I promised ya nothin'," Rychaeth said, standing up. The thug jumped, startled by the form that rose up out of nowhere. Where the hell had he been when they were searching for him? "What!?" he let out surprise, whipping around to face Rychaeth. Rychaeth chuckled. "I told ya I'd pay — if ya did yer job." "I did my job!" the thug shouted, backing into a defensive position. Rychaeth moved closer. "Ya only did part of it." "What are you talking about? I did everything you told me to!" Rychaeth continued to move closer. The thug stood frozen in fear, as the black-hooded figure approached him with looming certainty. The wind stopped blowing. The cacophony of insects and birds seemed to stop. "Ya didn't read the find print," Rychaeth said in a low voice, quiet, yet audible. "I told ya ta make sure no-one know 'bout it." "And nobody saw. Everyone that was there is dead." "But ya forget." Rychaeth drew closer, close enough to smell his breath. He reached a slender-fingered hand out and grasped the thug's shoulder. The thug went cold. "You were there, too." The thug started backing away, but the once-gentle hand dug into his shoulder. Rychaeth laughed and moved directly behind him. He drew a dagger and held it against the thug's throat. "I know yer name, Anoros," he whispered into the man's ear. "I know where ya live an' where ya buy yer food. I know Lorelei's name an' th' names a' yer two children. I know yer birthdays. An', most importantly, I know yer deathdays." "You wouldn't. You really are a demon!" Rychaeth ignored him. "Y'know, I knew a guy named Anoros, once. 'E was a good friend a' mine. Wanna know what I did ta 'im?" "W-what did you do?" There was no scream. Anoros stared forward, unblinking, even as he was thrown down to the ground. He lay on the ground with little complaint; in a short fit, he slammed his hand against the ground, but did nothing else. Rychaeth sheathed his blade and looked down at Anoros. "Ya bore me," Rychaeth said to him. " 'S no fun when they don't struggle." Anoros remained unblinking.

Coyote -> RE: Prince of Thieves (3/15/2009 23:40:34)
Chapter 3 "You are my last hope," Ethandur said, any hint of panic suppressed by his almost superhuman calm. Instead of sitting in the shadows as he was prone to do, he stood tall in his office, facing his potential employee face-to-face. The moonlight streaming in through the window accented his bony, angular countenance, creating minuscule shadows that further contrasted the sharp curves of his face. "I have sent countless people against this man, and—" "They have all failed," interrupted the man opposite of him. He glanced off to the side as if disinterested in Ethandur's predicament. However, he kept Ethandur in his field of vision. "—I do not wish to go after him myself." Ethandur flashed the man a dirty look. He had better have good reason for this arrogance. If he didn't, he would pay for it soon enough; he knew from experience that this job wasn't to be taken lightly. "Consider it done." He extended an arm over the table, expecting a handshake. Ethandur wasn't amused. Instead, he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and looked it over. "It might be wise to look before you leap, for once." He skimmed through it another time before handing it to the man opposite of him. "This is where you will find him, when you will find him, and what he will probably have with him." The man did not even seem impressed. Ethandur made a note to dock his pay later. "Like I said, consider it done. I'll make sure to carry out the job, no sweat." Ethandur flashed him another annoyed expression. He had gone through many great lengths to get that information. That slip of paper being handled casually, treated worthlessly, required several spies and at least two wizards. That information had not been cheap. That man— "Pah. Amateur." The hireling eyed the sheet, pulling out yet another. His gaze flashed from page to page, and he eventually rolled up and tossed both into a sack he wore slung over his shoulder. "Going after an old man." In a flash, Ethandur drew his sword and held it dead at his hireling's heart. The sword's scabbard rattled against the wood of his desk, still vibrating from the force he drew his sword with. "This information did not come without its cost," he growled, his angered countenance betraying his former calm. "You will do your job, and you will respect the people that hire you. This man is no amateur." The threatened man gulped. "I don't see any wisdom in his tactics," he managed. "You will not fail me! Go out there, and get your job done! Make sure this man is no longer a menace to the people! My orders! The King's orders!" He took a breath and drew back, slamming his sword into its sheath. Though his face belied his anger, neither hand rested at the sword's handle. "Don't fail me. Please. Both for your sake and for theirs." The man stiffened, color draining from his face. "You wouldn't," he croaked. Ethandur chuckled at the opposing man's pallor. "Oh, yes, I would. Besides, you seemed so confident. Something as small as this couldn't possibly spoil your reputation." "You're crazy." Ethandur ignored him. "You are to dispatch this man. If I receive any reports that you did not do so to your fullest potential, you won't be the only one to die." Perfect. He always found himself to be the most persuasive man in any argument he got into. The man opposite of him stared at him grimly, trying vainly to concoct an idea to worm his way out. He failed to do so. He, however, managed to regain his composure. "I'll do it," he said "I'll make sure I get the job done to my fullest potential." "Good man. Now leave." He turned around and walked stiffly to the door. However, he paused upon reaching the doorframe and glanced backwards. "Why the king's orders?" he inquired cautiously. "Why would the King suddenly have interest in our affairs?" He flinched as Ethandur's hand shot to his blade's hilt once again. But the moonlit air between the two of them remained undisturbed. No metallic hisses filled the air, no blades glinted in the moonlight. "None of your business," Ethandur stated at last. "Your business is to dispatch this man. Nothing else." The intense look on his face suddenly relaxed, morphing into an almost evil smile. "And you will succeed. I'll see to it." The man gulped. "I won't fail you. And I won't fail the King." * * * A dark, hooded figure stole through the night. It carried little save for a rope slung over its back. The dull glint of iron showed for an instant in the moonlight at the end of the rope; the iron tapered down to three wickedly sharp points. As the figure stopped, glancing this way and that, a few weapons could be seen on his person. Most noticeably, a jeweled scimitar. After its brief survey, the figure darted towards a house. The house wasn't the target, this time. He had a special someone in mind. The figure stepped slowly up to the house, careful not to make any excessive actions. He tossed the grappling hook upwards at a window. Always trust a rich man, he thought to himself, to have more than one floor in a personal home. There was a slight chink as the grappling hook struck metal, then a thud as it struck wood. There was a grin of satisfaction as it struck home. He tested its strength. Nice hit, he complemented himself. He paused as he put his foot on the outside wall. Why had he paused? He pondered for a little bit. Dreams. The whole scene suddenly felt like a dream. Everything was dreamy, dreamlike… And he suddenly had misgivings for what he was doing— A throwing axe embedded itself into the wall above him, neatly severing the rope. The figure quickly took his foot off the wall and set it down firmly on the ground. Whatever that feeling was, it had saved him from a rather uncomfortable fall. "Find yourself a little short-stocked?" a voice asked from behind him. Rychaeth's arm became a blur as he whipped his hand backwards. A concealed throwing knife flew out from within his sleeve. The figure behind him shifted slightly to the left. The knife barely missed. "I'd say not," he replied to his assailant, his back still turned to him. "Ya got lucky." As if on cue, a breeze blew past, ruffling the cloak and making it billow slightly with the wind. "I'm still alive, aren't I?" Rychaeth stood up straight and turned around, head still pointing downwards. The tip of his muzzle was visible in the moonlight despite the hood. He was aware of it, but he didn't make a move to change it. "State yer business. I'm a busy guy." "What do you think my business is?" "Typical," he muttered, though audibly enough so that his assailant could hear. But it was a lie. It wasn't typical. This was all wrong. The appearance, the timing, the location… How the hell did they find out who his next target was? He eyed the other man carefully. Either someone had very good intelligence or someone was leaking info. But who was there to leak information about him? He had just him and himself to trust any and all information to. That meant that there was a spy that he missed somewhere. And a potentially deadly hunter at his tail. He grinned. This would be one hell of a fox hunt. "What makes me think yer any better than th' last?" he continued. "Ya can pretend all ya want but yer still a roach." "Big words for a small man." "The lower ya go, the easier it is ta kick another's vitals." "So you fight dirty?" "What says I fight clean?" There was the shink of a drawn blade. Jewels glinted in the moonlight. Rychaeth brandished the weapon about but suddenly flicked his off-hand in the bounty-hunter's direction. A shuriken spun and grazed him in the arm. Ry noted the near-hit with a sense of disdain. The man greeted it with quite a bit of anger. He muttered a few oaths. But Ry was already on top of him. "My, my. Talkin' dirty, are we." The man gulped and replied. "Fighting dirty, are we? Have you no sense of shame?" Rychaeth grinned. "Yes ta th' first an' no ta th' second." "Then have at ye!" The man drew his own sword and pointed it at Ry, who immediately knocked the sword out of the way and drove his home. However, the sword spun around and immediately parried the blow. Blow after blow was parried. Rychaeth grinned, an eerie effect in the moonlight. His hood had long fallen off. "So maybe ye'll amuse me after all." "Amuse you? Then what's life to you? A game?" "Depends on whether or not I'm winnin'." The man swung his sword again, this time, on the offensive. Ry simply jumped back and then leaped forward with an attack of his own. The man angled his sword at Ry, intending to impale him on it. But Ry swiftly knocked it out of his way and spun his sword around to attack again. The man recovered quickly and once again parried his blows. In the midst of the chaos, a rather sleepy-looking, elderly man popped his head out the window to see what the noise was. Something in Ry's memory clicked and he threw a throwing knife at the man. The man gurgled and died almost instantly. Ry grinned as he swung his sword again. He'd collect the money later. The man deftly parried it again. And again. And again. But Ry had tricks up his sleeve. He swung at the man with a clean, downward swipe. The man brought it up easily to block the blow. It was almost too easy… In a single clean sweep, Ry kicked both of the man's legs out from under him. The man's knees buckled and he fell to the ground, swearing loudly. And without even a second glance, the scimitar plunged into the man's throat. He left the body there. Minus the cash, of course. However, he paused as he picked up a slip of paper. "Hope that he is merciful, or your family will pay," he read. It was signed "E." He dropped it on the ground. "They're getting' easier and easier," he said to himself. And then, mission accomplished, he stole off into the night. * * * " 'S done," Rychaeth said nonchalantly. He grinned under his hood. The man sitting across from him looked at him quizzically. "Take that thing off. You know that neither of us have anything to hide." "I've got plenty," he said in protest but complied anyways. He glanced quickly at the moon through the window as he did so then glanced around out of habit. Neither of them had much to hide from each other, but he never knew who might be watching. However, his own musings were cut short. "Let's cut to the business. Did you do it?" "Yeah." Ry eyed the man. Dressed as mysteriously as he was, the man almost reeked of death. This man was the puppet master who enjoyed playing games with the lives of men. Ry shrugged off the aura of subtle dominance the man seemed to radiate. He was simply another man that can be dealt with. However, this man had a lot of money. Money that he needed. "Dun worry, Prolov. I did it jes' like ya asked." The man eyed him, dubious. "Proof?" Rychaeth shrugged. "Dun have it." "Then why," he said, agitation in his voice, "did you bother coming back?" Cloth rippled, almost robelike, in the sparse moonlight. A dagger glinted for half a moment before being concealed again in the folds of cloth. Ry didn't need any visual cues to catch on, though. He took in a shallow breath and raised an eyebrow. "Ask anyone. Someone murdered 'im with a knife. Didn't have time ta take somethin' from him." "And why didn't you?" "Was busy." "Busy with…? "Stuff. Stuff that made me busy." The man eyed him again, quizzically. He waited, expecting more of an answer. Ry didn't fail to disappoint him. At last, he gave in and tossed a sack of money in the air. It arched gracefully before landing with a chink. Ry snatched it off the table and opened it on the spot. Satisfied by the solid glitter of gold, he pocketed the money. "Thank ye," he muttered. "Now I'll be goin'." He stood up. The cloak swished around him as he pulled the hood up again. "Wait." He held up a hand. Rychaeth paused. "What now?" "I have something else for you." The hood fell down as he spun around to face Prolov. "What now?" he repeated but with much more aggravated tone. "I have something else for you," he repeated in kind. He grinned almost diabolically. Rychaeth cocked his head ever so slightly to the side. "Wha's it now? Spit it out already." He didn't have time for mind games. Or the patience, for that matter. He was not at all dependent on an employer; what he didn't earn, he stole. But the former usually paid much better. "Another job offer. At the Capital." "All th' way there? It'd better be worth it." "I'll make it worth your while." He paused. There was always a catch behind vague promises like that. The more concrete things were, the better they worked in his favor. "How much are ya offerin'?" "Two thousand." "Make it three thousand." "Two and a half." "Done. Now what is it?" Prolov leaned back in his chair. "You've heard the name Lerovam Nallor, have you?" Rychaeth raised an eyebrow at the mention of her name. "Who?" "Lerovam. She's getting close to the King. And I wouldn't be surprised if her last name changes to 'Damantium', if you catch my drift." Prolov locked into eye contact with Ry. "She plans to 'improve' the kingdom. Make sure she doesn't." There was a slight pause as Ry's brain made calculations. "An' you said what about her an' th' King?" "You heard what I said." There was a slight pause. "Four thousand plus travel expenses." "You drive a hard bargain, Leithyr." "But I get th' job done." There was yet another pause. Then Prolov tossed Rychaeth yet another sack of coins, this one considerably larger than the first. He pocketed them after making sure they were all there. "Go. You had better make it worth my while." "Dun worry. I will." And then, with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. * * * "When did you say this was?" "Last night, sir. My Lord's house was robbed last night." "And you suspect…?" "That it was Mr. Leithyr, sir." "What makes you think that?" The messenger took out a sheet of folded paper. It was obviously high-quality, despite being folded and crumpled in the messenger's pocket for however long of a ride it took him to get there. He unfolded it slowly and carefully and then held up a hair. It was bright orange. "Thank you for your time. I'll get to it as soon as I can." "Thank you, sir." The messenger turned around and left. Ethandur marked down the location of the house on a map. The places he was seen in coincided with the robbery location. They were in almost a straight line towards some unknown location. Where was that man going? Certainly wasn't his usual roundabout, meandering path through the countryside. While he was good at being missed, he flaunted his plans about and made himself laughably easy to track. More than likely, it was to annoy the higher-ups in charge of tracking him. Rychaeth stole much more than he usually did. That meant that he was headed somewhere and did not plan to take as he went. Stealing meant planning. Planning meant time. Which Rychaeth apparently did not have. He was headed somewhere. But where was he headed? Someplace far. Someplace off that map. Ethandur grinned. He didn't know the destination, but he knew the next stopping point. There was a minor trade center directly in the path Rychaeth was taking. It was large enough to hold a variety of goods, but not large enough to gather too much attention. In short, ripe enough with shady dealings but fewer witnesses. Not to mention the fact that the people there tended not to ask where any bit of wealth came from. Exactly the sort of place he would head for. That might have answered one question, but there were several others. Ethandur spent more time pouring over maps, examining larger and larger ones as he went. He only knew the general direction that he traveled. He glanced at Ry's record of criminal activity. The targets got bigger and bigger as the list read downwards. Who knew where he would stop? And suddenly, it clicked. He knew where Rychaeth was headed. "Pack my things!" he barked to a servant. "I'm going traveling." * * * "An' I tell ya that th' money I give ya is legit." "And why should I believe you?" "Fer the love o' God, ya can test it any way ya want and it'll be good." "You don't seem the type to be using real money." "It's legit! I'll take m' business elsewhere if ya keep pesterin' me." Off in the distance, Ethandur watched. Rychaeth was easy enough to spot; he wore entirely black. Hard enough to spot at night, but was just about as inconspicuous as a blue-skinned rhino in daylight. But he knew that he had to be weary. Rychaeth didn't live his life like this for this long off of luck alone. He knew how to maneuver people. He knew how to fight. Rychaeth was vaguely aware that he was being watched as he finally made his purchase. "Thank ye very much, sir," he said with agitation clear in his sarcasm-laden voice. "I'll be off with m' fake money an' the stuff I scammed from ya." "So, it was true!" Rychaeth rolled his eyes. You had to love people like that. So innocent and stupid that they wouldn’t stop to think about why in all of Hell he would openly admit to something like that. Not that it wasn't true. There was a loud thud and the annoying accusations ceased abruptly. "Here ya go. You take yer goddamn money, an' I'll take my goddamn stuff. Have we us a deal? Good." He slammed some money on the table, took a few more things, and left the booth. Another man, apparently a friend of the stall's owner, helped cover for the unconscious man and prevent theft. Rychaeth quickly lost himself in the crowd. There was absolutely no reason to make himself stand out any more than he did by attacking the stall owner. Granted, the man had it coming to him. But the authorities had that nasty habit of completely overlooking minor aspects like that. Whatever they said was right. Of course, it always was. They were authority. His stomach growled. He nonchalantly snuck a roll of bread from a basket on display before eating it a safe distance away. He glanced around the marketplace. There were still a few more things that he needed to get for the journey ahead. He already had his standard fare, but there were still a few more things that he wanted. He was already in the marketplace; might as well get everything he wanted so he could avoid places like this in the future. There were too many people for his comfort. Someone might recognize him. He casually walked away from the bread stall as shouts of "Thief!" carried outwards from it. They were always a little delayed in catching on; a factor that made getting away with things that much easier. Certain that there was nobody trailing him, he ducked into an alleyway to finish off the other goods he had stolen from that bread stall. However, another man followed him in. Damn, he was positive he had the authorities off his back. "Rychaeth Leithyr. We meet at last." "Wha's it now?" Rychaeth responded in irritation. He looked down at the man that followed him. He looked familiar. Very familiar. "Ahh. You. Yer… Ethandur, right? Good. Y'know, I'm a bit busy right now. Mind if I help ya later?" He flashed Ethandur a smile. Ethandur began to respond, but suddenly realized what was coming next. But by then, it was far too late. Rychaeth's foot was already behind his and the other kicked him just behind the kneecap. His leg buckled and he fell, arms flailing. But by that time, Rychaeth was already running. Ethandur scrambled up and chased after him, but he was already gone when he managed to escape the crowd. Rychaeth knew him from a long while ago. He was no doubt the source of the bounty hunters that came after him. And knowing him, he would stock up on supplies and beat him to the Capital. When that man wanted someone dead, that man would be dead. Except for Rychaeth Leithyr. This was one sly fox that would evade the fox-hunts. Just like he had avoided them for quite some time. Ethandur was just another man. And other men had tried, and all failed, to catch him.

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