Fable - Ask Shattered Promises

[Jast]

He glanced over towards Syele, the woman really did have to have a plan for everything. It was a good trait for a soldier to have, really, and Jast supposed that he shouldn't have been too surprised. From every indication, it seemed that she'd once been one of the best.

"Straight as we can, I figure." Truth be told, he was much better at killing Dreadlords than he was regular men.

The logic of that seemed converse, but it was...it was easier to end a man's life when he could bring yours to a violent halt with the snap of his finger. It took the time out of the decision, made what might have turned a moment of contemplation into a single beat of instinct.

"I'd rather not kill our own." He explained with a shrug. "Unless they start pressing, no need to act suspicion. If things go to shit..."

Jast shook his head, preferring not to answer the question.

Luckily, he never had to either.

Their journey north went shockingly without interruption. One or two stops saw them clear Anirian territory, and beyond that the former soldiers managed to find their way to several Inns and Taverns. By the time they snaked their way through the roads of the Empire they were traveling in surprising comfort, though as Elbion came into distant view their coin began to run thin.

"Should have taken more from the stocks." Jast murmured as he was counting the gold that remained, flicking the coins into the sack. "Elbion's just over the bend."

He said, tying the sack. "But we might have to get creative for how we get back."

Jast said with a shrug.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

"I have the utmost faith in your creativity," Syele commented, creativity obscuring the accurate word at play, namely crime, she imagined. If it came down to it, bounty boards were rarely empty in a city.

Wilhart looked out to the city looming on the horizon. It was a place she had never been, for obvious reasons, and so Syele found her knowledge lacking. The woman knew enough of the college's existence and that it stood atop the city, looking down upon the rest; the symbolism alone was enough to make her seethe quietly. But such feelings needed to be stilled; she couldn't exercise her fury in this place.

"What do you know about Elbion?" She inquired, question punctuated by the steady clop of hooves as they continued down the road. "How do the people fare alongside the mages?”

Was it like Vel Anir?

 

[Jast]

"It's better than home, in some ways." The College, as far as Jast knew, wasn't any sort of military organization.

Most of the mages there weren't focused on war or battle, but instead labeled themselves as Academic and Scholars. That alone would give them an up. No one would be looking at them suspiciously from the start, just when they started asking for what they were looking for.

"Think most ordinary folk tend to sit apart." He explained. "The College still has a lot of power, but the city around it balances it fairly well and set itself apart."

In other words, just because you were a big-wig at the College, didn't mean you could go into town and have your way at the snap of a finger. "There's no love lost between The College and our friends at home."

This close to the city, it was better to start speaking in vagueries. Though what he said was true, Vel Anir had eyes and ears even this far north.

They had to be careful.

"Different priorities." He remarked with a glance to Syele.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

A quiet hum came from the back of Syele's throat, appraising Jast's assessment of Elbion's hierarchy. She found it hard to believe, or even stomach, the notion that ordinary people could exist in relative harmony with mages.

The hand of tyranny was never too far from those with the power to wield it. It wasn't a matter of if, but when.

At the very least there was no alliance held between them.

A small comfort.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Wilhart finally replied, her grip involuntarily tightening around the reins of her horse. She'd hunted enough college outcasts gone rogue to expect the craving for power to be an inevitability. Ultimately, mages would never be able to regulate themselves.

On the road up ahead Syele spotted the first sign of life from the city. A group of four stood by the side of the road, seeming well-armed at first glance. If she had to guess, it was a guard patrol.

"Look alive," she muttered with a nod up ahead. Wilhart didn't anticipate trouble, but between Jast's eccentricities and her mottled flesh they were easy faces to remember.

 

[Jast]

Jast's eyes sprang almost immediately to the four men moving at a leisurely pace up the road. His fingers tightened on the reins for a brief moment, but only long enough for him to force a measure of calm through his muscles.

The City Watch of Elbion was no Anirian Guard, that much he knew to be true.

Back home they trained their soldiers as just that. Here in Elbion the Watch was more of a police force, not an army of invasion. They kept the peace and assured that everyone went about their way in an ordinary fashion. Unlike the Armies Syele and Jast had been a part of, these men had not seen armies arrayed in front of them. They had never seen a true trial.

It was likely they were here only to inspect merchants and warn anyone off looking to cause trouble. A friendly greeting would do.

"Hail!" The former Guardsmen called out with a wide smile as the Watchmen approached. A hand raising as he waved to the four men.

A smile almost immediately broke out on the lead man's face.

"Well met, stranger. May I ask your business in Elbion?"

"Just come to visit the College." Jast answered without missing a single beat, knowing that the best lie was often close to the truth. "My Sister-in-Law's son attends there."

He gestured to Syele. "Her father passed away and I...well, it's a long journey from home you see."

The watchmen glanced over to his companion, no hint of suspicion decorating his features but clearly looking for her to confirm.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

While she lacked the charisma of the Lieutenant, Syele wasn't entirely socially inept. These days, conversations dragged themselves from behind her grit teeth and clenched jaw, but it hadn't always been that way. She'd once been accustomed to the camaraderie of the Guard, once shared the laughter and crude jokes that allowed them to cope.

Sometimes, she wondered if she had forgotten how to laugh.

A strained smile emerged at the mention of her deceased father, pained enough in light of false tragedy but polite enough so as not to be too off-putting.

"Yes, it can be a lonely trip too," she said, watching awkward stares try to avoid the scarred flesh that enveloped almost half of her face. People either stared for too long, sating their curiosity or swiftly averted their gaze in the name of attempted politeness.

"Aye, and it's always better to have company on the road," the lead guard replied, a consoling warmth in his tone reserved for the sad stories of strangers.

Wilhart looked to Jast, the strain in her face loosening and leaving behind a soft smile that felt alien, "Almost there now, eh?"

 

[Jast]

“Aye!” Chirped the guard, apparently disarmed by their lies. His three fellows now looked decidedly disinterested, one picking at the ground with his spear while the other two simply stared off Into space.

Ill-disciplined.

Had Jast and Syele wanted these men would be dead within the span of a few heartbeats. Though in truth he couldn't blame them. It was unlikely these Watchmen had seen any more action than throwing the local drunkard into the nearest cell. A part of him almost felt bad for them, but only a small part.

“Best be careful if you're going to the college.” The Guard warned, sending one of Jast’s eyebrows up. “Don't meant to worry you Ma’am, I'm sure your son's fine.”

Jast reached out, patting Syele on the shoulder as if to ward off the anxiety she was surely feeling now. For having been so unhinged upon their first meeting, the first Guardsmen was remarkably calm In this situation. As though the mask he wore was almost a completely different person. A man who hadn't had half his soul torn from him. “What do you mean?”

He asked, letting some tension slip into his voice.

“Ah just some protests from the commons.” The Watchmen explained. “Claim the college should be doing more to fix what happened during the cataclysm.”

The man shrugged. “Shouldn't bother you none, but thought I'd warn you.”

”Much appreciated, Ser. We'll take care. Only here for a visit.” A nod tipped the other man's head, and then with a wave towards his fellows they all set off. Jast waited for a brief moment, letting the soldiers walk a few yards away before resetting their own trek. ”Guess things aren't as quiet as I thought.”

He said quietly, wondering if the College would even do as they asked. ”Might make for good cover if things get out of hand.”

Jast suggested, offering Syele a knowing look.

Both of them had already assumed that the College likely wouldn't help them in acquiring artifacts that could best Dreadlords. That meant stealing what they needed instead. If these protests could become a little bit…louder, it might be enough to give them an opening.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

A more natural frown crested upon the news of the college, partly on behalf of her false son but also at the news of trouble, only bolstering prejudice long since seared into flesh. It was hardly shocking that a magical institute would be accused of not doing more to help the common people who kept the world turning, at least in her eyes.

"Thank you for the warning, Ser," Syele added to Jast's parting words, the encounter as harmless as it was lackadaisical. It was wonder why she had ever been concerned about the notion of guards.

They continued down the road, their pace leisurely under hushed tones as the former Lieutenant made implications towards their next move. A raised eyebrow came in reply; she had acknowledged, with some difficulty, that theft may have been their only option to find a practical offence against the Dreadlords. Now, he was suggesting something else entirely.

She glanced over her shoulder, checking the distance between the patrol and themselves before looking back at Jast.

"You want to incite a riot?" Wilhart asked accusingly with a furrowed brow, "Have you taken leave of your senses? People could get hurt."

 

[Jast]

Jast offered Syele a wide grin. "Oh, I've left a few behind for sure."

The former guardsmen said regarding his senses, though quickly skipped over the accusation that Syele presented.

She wasn't wrong of course, but the fact was they needed those artifacts from the College. It wasn't likely the wizards would just hand them over, and that meant getting creative. Jast didn't want to see Elbion burned down any more than she did, but when push came to shove...

"Don't need to cause too much of a ruckus." He explained. "Not a riot."

Jast continued, trying to ease some of the fear. "But make things in front of the gate a little bit louder."

It was a thin line, he would acknowledge, but they were at a disadvantage. Every little bonus they could eek out now might mean a life rescued down the line.

"If the wizards are watching the gate." He reasoned. "They're less likely to watch the vaults."

 

[Syele Wilhart]

A ruckus.

Where was the line in the sand? Where did a ruckus start and a riot begin? A few loud voices could always snowball into something more. Syele knew very well that it would suit them if it did, but the idea of causing harm to civilians caught her like a lump in the throat.

The end justifying the means.

Like bodies at the wall.

Her jaw set like granite, eyes staring right through Jast as fingers flexed open and closed upon the reins.

"You're...right," Wilhart conceded slowly, the words spoken with a certain degree of pre-emptive regret, as if knowing they would need to be forgiven later.

What was the point in any of this if they didn't find their level playing field? It wasn't tenable to individually break into the homes of Dreadlords and drive daggers into their hearts. How long would it be before they caught on? How long would it be until they were prepared for them and justice would once more be snuffed out like errant candlelight. They needed a counter, needed to take whatever they could get.

"I just...don't want to lose sight of what's important," Syele spoke, looking ahead to the city before them, responding to her own thoughts just as much Jast. "It's not just about us, it's about ordinary people."

 

[Jast]

There wasn't even a second of doubt in Jast's eyes. Even through the half broken glasses it was obvious that he believed in the chosen course. Before the end they would need to do much worse, he knew that better than anyone else. A little protest was nothing, nothing compared to the steps they would have to take if they wanted to win.

"Let's find an Inn first." The former Guardsmen said.

"It'd be a good idea for a place that someone saw us." Just in case they needed and alliby. The whole point was not to get caught of course...but when it came to mages there were tricks and traps one couldn't really predict. "Plus..."

He said as he looked ahead, noting the small convoy of traders and merchants heading into the city. "I think we'll need to start spreading some rumors."

There were ways to make a stir, and he had found that often the best place to make a start was in the middle of a common room. A place, as luck would have it, Jast was intimately familiar with even on the best of his days. Every man had flaws after all.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

As the former Lieutenant went through a rough draft of a plan, Syele stopped and actually looked at him.

Jaster Marr was an enigma. During their first encounter, he seemed to be little more than a pickled, drawling tongue, paranoid but with a clear intention.

It wasn't until after they had slain the Dreadlord together and sat in the relative safety of his network in Sedwin that something had slipped. There was a muted sobriety within him built upon solemn foundations. A shared trauma. They didn't need to talk about it, a moment was enough to know, and he was anything like her, he didn't even want to talk about it.

She had assumed that second face to be the truth, she wanted it to be the truth, but they way he had so easily slipped into character to speak to the patrol was cause for questions.

"You've got a knack for thinking on your feet," she commented with a nod of agreement, willing enough to go along with his plan for the time being. "I assume you've already got an idea...?"

Syele could acknowledge that she held a certain lack of imagination; it wasn't a new development in who she was, and when it came down to it, the woman supposed it was why she enjoyed being in the Guard. It was regimented; you were told what to do, how to do it, and when. She'd always appreciated it and been exemplary at following orders.

"Tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it," Wilhart followed up, cementing that soldier's mentality that had never truly left, "within reason."

 

[Jast]

Jast paused for only a moment as Syele did, offering her a small smile that was mostly hidden by his beard.

There was something inscrutable about the way the former Guardsmen carried himself. A face that had fractured into many pieces and now only presented itself part by part. It was unsettling how swiftly he seemed to shift in attitude, and yet Jast seemed almost entirely unaware. "Of course!"

He said, his smile growing into a grin.

"We're not here to leave a trail." The other side of the coin. The bigger mess they made, the more likely someone would come looking. The Wizards of Elbion were hardly fools, they used a different magic and weren't soldiers...but they had their own magics.

Best not to test it more than they had to.

Leading the way towards the middle-city, Jast glanced at various signs and establishments on the way. Marking the location of different taverns and Inn's as he explained his plan.

"We just need to go on a bit of a crawl." He explained to Syele. "Plant the idea that tomorrow evening there's going to be a speech by one of the Wizards."

A lie of course, but if enough people believed a lie it tended to become a truth. "Tell 'us' how they're gonna help the city more."

That should spark a crowd, and when that crowd found out the truth...

 

[Syele Wilhart]

Syele nodded in agreement, not offended by the man's assignment.

It seemed simple enough, sewing the seeds of a gathering that would hopefully be enough to keep the College distracted while they sought the artefacts vital to their cause. A thought now relegated to the back of her mind was aware that their rumours would set up volatile powder kegs primed for disaster.

"Divide and conquer?" Wilhart asked, finding that it made sense for them to cover a larger area to amass a crowd worthy of diverting attention.

Her gaze settled on an inn that held a stable, seeming modest enough to be a base of operations without breaking the remnants of their dwindling funds. At the very least, from a brief appraisal, the horses seemed to be well looked after. Whether or not the human service was as agreeable was irrelevant; the pair of them had no doubt slept in far shittier conditions.

"Or would you prefer to stick together?" Syele followed up as she steered her mount toward the inn, more than aware that she lacked his gift of the gab.

 

[Jast]

Jast followed along as Syele guided them towards the inn, his gaze flickering over towards her for a brief moment. They hadn't known one another long, a couple of days and the journey to Elbion added along with that. It hadn't been more than a month, but he had the right of her.

At least he thought so. "We'll split up."

The former Lieutenant said, dismounting his horse with a surprising amount of agility. He's feet only half tumbling from beneath him when he took his first step. An odd thing that, given that Syele hadn't seen him drink at all during the day.

Almost as if to cloak the fact, Jast pulled a flask from his coat. Taking a drink before he continued. "You can head down to the docks, take the taverns there."

Syele wasn't exactly one to...catch eyes, but she had the look of someone who could handle themselves. That alone would get her some words in the rougher parts of town. At least there she could be part of a damn conversation.

"I'll take the ones closer to hear." He gestured around the street as he headed towards the stables. "No need to go anywhere fancy."

Wouldn't see the fancy people down in the protests.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

The sight of Jaster half-stumbling, once he dismounted, was a cause for concern. Was he drunk? From their time spent together, it was plain to see that the man enjoyed a drink, which was not uncommon for those who were serving and had once served.

Syele reserved her judgment on this matter as she pulled her eyes from the man's flask and onto his face. There were some matters not for prying minds, which Wilhart herself could relate to.

"Right. I'll meet you back here."

---

Docklands were almost a universal fare across the realm, where backbreaking manual labour reigned supreme to keep a city's economy alive. Life never stopped here. As long as there were ships, there were people to load and unload them. It meant that there was no shortage of taverns to wet one's whistle; all the aches and pains of the day could be drowned at a moment's notice, either in ale or cheap companionship, everything a labourer needed to survive.

Syele wandered down cobbled streets with Elbion's harbour taking no notice of her, the constant stream of barked orders and ringing bells enough to cause her shoulders to stiffen. Her gaze flitted towards the occasional beggar, likely maimed as a risk of the job. Willing to work, but unable. She could spare a copper or two but little else.

The Schooner was her first stop, a lively place filled with pipe smoke and the wheezing lilt of a solo accordionist, earning her supper by request.

It wasn't long before the former Sergeant had a half-pint of ale in hand and was sat down at a table, observing the conversations around her and seeking the perfect moment to intrude. The well-saturated camaraderie between the dockhands was a small comfort, reminiscent of old friends long gone, the thought of which summoned a glum half-smile upon her face.

At one table, boisterous temperaments butted heads in booming boasts, eventually boiling down to the question of who was the strongest. Naturally, this led to a contest of strength: an arm wrestling competition.

Her way in.

 

[Jast]

“Y-you take thiiiis one.” Jast said as he slid over the small glass to his companion. ”Annnnd I'll take this'll one.”

He slurred, taking the other glass filled with clear liquid and bringing it to his lips.

The man across the table did the same, and in tandem their heads shot back as the Yudra Liquor burned across their tongues. Except, Jast didn't actually let any of it touch his tongue. Instead the liquid dribbled around his lips, falling down his chin only to be surreptitiously wiped away as he let out a satisfied sigh. His companion chuckling as he set down the glass on the table.

“That's some good shit.” His new friend offered with a grin.

“I've not met many people willing to buy drinks for a stranger!” The man said with a laugh, though clearly not trying to beg off the good fortune he was enjoying. “What's with the generosity, friend?”

Curiosity, as always, got the best of him. But then, that was exactly what Jast had counted on. ”Got some damned good news today!”

The Lieutenant said with a laugh, raising his hand to order another round. Keenly aware that their available coin was beginning to shrink more and more.

”Let's just say I got a contract.” He continued before ordering their drinks. The man across from him raising an eyebrow in question. ”’Fraid I can't say too much.”

Jast said. ”Men with point hats involved.”

He gave a wink, but refused to elaborate any more when further questioned by his companion.

That was what you had to do. Coming out and saying the thing you wanted to say was too obvious, most would dismiss it quickly. But offer the hints of a secret, a bit of intrigue, and sow a dozen different rumors until eventually people had no choice but to put the puzzle pieces together.

All they needed was rumor, nothing more.

Jast reminded himself of that, and although he'd never been a spy, he thanked his years in the Eastern for his knowledge on the subject. The home guard was as much about defending against sedition and rumors as it was about fighting foreign armies. Learning to talk to people had been part of his life, and now he would use the skills taught to him by the old ways to finish tearing it down.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

That bitter nostalgia took root as the games began, starting at one table with three men before spreading across the room. Before long, everyone was enraptured and huddled around the table, and even the accordionist switched to an upbeat shanty that befitted the raucous contest.

Crude insults flew between the strained grunts, and eyes honed in upon elbows to ensure they remained on the table. Punters who knew they could not win chose to place bets, their currency in pints rather than coins. Amongst the throng of testosterone, Syele was in the fray, her free fist clenching and unclenching as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with booming revelry.

One of the rounds seemed to be a total mismatch, a wiry dockhand against his stocky, barrel-chested counterpart—good friends judging from their comments about each other's mothers.

Strength met technique as the scrawny man weathered the initial storm from his much larger opponent; he positioned better, letting his body do the work instead of his arm alone. Wilhart could already tell that better execution would win here as the brick shithouse wore himself out gradually from the effort. Lower and lower, the thicker arm was pushed back until, at last, the immense man conceded defeat.

A celebratory shout at Syele's ear caused her to cringe momentarily, a deep breath dispelling the discomfort of cramped noise.

"Ya wee fucker! Should've known ya'd be hard to beat given how much ya beat yer di-"

"Hey! There are ladies present, Reggie," the victor scolded with smug satisfaction, propping his elbows onto the table as he basked in that winning feeling.

"Whit? Mags has the filthiest mouth here!"

The accordionist, presumably Mags, played on with a knowing smile.

"Nah, not Mags, you twat," replied the skinny man, nodding his head at Syele, who raised an eyebrow at the sudden attention now thrust upon her.

There was a lull, one that Wilhart had become more accustomed to in the last ten years. If anybody could bring down a room, it was her, but she couldn't be that person right now, had to be somebody else, some young woman who should have died a decade ago.

"Seems to me like Reggie should have had forty wanks instead of forty winks," she commented with a false grin, which successfully brought the crowd back to life as only a dick joke could have.

"Ah, she's got patter!" Reggie boomed with a yellow-toothed grin, "Come up and give Willie Wanker a doin'!"

"I won't go easy on you, even though you've got tits," Willie warned, eliciting a scoff from Syele as she finished her half-pint and stepped up to the plate, taking Reggie's seat at the table.

"I know," she replied, placing the elbow of her right arm upon the table and looking up at her opponent, "You didn't take it easy on Reggie, and he's got bigger tits than me."

 

[Jast]

By the time Jast reached the fifth tavern things had become something of a blur.

Even with his staggered drinking, enough liquor had reached his stomach that things became a tad fuzzy. The mission was still on the forefront of his mind of course, it always would be, but by the time he left the Haggard Harpy his steps were stumbled and his mind was swimming. ”PRAISE TO THE WIZARDS!”

Jast remembered shouting at one point, followed quickly by the celebration of buying a round of drinks.

Some of the subtlety had clearly dropped away from his approach, but it worked nonetheless. The rumor began to spread, and fast enough that by the time the former Lieutenant was sitting at tavern number six someone from tavern number one has already brought the legend. He heard it only through an off-hand comment. Someone tossing a bit of casual information out to a friend; “Oi, heard the wizards are hiring construction again. Might want to get yourself down to the gates in the morning. Could be work for ya.”

The words should have made Jast grin.

They were a mark of success. Rumors were spreading, and by tomorrow the crowd would form. It was a good thing, it meant the plan was working. But as he hears Jast couldn't help the spike of bitterness he felt.

Anger wheeled up within himself as he remembered he wasn't just playing with rumor. Wasn't just pulling strings. These were real men, real people. He was using them, and the anger they felt tomorrow would be as much his fault as anyone else's. The soldier stared down at his drink bitterly, and for the first time that evening took a long and deep swig of ale.

Hoping to wash down some of the bitterness before he stops and began to head back towards his and Syele’s inn.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

"Just dinna think 'bout where his hand has been," Reggie advised with a meaty slap on Syele's back as Willie locked hands with her.

"My hands?!" The wiry man retorted, looking to the woman with an eyebrow cocked, "Feels like you've been greasing yours up, love!"

"Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about where my hand has been," Wilhart replied with an unfamiliar wry smirk. In truth, her palm was sodden with sweat, the cramped ruckus of the tavern having stirred feelings of fight or flight in an ever-quickening heartbeat. It still lingered now, and in a practised motion, Syele reminded herself that she could still breathe.

The contest began at a much different pace than before. Technique against technique kept their arms firmly in the middle ground, with neither side gaining a significant advantage.

Then, the head games began.

"What happened to your mug?" Willie grunted, looking up from their interlocked hands.

"Accident," she lied without missing a beat, looking up to meet his gaze and study the well-worn lines of his weather-beaten features; a long, jagged scar ran down from temple to lip, "What happened to yours?"

"Accident."

The man shifted in his chair, shifting the leverage by changing his angle. Syele responded in kind.

"So, what brings a lady down to the docks? You look like you'd be much more comfortable in the merchant district."

The former Guardsman scoffed, "You mock me. The best drinking spots in all the realms are dockside. It's a universal truth."

"Salt o' the fuckin' earth!"

Willie tested the waters, pushing harder as Wilhart's arm bent backwards slightly. She maintained resistance but refused the urge to push back. It was all about control.

"Been around then?"

"Have to, I'm a courier," Syele replied, continuing to build lie upon lie as a foundation for their end goal. A reasonable cover story, somebody who's been around and knows the score. Didn't unnerve people the same way that 'sellsword' did.

"Delivery girl," Willie teased with a sly smirk.

"Wanker," she replied, adjusting her grip and giving a pushback with a slight twist on the man's wrist, gifting her a slight advantage as the balance shifted.

"Any filthy letters?" Reggie inquired, his curiosity piqued by the idea of well-written smut, surprising from a colossal labourer.

"I'm not supposed to read them, you know."

"But you do, right?"

A knowing smile on her part said everything that words could, the mottled scar tissue that afflicted half of her face crumpling with the expression.

"It's nothing that exciting, just about those cataclysm reparations from the College."

Her opponent slackened for a moment, allowing her further purchase and giving her the advantaged as his arm found itself edging closer to the table. "You fuckin' what?"

"You don't know?"

"We've heard fuck all about any reparations!"

"Yeah, compensation for those affected," Syele continued with a grunt as Willie caught himself slipping and mustered the strength of labour to push her arm back to the centre, "By application only. First come first serve."

"Fuckin' when?!"

"Tomorrow, at the college gates."

"Whit the fuck! We've heard fuck all about this!" Reggie hollered from over her shoulder, causing Wilhart to flinch and lose ground.

"Ah, shit. Maybe they're keeping it hush-hush. Hoping for a low turn-out so they can keep the coin."

The accordionist had stopped playing, the new backdrop for The Schooner a chorus of disgruntled murmuring interspersed with curses.

"Fuckin' mage bastards..."

"You know, the first thing they did in the aftermath was build their fuckin' wall," Willie seethed, his grip turning to iron as he crushed and twisted Wilhart's hand as he pressed, "They want nothing to fuckin' do with us ordinary folk, but when they've got problems, suddenly it's our fucking problem!"

In the wake of his tirade, Syele was acutely aware of the misery she was actively cultivating amongst the dockworkers, the grooves in her brow furrowing into a frown. It was evident that things weren't so harmonious between the people of Elbion and the College, but when rifts form between citizens and mages it was the latter who inevitably ended up getting hurt. Could she bear that responsibility if they turned up in their droves the next day, demanding fictitious compensation only to suffer violence instead?

"Well then, I'm glad I could fill you in. Wouldn't want to miss out on a pay day."

A part of her, built from reason and a desire to protect ordinary men and women felt the flog of shame crack across her back. Another part, bitter and worn down blamed the College and its mages instead. They had fostered this powder keg. Anybody could have come with a spark.

"Sneaky little shits!"

The woman relented, letting her opponent gradually bring her arm down to touch, her sleeve soaking up a mingling of spilt swill in the process. It was more important that Willie got the win today, he wouldn't be getting one tomorrow.

"Fuckin' hells. I've got to tell Davie," the man announced as he stood, barely registering his victory in the pointless contest.

"I saw him at Peep Peeps wi' Doris," the accordionist chimed in, packing her instrument away.

"Aye, I'd better let Frankie ken an' all," Reggie agreed, before clapping his meaty hands down upon Syele's shoulders, "Thanks fir letting us ken, Miss..."

"Mathilde."

"Yeah, an extra bit of dosh will go a long way around these parts."

"Aye, we'll hae ta love ya an' leave ya, darlin'. Need ta spread the word."

"Oh, don't mind me. Stay safe out there."

It wasn't long before most of tavern had filtered out to tell a friend, leaving Syele alone in the relative silence, alongside the astoundingly inebriated and the barman who seemed less than thrilled about losing his custom for the night. She could barely make eye contact as she herself took her leave into the night and back to the Inn to meet up with Jast.

 

[Jast]

As Syele wandered back to their shared Inn, she would find the slumped over form of Jaster Marr leaning just against the door frame. Propped up outside on the drunkards bench. There was no one else with him, though from the sounds echoing from the door besides him that was not for a lack of trying.

It seemed that even at their local tavern there were celebrations going on, though whether their rumor had spread there wasn't for either of them to know. At least not yet.

As the sounds of her boots scraped against the cobblestones, Jast's head lilted ever so slightly. Shifting in his sleeps perhaps, though a good soldier would notice the brief flicker of his opening eyes. The shift of a hand closer to the belt around his waist just in case.

After a second of recognition, the Lieutenant stirred.

Raising himself up from the bench and clearing his throat, a hand shaking out before he ran it through his hair to tame the fraying locks. "Any luck on yer side?"

Jast asked the approaching silhouette, reaching into his coat pocket and slipping free his flask. The metal rattling as he slowly unscrewed the cap and waited for his companion to stumble into place upon the bench besides him.

Staring at the flask, but not yet taking a sip.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

It wasn't a comforting sight.

The man who she was supposed to put her trust in was hunched over, not unlike the down-and-out cripples at the harbour. Wilhart was aware that in order to spread the word that they would have to socialise, and nothing drew out trust like sharing a pint but it wasn't an excuse to get paraplegic.

Or so Syele thought.

Jaster came to life when she approached, her gaze not ignorant of the hand that shifted on the defensive. Was he merely playing possum?

It certainly seemed that way as the man resurrected himself from the supposed stupor, causing eyes to narrow with scrutiny, wasting little time in travelling to the flask that he had retrieved after asking his question. Even if he feigning inebriation, it did not soothe her concerns. The former Lieutenant constantly oozed the notion of an unkempt drunk, but did they all not have their own coping mechanisms? A pitiful affinity thrummed, soothing her accusatory eyes.

"I think so," she replied, walking over and taking a seat next to him. She took the opportunity to unclench and leaned over, propping her elbows onto her thighs. Wilhart often found herself having to be mindful of the tension she was proned to holding in her body. "Half the docks are expecting reperations tomorrow."

Was it really a good idea?

Craning her neck towards Jast, she gave an upward nod, indicating the racous atmosphere behind them in the inn, "Your handiwork, I assume?"

 

[Jast]

"That one?" Jast said as he leaned back against the stonewall, shifting the flask in his lap.

"Roundabout way." He said, glancing over his shoulder at one of the windows nearby. "Story beat me before I could get back."

Which meant his part of the mission had been successful. The rumor had now outgrown the two of them and was effectively moving around the streets on its own. With just a small amount of luck, enough people wouldn't be too hungover to actually show up.

Then the two of them just had to be break into one of the most well protected places in the world. At least speaking from an arcane sense. He knew some of the layout from a diplomatic missions a few years ago, but those memories weren't exactly the clearest.

For a brief moment Jast frowned, then shook his head.

"Think it's all gonna go alright." He said, assuring himself more than he was Syele. His hand reaching up to offer her the flask.

"We'll get a goods nights rest." The Major offered. "Then see what our morning brings."

More than that, they couldn't do.

 

[Syele Wilhart]

"I can't say I'm surprised," she commented, knowing Jast's charisma far outweighed her own. The man was enigmatic and compelling when he wanted to be, even when slumped over like a wastrel and even more so when he spoke. It muddied the waters of who the man really was, and she wondered if the face she had seen in a ramshackle tavern in Sedwin was his real face.

Turning her mind back to their purpose, Syele considered if there was a chance that they had gone too far. The promise of something given for free was a dangerous tool, especially when offered to those who felt owed.

"I hope you're right," the former Sergeant replied, taking the flask offered. Her eyebrows furrowed at how full the container was before she took a sniff, confirming that it was alcohol and not some mystery elixir that madmen were prone to consume. A stiff swig confirmed rum, burning the back of her throat like only strong spirits could.

"But I doubt we'll be getting much rest," she countered, handing back the flask to her companion. The words were somewhat hollow, implying that they knew what rest meant—helped to dreamless sleep by the concoctions of herbologists or drowned by intoxicants. "I imagine these celebrations will be going on a while yet."

Standing from the bench with a slight groan, Wilhart wasted little time heading inside the inn and to her room, only stopping to regard Jast for another moment.

"Do you think it ever gets easier?"

 

[Jast]

"I don't know." Jast admitted quietly. "I certainly hope so."

The words rang hollow to even his own ears. The fight had started hard and had never become easier, not for one day. It seemed that with every new challenge, they slipped further and further into the mud. A necessity, he always told himself, and maybe that was true.

But where would it end?

Not a question he would answer. Not one that Jast was sure he wanted the answer to. As Syele stepped inside, the soldier quickly pulled himself up, using the windowsill as leverage. Following his companion inside, and getting whatever semblance of rest he could.

--

Dawn came quickly the next day, and with it came a surprisingly empty tavern. It seemed that most who had taken the rapturous news of the evening before had decided to forego bed, and instead stayed up to continue to drinking.

When the sun had come up, the decision had been made to march towards the College. "Syele!"

Jast shouted, practically kicking the door in.

"We have to go!" He breathed, scooping up a pack with rope, masks, and a few other necessities for their break in. "Things are moving faster than expected."

Much faster.