Knights of Anathaeum The Tools of My Enemy

[Helena]

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---

Mission: Starless Night
Priority: Critical
Rank: Sworn
Operatives: Pursuant Bebin Theros, Pursuant Oliver, Sworn Knight Faramund, Sworn Knight Castor Vega

Objectives: Infiltrate the Sightless base of operations, Umbral Mount, amidst the Starpiercer range of the Spine. Retrieve the Trinemorro child, Mina and recover whatever intelligence is possible.

Briefing: The captured Sightless Seer, Kasparian Velt, has relinquished his secrets. Vital intelligence regarding the whereabouts of Sightless cells, and the names of Lords and Barons who may have capitulated to the influence of the Sightless.

One name seemed to echo there, in the Loch of his mind. Umbral Mount.

After repeated delves into the Loch, our Mind Divers were able to ascertain the whereabouts of Umbral Mount, as well as what may lay there in.

It is a workshop of some sort. Connected to the constructs that have harried our number. But more importantly, The Trinemorro child is believed to be held there. The very same soul lost whence we faced the Glorphain, nigh a year ago. Her name is Mina. She must be retrieved, at all costs. Whatever her condition may be.

Our forward scouts have found an entry point amidst old dwarven ruins, marked on your maps. You've been granted special requisitions from the Armory Arcanum.

Retrieve the child. Return to the monastery.

Good Hunting,

Captain Helena of Dawn

---

Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

The past months had grown long, the nights dragging on even as they grew lighter. It was time to get back out, even for himself, it felt like.

Something old was coming to a head. He had the gist of it, the bigger picture, despite not having been there for the rest. Not that he’d required it, necessarily — there were things needed doing yet and he could’ve well done with just knowing what. He’d trust both Syr Theros and the Captain enough to question none, lending them thousandfold what he hadn’t been able to extend himself in turn. For a time, now.

In the dim indoors of the pursuants’ quarters the plate, painted dark for the occasion, seemed a void. Barely reflective, swallowing the candlelight and warping to one with every shadow. Just as it was meant to, the effect made eerie by how little sound it made. Bereft of the customary click of joints and rivets, a constant companion dismissed with a spell. Even the pointed, almost cozy creak of the visor had been spirited away, taking a certain joy out of the whole motion.

But it had to be done. He cast a dark look downward, inspecting the buckles about his belt for one last time. The hammer was in its loop, the reagents of a prepared spell he but knew the words for in a pouch next to it and on the opposing side—

What to him at first glance had appeared a puzzlebox — a long cylinder with a row of buttons and an embossed pattern that ran the length, a shooting star terminating to a clear crystal sphere at the end. Roki had yet been mulling over a proper name for the device, amidst lamenting the design wasn’t quite there, not ‘cool enough’ and incomplete as for all the features the lad had planned, but it was better than whatever spells he couldn’t cast.

A little light, they’d chosen to call it. Despite the premise of the mission, how it was to be conducted, he’d rather stray with means to see and to banish whichever darkness than without. Provided the interlocking parts wouldn’t jam, in case it all went—

Well, it wouldn’t. Everything would be just fine. They’d be fine.

He resisted testing the device out, closing the cap on the holster and tapping it for effect. The soles of his shoes were the only sound in the room as he moved about to pick up the rest of his things, making to finally depart.

The saddlebags were slung over one shoulder, helm placed underarm. Gloved fingers pinched out every flame. The ajar door was drawn open and closed again, grim stare taking in both ends of the hall before he set down it for the stables.

It’d be fine.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

So, this was it. The past coming back to haunt him.

Sat atop the Eldyr's Lookout, face turned to the missive in his lap, Syr Faramund of Dawn read and reread the orders scribed there. Retrieve the Trinemorro child, it went, recover whatever intelligence is possible. Four names, two objectives, but only one that really mattered. 'Mina...' Grimacing, Faramund read the name aloud, picturing in his mind's eye the face of the child he had surrendered to the enemy.

Rather, given away.

How long now? He wondered. Months? Years? What's happened to her during that time? Do I really want to know? Folding the parchment neatly in half, Faramund tucked it away in the sleeve of his gambeson. Such questions had a habit of answering themselves, he found, and even if these ones didn't, they were sure to find answers to a few at the Umbral Mount.

Until then, he would just have to live with the guilt.

Standing, he turned to descend the Lookout. Behind him, beyond misty mountains and vales of green, the sun was just starting to rise. Lazy, it had barely peaked the distant horizon by the time Faramund made it down to solid ground.

From there, he made his way back to his shared quarters, where the majority of his kit had been stashed away, ready. Readily available.

Syr Breklinn caught him on the final turn, appearing from around the loch-lit corner, a ghost in mail and fur-lined wool.

'Going somewhere?' She asked, forcing him to draw up short. Veiled eyes appraised the tall dawnling's garb, passed judgement. 'Skulking? At this hour?!' She snorted. 'Who's the lucky lady?'

Mina, thought Faramund.

'Your mum!' He replied, brushing past the dusker, a grin plastered across his face. 'Though one does wonder what it is you are doing up this early,' he said, counter-punching. 'Who's the lucky lady?' Laughing, the dusker made an obscene gesture. 'Wouldn't you like to know, big guy!' Smiling, Faramund disappeared inside his room to find Jarro asleep on his cot.

Then, the pieces clicked together.

Oh! He thought, donning his sword belt and cloak, and a bandolier of vials and clay vessels. How... nice!

Bebin Theros Oliver Castor Vega

 

[Castor Vega]

A single flame flickered its ominous last as the knight exited his room and then the remainder of the Sworn's barracks. His preparations had been made as well as they could even if he suspected they'd ultimately be insufficient. He'd learned through many battles that no plan could truly sustain its original form. Let alone one's that involved sneaking into the heart of enemy territory. The Sworn nearly choked upon seeing the orders for the first time. Other names listed did bring a measure of reassurance but time was needed to truly digest.

A luxury the Knights of Anathaeum could rarely afford.

Thus Castor of the mostly-sunken-sun made his way to the monastery stables without complaint. For there was an eagerness in him, despite all his other anxieties. The Sightless owed him a debt, the only true price a person could pay. Blood. Much grief had they caused him in those northern forests. Much pain had been wrought upon his companions.

An answer was due.

So Castor of Dusk stood ready next to trusted steed. He checked his equipment once more. His slate-gray armor barely visible but recently mended. Longsword sharpened and grimoire compiled with all he knew and more. Syr Grimstone had generously suggested a few additions, though they remained unpracticed. Luck would see them cast successfully, greater luck would be to not use them at all.

One item was not of his usual kit. A dagger of unassuming hilt, but close inspection would show the blade etched with runes. Senara's Barb it was called. A requisition from the Armory Arcanum. He admired the blade a final time as he awaited the arrival of the others.

Oliver Bebin Theros Faramund

 

[Bebin Theros]

"First to arrive them?" he said to Syr Vega. A nod, something like approval behind the glint of his eye. His pack lugged over his shoulder. Supplies more for the road, than for the mission itself. "One wonders who will be the last to depart," he said with a grin as he came to stop at his horses gate.

With effort, he heft the pack up onto the saddle. Began to make quick work of the tying down.

"You ever had Sereti Chai?" he asked the man, idly. "Sweet as sin," he huffed a laugh as his hands pulled tight one of the leathers. "But it is the spices that give it its complexity," another tie finished.

A quick rifle through the odds and ends. Tactile memories committed to the end of gloved digits, and well of broad palms.

"The process that gives it its richness," he let his hands fall from the kit.

Checked over the fit of his belt, the count of his quiver. Before he put that too onto the saddle.

"Suppose I can make us some, before we range out too far," he said easy, and worked himself up onto his saddle. "The others near," he said as he settled into his seat.

---

One Week On the Trail, fast approaching Umbral Mount

Bebin pulled his knife from the man's heart. Stared down at the Sightless, with no warmth in his eyes. Eased the pressure of his hand away from the mouth, and lift his gaze to the wilds about him as he wiped clean the blade.

The flicker of a fire's light, there in the near distance. The soft whisper of leather as the knife went back into its sheath. The sounds of men and women about the warm glow. So near, their conversations sounded like any other. Worries of what would come tomorrow. Complaints of the food they had had to endure, all these weeks on their rotation.

Bebin let them talk as he strung his bow. Fell beneath the cover of his mirror-silk cloak.

It would be the false song of a nightbird that would tell his comrades.

In position.

---

Oliver Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

A breath echoed within the bevor, pleasantly warm in the dropping temperature of the highlands’ night. His look scanned the thickets and twisted, stunted evergreens they’d left behind, the soft sway of their limbs the one discernible movement against a whole lot of stillness. Too much of it, his anxiety told him, if not sufficiently enough that he might stop on his tracks.

It couldn’t be long now. Keeping low, they’d advanced slower as the glare of fire had begun looming, marking an expected watch and wherein patrols possibly convened. Ones they’d managed to avoid to this point, or dealt with quietly and hidden away, as was the more secure method. Hopefully, they’d not have to linger long enough for their absence to be noticed too soon. By the entire Sightless base anyway.

As for whom awaited not far ahead, was it all to go as planned, they were about to be relieved from the chance of noticing much else, but their own quick dispatchment. Despite his Kin having fanned out, he could yet pick out Syrs Faramund and Vega from betwixt the gnarled tree trunks and rocks, wherein position was sought. He met eyes with both, marking, as the signal was sung. Gaining certainty and intent in his step, he made advance the rest of the way, visor of his helm coming down. The hammer came off his belt, gripped tight.

At will.

The dark plate about him reflected nothing, turning firelight to a discordant shimmer on the dense shadow that would leave his shelter. A set of eyes turned to him, all too late as a forehand swing saw the sharp end of the warhammer deposited into a skull, through the temple.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

The Watcher's listeners were removed from their posts, one by one. Slow going, thought Faramund, wrapping the corpse at his feet up in a bloody cloak before dragging it deeper into the shadows. Better slow than exposed. They still had some ways to go, some ways to climb.

Staring up at the heights above, Faramund paused, glanced around. His brothers three were out there, somewhere. Close, but not too close.

Glimpsing the ghost of Oliver, the dawnling refocused, edged his way up, towards the glow of a watchfire. He could see the cultists gathered there. Sitting at ease, they chatted and bantered and laughed, unaware of the wolves in their midst.

Faramund hated them. But not nearly as much as he hated himself.

Hearing the birdcall on the breeze, he flitted right, looping around the flame-bound guards, and avoiding their attention. He knew the game Bebin proposed, knew just as well how to play it. One slip and they could all kiss their arses goodbye. Not that it would come to that. There was more at stake here than just their lives.

The dawnling felt his growing cheaper by the minute.

Moving low and fast, he got in behind the group. It put him in the path of Bebin's arrows, but that was a risk he was willing to take. Waiting, watching, he let the others know he was in position.

It was over in seconds.

Leaping from his hiding place, he opened the first man's throat from behind as he made to rise. A second, sitting close by, turned, fear writ plain on their face. The dagger in Faramund's hand licked out, cutting off their air before they could shout. He heard more than saw the others butcher their marks.

Wiping his dagger clean on a dead guard's tunic, he slipped it away. 'Not bad,' he remarked, eyes up and scanning. 'Be a while yet before they send anyone down to check on this lot. Gimme a hand arranging them. Lazy bastards have drifted off to sleep.'

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

"Can't say I'm overly fond of sweet things, but I'll try anything once," replied the Sworn with a shrug. All this complexity and process had Castor wondering if they were still talking about tea. Figured it was better to just let it lie. It was nice to have something to look forward to, beyond just a reasonably-high chance of death.

A week later he found himself ensconced behind of copse of gnarled trees. The going up to this point was thankfully uneventful, though a sneaking suspicion suggested that wasn't to last. They'd cross that bridge when the time came. For now they remained unnoticed and the element of surprise was an exceptionally potent weapon. One which the knights used to great effect.

Signal given, Castor dashed from cover with a dagger in hand. The cultist turned just in time to see a glint of steel being buried in her throat. A shuffle of movement caught the knight's attention. Another Sightless stepped from the treeline, likely returning from taking a piss. Shadowed hand conjured from darkness clamped down hard on cultist's opening mouth. Castor pulled blade from throat and flicked it towards his stifled foe.

Dagger was retrieved from fallen corpse not long after.

"What I wouldn't give for a proper night's rest..." mused Castor as he set about helping his fellow Sworn with the bodies.


Bebin Theros Faramund Oliver

 

[Bebin Theros]

The violence was quick. Measured. Without mercy or hesitation. Dulled thrums from a silenced string saw arrows streak to bring down one that had threatened Faramund.

Another that broke away from the black pitch sun, who had come cracking skulls like a revenant made real.

Half a scream ripped through one man's throat, until a heavy hand sealed it shut, and a thrown blade sunk deep.

Stillness. The rustle of branches in the late-night breeze. The uncaring crackle of flames, still eating away at their fuel.

The sound of a body dragged. Heels scraped against gravel and soil. A grunt, and a hard thud. Dust plumed from the big man's corpse.

"No time for rest," the pursuant gave, most his frame a shimmer with the darkness of the forest, draped in mirror silk as it was.

Castor pulled his knife from the still-warm-dead.

"Castor, Faramund," Bebin sounded. Looking down at the mounting collection of cultists. "You two will be our infiltrators," he nod to a couple of the bodies laid at their feet. "Seeing as these two here look about as ugly as the two of you,"

Scraggle bearded men, wide of frame. Sandy of hair, and black of hair.

He bent down to one knee. Pricked his own thumb with the point of his dagger. Smeared a red eye there betwixt his brows. A sigil of seeing. Closed his eyes as he let his breath out.

"Get to changing," his eyes came open, and they were traced by the starry silver of loch's light. "We find their trail, and move towards the next node in this web,"

He pressed his blooded thumb against one of the dead's brows. And all the world seemed to bleed away from him.

Castor Vega Faramund Oliver

 

[Oliver]

From him came but a metallic hum as Faramund’s suggestion was heeded, the three of them immediately at the carnage making short work of adjusting its appearance to something less suspicious. Provided one didn’t stray too close that was, but it was better than nothing one had to figure.

In time, Syr Theros strayed from the blackness, the mirrorsilk rendering him nothing short of an actual ghost.

Keeping his silence he merely peered impassively through the slit in his helm as next steps were laid out, towards which he had neither addition nor correction. He reflected this in a singular nod, settled to standing and watching as the rest prepared. A spell was cast, firelight on the dagger and slick dark of blood that formed a picture, something to see with. Whether he watched it with interest or unease was veiled even from himself.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

The dead were laid out in repose. Sleepers eternal, they did not hear the words shared between brothers. Castor's comment solicited a wry chuckle from the dawnling. 'Ain't no rest for the wicked,' he replied in turn, removing his mask, the thin layer of ash and mud pasted there, around the eyes and nose where the sweat collected. Soft parts, shiny parts.

The Pursuant's order was received with a nod. Stooping, Faramund stripped his man of his clothes and talismans.

A lone eye, red, on a chain of silver, sat snugly in his upturned palm. For one singular, solitary moment, Faramund felt something behind his eyes wriggle and root. A brief ringing in his ears as a wave of dizziness overcame him.

Then, the sensation passed.

Sniffing, Faramund looped the talisman over his head so that the eye sat atop his breast. It was how the cultist had worn it, before. 'Any idea where the girl is being held?' He asked innocently. All present knew of the day where their Order had done battle with the Glorphain, how he had "failed" to rescue the girl. And the rest? The story hadn't ended there. Not for Mina, and most certainly not for him.

Bebin had slipped beyond the reach of his words by then, into the deep loch where nary a soul treaded lightly.

Grimacing, Faramund finished putting on his disguise, bade rise as Castor did the same. The irony of being ordered to infiltrate was not lost on him. Blending in is the wylder way, he told himself, recalling his Path's teachings.

'Luck to you, brother!' He bumped fists with Syr Oliver in passing. 'Keep an eye on this one, yeah? We'll be back shortly,' he smiled, the rest going unsaid.

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver