Fable - Ask Unscrupulous Understandings

[Dante L Damasque]

The Cat's Whisker Inn, at the eastern edge of the Allir Reach
​

A pound of flesh and bone against old worn wood. A clatter of tin cups, and a splash of drink that sprayed across old dyed robes of purple, "Then we have no deal, Master Ahronov, it is as simple as that,"

Ahronov sat across from the young scion of the Damasque name, his eyes cold and sharp as he stared at the young man who had caused cheap ale to spill onto his doublet. "Pitty," his voice made his look all the colder. Yet, when his glance turned down to the stain of drink across his lap, the air seemed to turn more frigid still. "I was hoping that you would understand, the offer I proposed would still be of great advantage to you, and your march, as it was," he procured a kerchief from beneath his coat, and dabbed up the sour smelling spill.

"It was not what we had agreed upon, Master Ahronov, and I would not be taken for a fool," he growled beneath grit teeth. His fingers wound into tight fists.

The young guard to Dante's left looked to Ahronov, then to the other man standing beside him, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. The greybeard to his right just sipped on his drink.

Ahronov's lip cut up at its corner to show some teeth. "No, not a fool," he finished cleaning himself. "Our business is concluded then," a look to his own guards, who shuffled to make away. Ahronov stood. "Just a boy," and threw his spoiled kerchief at Dante's face.

A knife was brandished quick and stabbed into the young guards neck.

The greybeard punched a knife away with his tankard, and cracked a man across the head with its thick bottom. Grabbed the young lordling and threw him out from the booth and onto the ground with a hard thump.

Red filled Dante's vision. His breath came hard and heavy, and hardly at all as his teeth clenched and veins in his neck bulged. He searched for the man in the purple robes.

Ahronov walked, calmly toward the exit. A pair of guards at his side, alert as they retreat.

"Gunter, Gunter!" Dante cried out, enraged.

"A little busy, young master," the big bellied greybeard hollered as he ducked a swipe, and clubbed a man in the gut with his mace. Bulled him onto the ground.

Near six men under Ahronov's pay still loitered about with cruel grins across their faces. Other tavern goers just hid.

Dante pulled his wand from its holster, got to his feet and pointed the magic focus at Ahronov's back, flicked his wrist north, rolled it eastward, cut it northwest- "Goughu" a shoulder checked him back and out of the way.

The young guard lay on the floor, grasping at the young in his neck, eyes wide with horror as blood pooled around him.

 

[Aldebaran]

Aldebaran suffered a lapse in judgement. In the slow fade of aftereve he blinked.

Chill in the air. Early evening. Smoke curling around freshly lit lamps. Fire in the hearth. Meat stewing in the cauldron. Threads of conversation, whispered, shouted, sung. Half-dozen bodies, patrons all. They sat, they stood, they spoke, they drank.

Violence on high. Not yet.

Slouched over a cedar top, Aldebaran nursed a pipe. Clay in his hands, hot against his palm. Lazy pulls that saturated his lungs. A sigh. He breathed low, steady.

Months of travel wore his robes to dusk. Rubbed wool, sweat stained and faded clung to his scraggily form. Hunched shoulders hung loose, crooked. He found himself waiting. Found himself silent. A partition against encroaching conversation.

There. He blinked.

A dagger. A club. A cry of pain. A slit gurgle.

The floor. Smoke, bile, and beer. Acrid blood, fresh.

Aldebaran's pipe slipped from his hands. Knees cracked as he stood, knocking up to the table, flinging back his bench. In haste, he nearly tripped. In haste, he bolted. Not to the door, nay; not to hide. He bolted to the boy laying in pooled blood. To the throat punctured so grotesquely, so savagely broken amidst the night.

Trembling hands reached for needle, for gut. Slipped on the slickened wound. Nearly drove his fingers into the boy's throat. A shudder passed. Steady.

He began to sew.

 

[Serçe]

Serce raised a half-hearted hand in response to the impending violence and found no reward. It was better not to get involved into anything serious this early on. Unfortunately the mage's desires were secondary to the whims of the world. Teal mantle remained calmly draped over the chair even as everything went to shit. Sword crashed into where Serce was once sitting but his visage flickered out of being.

Steel flashed and blood splashed.

Clean conjured dagger sat nicely at his side, the other dripped with lifeblood. The mage sighed at the necessity or lack therefore of what occurred. A contract was made with the young lord but Che found himself amidst regrets. Surely there was some scenario that did not result in bloodshed and yet here he was. One word may have stood between him and serenity.

He let the blade his right fly, barely registering as it struck true. He shuffled back, towards the tavern wall. His face was not known but his abilities were. More he showed, the better chance it came to meeting the hangman's noose. A body or two came normal in his line of work but this was worrisome.

Had his gamble with the young lord of Damasque gone awry?


Dante L Damasque Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

Stitch by hooked stitch, the wide wound sliced across the young man's neck slowly began to seal. Blood spread across the old sawbone's hands. Thicker and all the slicker with gushed pump of heart's waning labor.

The young man's eyes looked to the healer. Wide and desperate.

Before more could be done, a body comes to tumble across the floor. Heavy boned and thick of muscle, it knocks into the medic at work. Makes slip his hand. The last stitch goes awry and the needle flings across the air and falls unto the floor. The silver ring made as it strikes the floor lost in the cacophony of the brawl.

One man falls to the secretive mage's knife. The force of the throw enough to knock him on his ass. He groans and grunts as he register's the lodged blade. Blood trails from the entry wound. The other men look about. Try to assess the situation.

Two of their ilk on the ground, while the young lord and his party stood at the ready.

Gunter grumbled as he willed the weight of his mace's head, the air about it swept with a sound. The old guard stood at the ready, squinty eyed and mean.

Dante's eyes were wide with fury. He pushed himself up from the ground and stood up bolt straight. Back rigid, he drew his blade wand. A long bladed stiletto, its white steel etched with runic seals and ley channels.

"Stand and deliver, you dogs!" wild eyed, the lordling demanded.

Gunter grumbled, his fingers come tight across the handle of his weapon. "Mage, make ready," he warned.

Ahronov's men looked to each other. The one on the floor, by the medic, got to his feet.

Gunter cracked him across the dome with the steel ball of his weapon. Bone broke. Blood spilled. Ahronov's men broke forward, toward the lordling and his men.

---

Aldebaran
Serçe

 

[Aldebaran]

Aldebaran flew across the floor. Needle on flesh. Metal on wood. Rattled, a clang. Inaudible in the melee. Breath left him, and he blinked again. The saccharine scent of blood filled his nose; broken cartilage, bones off the mend.

Smokestained floors ripe with bile, brackish and dull. He pushed himself up. To his knees. To his feet.

They ignored him. For now.

He fumbled for his staff, grappled with it in gnarled fingers. Heart racing, the drum of fear against his ears, he lashed out on a guard.

Dubious at first, hesitant. A quick rap. Just enough to turn a head his way. Another. Harder. He cracked it on shoulders, at the small of a back. His jaw clenched. Fear transmogrified to anger.

Again. A rap to the chin. The mouth. An eye splashed from a skull gurgling in panic. Again. Stick on flesh, on cloth, on leather. Again. He dug the end of it into the now empty socket, a cry tearing from his throat.

 

[Serçe]

The mage once believed it was possible to extricate themselves from the situation without further bloodshed but that turned out to be nothing more than hopeless fantasy. Calling prideful men 'dogs' had a way of escalating matters past the point of no return. Serce suspected that this moment of reconciliation may have never existed, but hope was a nice thing to have every once in awhile.

Bloodied blade flickered in the mage's hand before dissolving to mist. "Bit late for that, graybeard," replied Serce with a sideways glance. The old man emphasized his point by breaking the momentary peace with a resounding crack. Che flinched slightly at the decidedly unpleasant sound.

He was already muttering arcanities as the rest of Ahronov's men sprang into action. One of the lads closed the distance far quicker than the mage initially expected. Swiftness, on this occasion, lost ground to Serce's preparation. A large wooden stake crashed into the side of the thug, burying deep into his chest and leaving little thought for survival. Broken furniture always had its uses.

Another looked at the mage with a mixture of fear and rage, mostly rage. Serce decided to treat him as nothing more than red-eyed bull. The mage deftly sidestepped the attack as his foe almost stumbled straight into the wall. His opponent should have found himself staring straight at the tavern wall but instead rested gaze upon a visage with aethereal fairness. The figure reached out, bringing the soldier into its bosom; a moment of serenity before tossing him unceremoniously outside.

A keen onlooker would see the tavern wall meld back into its normal state. Most, however, were simply too busy trying to survive.


Aldebaran
Dante L Damasque

 

[Dante L Damasque]

A cut of the air, blade sliced silver while runes sizzled blue and bright. The pools of blood that grew across the floor rippled and raised like pimples across flesh, puckered with cold.

A twift and twirl of the be-glowed dagger. The pools of blood shot out, turned to eels and snakes that thrashed and gnashed with magick formed tooth come sink into calf and ankle and thigh.

Gunter shout hot. Brought his mace down across one panick man's guard. The defense too light, the weighty head of weapon crushed down and thwapped against bone of chest. Another strong strike saw knee caved in.

"Save the salt for the meat, you bastard," Gunter spat back to the Mage.

Another man down. Two men still lashed by blood's bite. One man, blade long and deft, leapt toward the old medic, with a snizzit snap of sword's strike.

One of Ahronov's guards stayed behind, well armored, and professionally stanced. He drew a knife from his belt and threw it hard at the Mage.

---

Serçe Aldebaran

 

[Aldebaran]

The medic's breath came quick and ragged. Blood dabbed at his brow, stained the backs of his wrists. His chest fluttered and heaved, drew tremors to his knees. His voice was raw, his mouth dry. The stick was all that kept him on his feet. Aldebaran stiffened his jaw.

There was work to be done.

What a waste.

The crash of steel on wood, the crack of stick on blade. He stumbled, his attacker catching him full weight on the hip; he staggered, alacrity lost to inertia.

His wrists cracked, crinkling against the blade's own bite. In a heap, the ground swept him to his back. He drew the man with him, a skein of elbows and knees. A tangle of cloth and leather, of sweat stained the scent of smoke. Cheap bile and booze.

Aldebaran lay dazed, winded, a heron in the wing.


Serçe Dante L Damasque

 

[Serçe]

Vision obscured by the scuffle before him, Serce barely had time to react to the incoming blade. He managed to conjure up a basic shield but it wasn't entirely enough. There was a sharp crack as the spell broke, followed by a grunt of pain from the mage. The blade ripped through the flesh above his collarbone before embedding into the wall behind him. Bastard had thrown the dagger damned hard.

Serce responded in kind, flinging a knife of his own. He watched as it clanged harmlessly off the guard's sturdy armor. The blade had served its purpose, allowing the mage to reposition himself. Having one's back to a wall in a melee like this could mean death. Serce's mind raced with various possibilities but his opponent was not keen on giving him a moment to think and quickly made to close distance. This was standard practice when it came to combating mages.

A pair of daggers in each hand, the mage was not well-equipped to fight the longsword of his foe. Serce didn't exactly parry the following attacks, but managed to save himself from being skewered. That being said, his wrists seemed liable to snap at any moment. He continued in this manner for another trio of bouts before the inevitable seemingly found him.

Death rushed towards him in the form of a high-arcing slash, a killing-blow if he'd ever seen one. Serce did the unthinkable and stepped closer. His own dagger darting towards the guard's chest. The mage's blade would reach first but his opponent remained unconcerned; why wouldn't he be? Just before Serce's blade found armor, the mage uttered a word of power. A crack suddenly appeared where the 'harmless' blade had been deflected earlier. The mage's dagger pierced through the newly formed frailty, finally finding purchase in the guard's chest.

The conjured blade dissipated as his opponent's body crumpled to the floor. Serce's hands shook slightly but he shrugged it off after a few deep breaths.

"Well that was unnecessarily difficult," said the mage to no one in particular.


Dante L Damasque
Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

One more man, still shackled by blood's pull, his guard up, his eyes darted between the four men who had stood against them. Knees a-tremble, lip a quiver.

And the man who tangled with the old medic.

Gunter cursed beneath his breath, as Dante stood before the lone goon, stileto wand raised and pointed at the lone combatant.

The sword user still scrabbled on the floor, beside the old medic, hand searching for the sword he had lost in the tangle and mesh of their melee. Fingers found purchase, his hand tightened about the handle, and he rose and turned and-

Skull caved in beneath the blow of well placed mace's head. A went crunch and pop and spill.

Gunter spit on the man. "Fucking asshole," looked to the crumpled shape of the old medic. "Ay, geezer, you still with us?"

"Drop your weapon, and we may show you mercy still," Dante said with all the pride and heat of a victorious commander.

The lone man winced, as the blood snake sank its fangs into his leg. A whimper. He dropped the worn sword down to the ground with a loud clatter and clang. "Please, please, I'll, just spare me, I don't want to die," he said with a blubber.

Dante smirked, and sheathed his blade wand and strode toward the man.

The snakes turned back to pooled blood, and the man let out a sigh of relief.

A smack, hard across the face with the back of leathered hand set the enfeebled man's head to turn. A quick cock of the fist, and a second punch saw the man fall to the ground. A hard kick born of frustration. Another, and another. Each more frantic than the last.

Gunter grumbled, went over and pulled his Master off the man. "Won't be any good to us if he can't talk, Young Master,"

---

Aldebaran Serçe

 

[Aldebaran]

The gentle ripple of arcane fervor sullied the air, mingled with the smoke and bile. The pound of cudgel on leather and chain; the dull shouts betwixt anger and pain. The murmur of stillness as the melee drew to an end. All familiar sensations to the old man, ones Aldebaran had thought himself years and leagues past experiencing.

He tucked his chin and threw the weight of his crown into the face of the man atop him. A spray of spittle and blood met him in force. He hooked a bony arm around what felt to be a shoulder and pulled, hips bucking into the floor for perch. Something caught him in the side and again on the knee, but persistence saw him through.

He twisted, drawing the two bodies into an orderly heap. There it was. In the disused crystalline haze of memory his body found rote. His bracing arm came around and caught throat and chin. And grim determination brought it into the floor. Again, again, until the melee's stillness abated around him. Only then did he loose his breathing. Hunted gasps, desperate gulps.

Flinging stray hairs from his slickened hands, he wiped them dry on his robes. Slight tremors wracked his shoulders still, and he had to force himself to his knees before rising in a slow seated crouch.

Through fattened lips he said, "What vile work you've forced me to."

Dante L Damasque Serçe

 

[Serçe]

The dagger in his hand had long since returned to nothing but the blood remained. Serce stepped towards the nearest body, kneeling beside it so he could wipe his hands on the dead man's cloak. By the time he got to his feet, matters had mostly been resolved. The mage looked to the medic and the old man's annoyed countenance reflected Serce's own. This entire brawl seemed wholly unnecessary, though admittedly difficult to avoid. At least the salted guard had a measure of restraint when he wasn't swinging a mace.

He glanced about the tavern and most of the patrons had left during the initial scuffle. A few remained but none keen on bothering them.

"A bit excessive graybeard," remarked the mage as he stepped passed the remains of what was assumedly a person's skull. Serce said nothing further, curious how the young lord was planning on handling the aftermath.

Dante L Damasque Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

Dante was wide eyed, and his breath heavy. But Gunter's bulk kept him from enacting any more violence on the stunned man, curling into his hurts upon the floor.

He grunt, and gave a growl of a shout as he turned away from his loyal man. Paced back and forth in the empty tavern.

The old stranger said some words, near curses to Dante's ears. The young scion spat. "Small price to pay for your life, old man," he hissed. "And it was not I who drew first blood, you would do well to remember that," he pressed.

Gunter grunt at the mage's comment. "Results is all that matters, mage," he clicked his teeth, looking at the dead youth who had been his second. Shook his head. "Poor fuckin bastard," he muttered.

"Sparrow," Dante called out to the mage, cogs turning in his mind. "Can you track them?"

Gunter stepped over to the old man who had tried to help the boy. "You did good, tryin to stitch him together," the big guard said as he hoisted the old man up. "Petri deserved damn well better than getting stuck in the neck, but," he shrugged. "What are you going to do," he let out a huff. "Bloody idiot had a twitchy swordhand," he dusted the old man off with heavy pats from heavy hands. Clapped him on the shoulder, and moved over to the downed man, still breathing.

Aldebaran Serçe

 

[Aldebaran]

"Nothing, I suppose," Aldebaran said, staggering a step and catching his breath; the heavy hand had pulled him taut, and summarily pounded home every bit of the eve's exhaustion. It sung in his bones, marrow oozing from the blows sustained.

Complaints crept up at the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to voice them. Not before the boy at least. Later perhaps, a few cups deep. For now, he stood simply, rigid at attention, years' long discipline come home to roost.

Dante L Damasque Serçe

 

[Serçe]

Serce shrugged off the soldier's pragmatic answer, thoughts turning to more immediate concerns. Ahronov and a pair of guards had escaped during the commotion. It was difficult to say whether the man was expecting to be followed. Leaving six guards behind was generally a definitive statement. Either they had been underestimated or Ahronov was simply buying time. Didn't really matter at this point the mage supposed.

Careful not to step in any blood, Serce made his way outside the tavern and into afternoon air. A coughing sound drew his attention the left, his gaze finding the guard who'd been melded through the wall. The other man apparently hadn't been too keen on the experience as he flinched when Serce stepped forward. "Just tell me where your boss is headed." the mage commanded calmly.

"He's got a place not too far from here. Uses it mostly for his mistresses. Take the southeast road, you'll find it easy enough." The mage eyed the guard for a moment but believed his words in the end.

Returning to the tavern, he was quick to relay this new information. The young lord was clearly intent on following Ahronov and settling dues. He didn't think the old mender was going to share the enthusiasm. Serce figured the faster this was all over, the better.

Dante L Damasque Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

A nod from the young lord. "Good, then we move immediately," he looked to Gunter, who nod and adjusted the mace at his belt.

"Suppose we pay the bartender to take care of Petri, eh, Young Master?" Gunter asked, his tone left little room for refusal.

Dante let out a breath. Nod. "Mender, make the arrangements, and we will see you rewarded, handsomely at that," he said, pulled three gold coins from his purse, and flashed them to the dark skinned man. Pushed them toward him. "If you follow us, and aid us in this, there will be more to come," a sneer. "Otherwise, three coins, and two more for your aid disposing of my man's body, should do the trick,"

Gunter made a sound. Shook his head.

Furlined cloak billowed as the young Scion moved toward the door, careful as he peered out to the grey light of day outside, checked if the coast was clear.

"Mage," he called. "A bonus, if you lead us to this, safehouse, without incident," he smiled roguishly.

Serçe Aldebaran

 

[Aldebaran]

The three marks laid heavy in Aldebaran's palm. He reeled at the arrogance of the display. To casually throw coin and assume a problem went away—truly an affect borne on privileged wing. He saw it manifest in that sneer, in the flick of a chin demanding (yes, for no other recourse was in its wake) obedience both swift and absolute.

Aldebaran closed his fingers around the gold. No matter to him how the lordling bequeathed remedy for the eve's long troubles. Indeed, the old medic thought happily of digging a pit himself. He could pocket the reward and step light into the night.

No, that possibility was beyond him. The handful of coin might pay his way to the next village, perhaps funding travels into the season's turn with a measure of thrift, but reckless whim made for a younger man's game. The ache in his knees provided all the reminder needed to turn a kindly smile on the lord's back and an apologetic shrug for the barkeep.

"Whatever aid these bones can offer, m'lord," he said, "you are welcome to."

He hobbled over, breath still coming quick and plying far too much strength into his walking stick, and spread a pair of the coins on the bar. He was careful to keep two gnarled digits pressed to the gold as he locked eyes with the barkeep.

Luckily, the man was bright enough to understand the tempest that had befallen him. Bright enough to nod and fetch one of the barbacks to help him lift the tangle of Petri's limbs.

Aldebaran accompanied the pair, a prayer on his lips for the fallen lad.


Dante L Damasque Serçe

 

[Serçe]

Without incident. Serce briefly wondered what the noble's threshold was for an 'incident' but figured it was best not to ask. He'd nearly winced as the young lord made his offer to the healer. The mage could see the affront in the old man's eyes and yet he agreed to come along nonetheless. Serce knew little about the mender, but was curious what was driving him to this extent. Was it a simple matter of coin? Well, the mage wasn't one to judge. Good deeds alone were not enough to fill the belly.

Not longer after, the four of them were on the road southeast. Riding hard initially, they eventually slowed to a trot as the horses needed a break. Serce allowed his steed to fall in step with the old healer. "Surprised you decided to see this through, not that I'm complaining. Only a fool would whinge having a competent mender about." The mage saw how fast the old man's hands had worked in the tavern. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be learned in a day, or even a lifetime. That was proper talent. "What brings you to these parts?"


Dante L Damasque Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

The lordling and his guard rode behind the hired hands. Dante at the middle. of their little formation, the courier and the mender crossed the T.

"Young Master," the old guard called out. "What do you hope to gain from this, action,"

Dante scowled, turned back to regard his most trusted man. "We were slighted, Gunter," he shook his head, and turned his attention back to the road ahead. "More than slighted," a rumble at the back of the throat. "We were left for dead," he smirked a sharp and cruel thing. "But that cur, Ahronov, seems to have underestimated our quality,"

Gunter made a low sound. "Or," he said with a raise in pitch. Let the word sit a moment as their horses moved on. "The goddess of Luck saw fit to, grant us a blessing," he bowed his head to the proud young man. "Young Master,"

A scowl. "They lost six men, Gunter, they have been bloodied, to strike now-"

"Four men not worth two shits, and two half good," the old guard said with some iron in his voice. "Young Master," Not so loud to go far beyond the sound of their horses.

Dante seethed. "We will at least, take into account their situation, form a plan,"

A reluctant grunt. Not quite approval.

Serçe Aldebaran

 

[Aldebaran]

Aldebaran sucked in a tight breath before answering the mage.

"I've nowhere else to be," he said. "This road is as near to any home I've had in some time, and the young master's company is as grand as any I could hope to keep."

He held some disdain for the saddle. His piebald mare lathered at the reign, more accustomed to the tether of a cart than the hard trot the party adopted. He acquired the beast with the remainder of coin set aside from young Petri's burial, and in his haste to choose he neglected to note the contempt with which it regarded him.

Every step found him at war with the creature, the reigns and bit proving deficient in maintaining mastery over it. He suppressed the grumbles that stressed to bubble up from him: his feet served him well enough, he could meet them further down the road with some minor dalliance. But no. That would not do for the lord's goal. Haste was their essence, decisiveness.

He could ignore the growing ache in his hips, the burn that crept along his lower back and cramped along his elbows. He could ignore it all for a time. Grit his teeth, force a nod. Indulge a smile and small pleasantries where needed. So he sharpened his eyes and peered further down the road.

"How many men does this Ahronov command?" he asked, and added more hopefully: "I did not note any retainers outside the inn. Do we look to meet him again on the road? Alone, perhaps?"


Dante L Damasque Serçe

 

[Serçe]

"I suppose I'm not much different," the mage replied thoughtfully. He spent most of his time going from one place to the next. An innate restlessness which was seemingly never sated. That being said, Serce wasn't entirely sure he agreed on the 'grandness' of Lord Damasque's company but added nothing further. He tossed a glance behind and saw the other two were in conversation. The old man didn't look happy but Serce suspected that was just his general demeanor.

The mender's question was a valid but the mage's information was limited. "From what I know the man's got his hands in a few pies. Most of them rather unsavory. A man like that usually goes about his business one of two ways. He either keeps a very small number of trusted guards or assuages his skeptical nature with sheer quantity. We'll have to hope he's of the former."

Serce looked down at the road ahead and sighed. "Unfortunately that will not be the case. It seems Ahronov rode quite hard."

They continued onward until they finally came upon a small side road with fresh tracks. "My lord, I think it best if we go by foot from here. I believe Ahronov's little retreat is not far from here." It was all too likely they would be heard if they approached any closer by steed. They could make their way through the cover of the trees to hopefully maintain any level of surprise they had.

He knew not what Dante would say but he hoped at least the old knight agreed with his assessment.

Aldebaran Dante L Damasque

 

[Dante L Damasque]

Young Demasque nod to the courier, his horse come up with its trot step. He kicked off of his saddle, and landed on the floor with a thump.

"Very good,"

Gunter came off his mount with a few sweet clicks. Pat the beast, bade it calm before he took its reins, and that of his Masters. Found a place to tie them down.

"Courier, Go on, scout ahead, get good measure of the perimeter, but do not engage with the opposition quite yet,"

Gunter gave a huff, as the leather ties came tight. He turned to face the others. "A signal," he put forth. "Should you deam the opportunity to strike presents itself,"

Dante's eyes narrowed as he looked to his second. Pushed a breath through his nose and nod in agreement. "We will remain at the ready," he said, and drew his dagger-wand from its sheath with a cold snikt.

Aldebaran Serçe

 

[Aldebaran]

A small satisfaction crested Aldebaran's brow. Back on his feet, stick firm to ground, he made a tripod of a man. Following in the lord's footsteps, he managed a weak, encouraging look to the courier, an inaudible plea for luck to carry him safely on this mission of circumstance.

He kept to the tall shadows of others, shoulders hunched in to assume all the topography of meek, innocent age. Gnarled knuckles and leathery sinew notwithstanding, he made a good play at it despite the slick of dried blood that yet sullied his robes.

He parlayed a cough for Gunter's attention.

"These bones make for a poor shield," he said, "but even a scarecrow serves its purpose. I'll hold your flank, if it doesn't displease our lord."


Serçe Dante L Damasque

 

[Serçe]

"Not to worry my lord, despite appearances I rather value my life." Overwhelming odds was his niche but this was an entirely different situation. He wasn't sneaking into some lord's manor. There was blood in the cards and he wasn't a hero, just a professional. Serce gave the wizened healer a reassuring grin before whisking further down the path.

His steps were swift but sure; bold but measured. The mage moved from cover to cover, closing the distance to the noble's retreat.

A hint of movement in the periphery. Serce paused. Two well-armed individuals not twenty feet away. They glanced in the mage's direction but did nothing. Serce's mantle did more than just make him look good. He waited a few moments before moving again, opting to circle in the opposite direction.

Eventually Serce came upon the manse, though that was honestly too grand a word. A pair stood guard near the door and the mage's mood instantly soured upon recognizing their insignia. He continued on around the perimeter, probing for any apparent weaknesses.

Serce didn't encounter any further patrols as he made his way back to the trio.

"Bit of mixed news I'm afraid. Only six hands by my count. The problem is the half-dozen are with Barber's Roost. They've got a mean reputation and well-earned." Mercenaries who didn't care much about what the contract entailed. He turned to the noble with a shrug of resignation. "Front or back, we'll be in for a fight."

Dante L Damasque Aldebaran

 

[Dante L Damasque]

Gunter gave a grunt. "Six men," he spat a glob of phlegm. "Hard as stone, the Barber's"

Dante let the wheels of his mind turn. "Mercenaries then," he said with a little laugh. "Remind me again, Mage, what lord does a mercenary serve?"

Gunter shook his head. "They'll want a pretty purse, to make up for the mark on their reputation," he itched his beard. "Better yet, outfit like that might be smart enough to hold you for ransom, young master," he almost laughed.

Dante smiled a greasy smile. "Well, isn't that the right trick then?" his eyes flit from the old guard, back to the professional. "You use me as bait, to lure them out of their roost." he looked back to Aldebaran. "Better yet," he inclined his head towards the old stranger. "You play the part of the defector," his eyes went back to the courier. "whilst you and Gunter spring the trap,"

Aldebaran Serçe