The Wounded King

Prianne continued on, finally reaching the center of the hustle and bustle. She dismounted Marduk, running a hand over his long muzzle. She cooed to him, clicking her tongue and smiling. She removed a couple sheathed daggers from his saddle bag and clicked them to her belt on a series of hand-made metal snaps. She attached a powder bag to another clasp next to her hip and padded it confidently. </SPAN></SPAN>

"You know the routine my friend. Wait for my signal." She smiled and gave Marduk a swift nod of her head. The midnight stallion turned in place with a shake of his muscled neck and began walking back toward the entrance. The occasional idiot attempted to grab his reins and steal him for their own, but Marduk was quick to teach them a lesson; with tail or hoof. </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

"Time for a drink" Prianne mumbled to herself, not enthused with the idea of mingling with the toothless uneducated masses of the city. She rolled her shoulders back to relieve the stress that was preemptively building on her shoulders. There was still a thick sense of excitement in the air from what she assumed were the events from earlier. It didn't take her long to figure out that the scroll had been nabbed away from its original carrier-whom she assumed was her man. The westerner must still be around, trying to find the scroll.</SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

Prianne observed the crowd with a trained eye, ignoring the man who, in his excitement, mistook her for someone who cared about the wounds. He ran at her, almost shocking her into a defensive stance. His arms flailing wildly and his eyes half closed from too much mead. </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

"They dun' found it! It's open season for da' wouns!" His broken speech made Prianne feel nauseous, something she absolutely couldn't ignore. He tried to get some sort of reaction out of her, but when nothing came, he simple gawked and moved on; thrilling the dramatically pear shaped woman next to her. </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

It wasn't long after that, Prianne found herself in the tavern, looking at the short balding dog-like bartender. His cheeks were puffy and red, like he had just been yelling at the top of his lungs. She sat down at the bar, the creaky barstool shifting under her weight. </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

"I don't suppose you want to tell me all about the wounds too?" She snapped at him as he eyed her suspiciously. His reddened arms worked at twisting a cloth within a glass, smirking as he filled it with a light ale and slammed it down on the counter. His chubby fingers pushed the glass toward her, the low lights of the tavern reflecting off his sweat coated scalp.</SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

"I-uh, rather not get me'self in the middle of it" He laughed a low, hardy sound that Prianne could have sworn made her skin tickle. "I'm a barkeep by trade, nothing else I want that bad" </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>

Prianne couldn't help but envy him. Her whole life all she wanted was what she couldn't have. </SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>
She downed the ale and nodded to him, letting him scoop up the glass and fill it again. She had time to kill until night fell over them; why waste it being sober?</SPAN></SPAN></SPAN>
 
The insanity in the town did not go unnoticed. By the time information had reached the home of Lord General Giarvin, there were already much more pressing matters than a few peasants fighting amongst themselves. The fire on the horizon had called for mobilization of troops, and thus those who'd been preparing to set out to other tasks were reassigned. This, unfortunately for Lord Giarvin, had meant he'd had to go to the only other person he could trust with a special task.

It had been a quick meeting in which Dorinna had learned of the news of her dismissal and, had this not been followed by a more clandestine meeting in which she was given the reason, she might have been quite upset. As it was, the prospect of a special mission given only to her had excited her. Still, she'd known enough to play the saddened servant, dismissed from the lap of courtly luxury. She'd taken only the clothes that were hers, and even then, she'd had to leave a great many behind. She'd be traveling unusually light for this mission. As she'd departed, it had been a trial to stay out of the way of those knights and lords who were to ride out with the soldiers to see what trouble had struck.

So now, she found herself riding across town on her mare, Sugar, a present from a grateful client who hadn't the money on hand to show his thanks for her companionship. Dressed head to toe in rich colors, the woman was clearly not a normal peasant, but also did not wear quite the trappings to be considered nobility. She appeared unarmed, dagger hidden by the flowers peeking from her bodice and cloak weighted to be used to defend herself, should any of the overenthusiastic peasants try to pull her from her horse and assault her. She needed to hurry, but the people clogging the streets were making that difficult. This was such an annoyance to the courtesan that she didn't quite register what people were blathering on about at first. Then it hit her.

The Wounds.

For a moment, she wasn't sure if she should continue on her path. Finally, the need to know got the better of her and she reached down from her horse, tapping one of the townsfolk on the shoulder. He flicked his hand as if brushing away a fly. No longer used to such casual dismissals, Dorinna made a face, then grabbed his shoulder, turning him to face her.

"Ey, now. What's this then? Can't you see, men are talking?" He snarled at her, sending a waft of fetid breath drifting up to her nose. She resisted the impulse to crinkle her face up. Wouldn't do to encourage wrinkles, after all. She also resisted yelling at him. She wasn't traveling with a noble's entourage with guards who would protect her, she didn't have the little liberties being a pet of the Lord General gave her most days. Instead, she tried charm.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," she practically purred, leaning toward him just enough to show off the soft skin of her neck and upper chest. She pushed her cowl back just enough for a few curls to be allowed to fall forward and frame her face. The man stared, as did his companion, who not only kept his eyes upon the courtesan but licked his lips. Dorinna continued, "I believe I overheard you discussing the Wounds. Forgive me if I am wrong, but I had thought the Wounds long lost."

"Heh, show's what you know. Someone's found em. Rumor has it, there's a scroll here in this very town tell's their exact location. Perhaps I could tell you who has it. I'd expect to be treated good in return, though." He and his friend laughed lasciviously.

Dorinna smiled, sliding down from her horse, though keeping the reins in hand. She pressed her body to the first man's, trailing her fingers lightly along his arm. Tilting her head slightly, she spoke once more.

"Hrm, perhaps I could be convinced. Why don't you take me to this man and we will see what transactions we can arrange." She pointedly kept her eyes upon the man, not looking to his friend.

"Hey!" the second exclaimed, grabbing his friend and pulling the man back. "Now wait a minute, what's in it for me?"

"Get offa me! The offer's for me alone."

"Oh, is it now? And who told you the information in the first place?"

"Doesn't matter. She came to me first."

The second man, obviously feeling he was getting the raw end of the deal, looked at Dorinna, speaking quickly.

"That butcher, Brindley, has it. Last I saw him was Fletcher's Alley. Now, what sorta deal can you and me make?" He chuckled, rubbing his hands together as his friend gaped at him.

Dorinna smiled, swinging back up onto her horse and setting off at a canter. "Thank you both for the wonderful information. I'll pay you back with advice. Always arrange a deal before giving everything away." With that, she rode for Fletcher's Alley. She'd question whoever was there, see if she could find out which was Brindley had gone. Somewhere behind her, she though she heard the start of a fist fight. Oh well.
 
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The shop couldn't have been too much bigger than her own, yet the size of it was foreboding enough. Corinne heard stories about how great the 'doctor' was, and there had been a great need for the sort in a while. Accidents happened like flies on animal's waste in Argeria or most towns close to it. She had seen them all come in, riding with less limbs than they were conceived with. They painted the roads with a bold sash of blood, marking their decent all the way to the barber's and surgeon's shop. A smell crept up to her nose that she dutifully ignored in the presence of a man near death and a lady she did not yet know.

"If they do, I could always get a quick trim."she murmured. The two of them stepped inside the store, each hauling Tristan's body with as much support as they could give. Corinne ignored the holler of the male like she had done so many times before. It was starting to become a habit, this dismissive nature of hers. For why did she have to falter when it came to Tristan, she wondered. The smell had gotten worse and bested Corinne once a sting took camp in the ducts of her eyes. Temporarily blinded, she stepped forward and her shin clanged against something heavy, metal, and slimy. She kept a good head about her, making sure not to look down at what her knee could have possibly landed in. Knowing the shop...something not easily washed off.

"He lost a good bit of blood, by the looks of him,"she said, getting right to the subject. "I'm not quite sure what happened. The miss here could explain better than I." She looked down at the boy the man was working on and felt something lodge directly in her throat as she did so. It was either pity or bile. The man rambled about the pricing while the stench of the shop took hold of Corinne's sense. Her face pulled more and more into a disgusted look at both the smell and the fee.

"I had forgotten there was a fee on saving a life." Corinne had to mind her tongue while in the presence of the men. Now with word of the Wounds being out and about, everyone took the smallest world in the most personal manners. She dare not comment about what Tristan had brought to Argeria, though she was mighty interested herself. By the by, the Rants required were somewhere in her shop in a box she had not planned to touch. Corinne shuffled both her and half of Tristan's weight under her, looking over to Tifaa in hopes that the woman had the Rants required; hopefully, only 5.

"I don't suppose..."
 
If it was one thing he knew, that with news like that in the hands of a mere man, people would be after him in droves just to glimpse what lay written on that one piece of parchment.

After all, it's what he was doing in the first place himself.

Andrei's eyes followed the butcher who'd broken free of the crowd and he made to follow. At least until he saw the crowd come to a stand-still where two people stood, cornered against a wall. It was a lady with a bow and arrows next to a terribly wounded man. The corner of his lip twitched at the idea. A wounded man discovered along with the whereabouts of the actual Wounds was just--.

His eyes, one gray and one green, wanted to part from each other, desperately wanting to go after the man with the scroll while wanting to help the struggling woman with the badly injured traveler. The inner war hadn't lasted long, thankfully since it seemed that someone else had come to help. The female seemed to be a medic. And even if she were not, he went with his initial assumption and took off into the other direction. The last he saw of the butcher was the tail end of the ribbon that held his apron together rounding a corner with as much flair as the man himself.


The male gypsy's stride lengthened, trying to follow the man and save time for planning at the same time. He couldn't very well rush after that beast of a man with his money in jeopardy. He let his eyes comb the stalls he past fairly quickly, scanning for something that could act as a satchel for him.

"Blast," came a muttered curse from nearby. It was the voice of a child. One that was quite unhappy by the sound of it. "I'm out of coins."

Several other children groaned collectively and two began to whine and complain.

Flicking his gaze toward the minor disturbance (which was a feat to detect when in a marketplace), he saw a boy no older than maybe seven or eight with a tiny brown bag turned over with nothing but air spilling out of it. He wasted no time, pace unbroken as he approached them.

"Then I'll take that off your hands, lad," he said smoothly, snagging the pouch from the child.

"Hey!" was the young one's affronted cry. Andrei made quick work of removing his hat and tossed a coin to the boy. It may have made him one coin poorer but he'd make up for it later. Loading the rest of the coins into the tiny purse, he tied it around his belt and made to leave.

"What about us?" one of the others called out to him.

Andrei sighed and removed his hat once more, and flung it carelessly over his shoulder. It was the best one he'd stolen but he'd have to appropriate another later.

Damned kids.

There was the soft sound of scuffling amongst the loud hems and haws of barterers surrounding them.

Finally making it to the edge of the din of the market, he took a look around and cursed. He'd lost his quarry!

"Excuse me," he said, tapping the shoulder of a young man who happened to waltz by. "Have you seen a butcher pass by here?"

The lad gave him a puzzled look. "There are many butchers in this town."

"I do not have--," Andrei muttered before reigning in his frustration. "Okay, kid. This one's big, fat, sloppy and has a gut that rivals a pregnant cow."

"You mean Brindley! 'Ee's the one 'oo said that the Wounds 'ad been found," the boy said, recognition twinkling in his eye. Then his expression darkened. "I don't believe 'im, y'know--."

"If I cared any less I'd let you cut out my heart, eat it, and I wouldn't even feel it," Andrei snapped. "Did you see him or not?"

The boy scowled. "How much you willing to pay?"

"What?" Andrei's brows furrowed.

"You want this information, not me."

The nerve...

"One copper piece."

"Five copper pieces," the boy challenged.

"Two copper pieces," Andrei offered and he paused. Why the hell was he bartering with a kid who couldn't even pee in a straight line yet?

"Four pieces." The boy smirked.

"This silk scarf," Andrei said, pointing to the blue fabric he had tied around his forehead. "It's worth at least two silver pieces."

"Brindley's just gone to Fletcher's Alley," the boy acquiesced.

"Which direction?"

"How much you --."

Andrei cursed and yanked of the scarf and pulled out the satchel. "You get an extra copper piece if you tell me where to go."

"Head west through the gambling district and it should take you right to the square Fletcher's Alley leads into."

Andrei threw the boy's payment at him and made a mad dash toward Fletcher's Alley. Along the way, he felt a smirk hit his face. Maybe if he met that boy again before he left the town he'd carry him along. The boy was a good haggler. But he was a bit stupid, sadly. That scarf wasn't anywhere near silk. It was polyester and wasn't worth any more than a copper coin.

The boy was good, but not good enough. Andrei had sealed his bargain of two coins!

But that aside, he had business to handle. And Fletcher's Alley was where the deal was going to be settled.
 
Tifaa was not fond of surgeons, mostly because of the blood and the fact that they seemed way too interested in the human body. Still, they did heal people to a great extent, even if the cures could be on the messy side. As the smell hit her, Tifaa fought the urge to gag, instead focusing on getting the poor fool in her arms to the doctor as quickly and easily as possible. Walking with the other woman, they finally got Tristan set down into the pile of hay they were told to place him in. It was them that Tifaa shoved her face into her arm and tried to keep in the bile slowly crawling up her throat, oh gods that smell!

She seemed to keep to herself as Corinne spoke, only looking to the man as he mentioned the fee. She coughed, only slightly so she would not get the doctor focused on her and started to speak as she shuffled around in her armor for her pouch of rants.

"Your fee will be covered, don't worry about that. He had an arrow in his leg, in a crowd someone yanked it out and he's been bleeding since, I believe he has some other cuts and such as well but as to what caused it I am not sure. I only witnessed the arrow pulling and him passing out in the street. Poor man had no chance with how pushy the people were being." She explained simply.

She looked over to Tristan in silence as she thought a bit, trying to think of anything else that might help heal him. Nothing came though so she stayed silent, just shuffling through her pouch as she waited for the doctor to finish with is current patient and move onto the one they had dragged through the town to help.
 
"SO THEN I TELLS HIM- YOU KNOW WHAT I TELLED HIM?! TO GO SUCK A GOAT'S TITS IS WHAT I TOLD HIM!!" The bartender let out a booming laugh, his hardened beer belly bouncing with his quick inhales. He turned around, filling up their mugs for the umpteenth time, spilling a bit on the floor from his drunken lack of coordination. Prianne had been enjoying her time with the jowled man, listening to his wildly elaborated stories of bar brawls and promiscuous wenches. The large glass mugs hit the counter with a loud thud, spilling more of the golden liquid out, wasting it. </SPAN></SPAN>

"so what do ye' do for a livin'? You never mentioned…" He seemed to settle down into a serious tone, the laughter they shared faded away into the past and they were forced to look at each other. Prianne took a long drawn out gulp of beer and pushed her mouth to the corner, contemplating what she would say. A wiry smirk spread across her face, a gleam of mischief twinkling in her eye. </SPAN></SPAN>

"If I told you my good man, I'd have to kill you" She gave it a dramatic second to set in, watching as his face drained of blood and he took a quick step back, his hands in the air.</SPAN></SPAN>

"I don' want no trouble, forget I asked" He tripped over his words, making Prianne laugh. She finished her mug and set a gold coin on the table, watching as his eyes grew in surprise.</SPAN></SPAN>

"Keep yourself out of trouble- or we'll be on different terms." She winked at him and dismounted the barstool, making her way to the door. The barkeep hollered a quick "Ye' got it ma'am" over the bar and put the gold in his shirt pocket, patting it with happiness. </SPAN></SPAN>

The streets were still littered with people, which annoying Prianne to no end. She would rather walk with perverts and murderers than common folk, they simply freaked her out. Like clockwork, a slimy man with missing teeth grabbed her arm, spinning her around. Prianne sighed with aggravation as the man ogled her body, making a small vein in her head pulsate with viciousness. </SPAN></SPAN>

"How much for a ride then?" spittle flung from the spaces in his mouth, bits of food and plaque stuck to what teeth he had left. Prianne remained silent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The man seemed to get irritated, gripping her arm tighter and stomping his brittle, over worked foot against the ground. </SPAN></SPAN>

"What are ye' stoopid!? I asked how much!" </SPAN></SPAN>

Prianne looked down at the ground quickly before dropping to a crouched position and sweeping the man's legs out from underneath him. She moved swiftly, kneeling over him with a dagger to his throat. It happened so fast that many passerby's didn't even realize the goings on. The man stammered and spat, scared for his life. He held his hands up, giving in. Prianne shrugged her shoulders, pressing her blade against his neck, watching as a small trickle of blood trailed down to the ground beneath them.</SPAN></SPAN>

"Be lucky I don't send you off right now" she got up and tucked her dagger away, leaving the man with soiled trousers and less dignity than he started out with.</SPAN></SPAN>
 
LOVETT STREET, ARGERIA...

As Tifaa spoke, the doctor turned. His interest was peaked and his hands pulled tight the bandage over his patient's remaining eye. The boy struggled and gave muffled protest, but the doctor was already getting up. "Well, at least you've bled him for me." Waving at Tifaa as if she were a buzzing fly, he took her place at Tristan's side. Then, stroking the thin wisps of his beard, he studied the patient. "Not a Watch arrowhead. Pity. I could have turned you in for some laudanum. A hunting accident, I suppose. Ranthos knows what poisons are in him now. Leeches!"

He snapped his fingers at Corinne, pointed to the bucket near her foot, snapped his fingers again. When finally she passed it to him the old man stripped the fabric around Tristan's wound. Then, with spindly fingers, he plucked the leeches from the water and placed them, methodically, on the edges of the wound. "That's six rants," he said to Tifaa.

Behind him, the boy was pulling at the bandages over his eyes.

"Westerners are the poorest kind of hunters," the doctor explained as he threaded horse-hair through a shard of bone. He was in the midst of a medical lecture now. "They are not of the land, as the elders would say. Too inclined to the cerebral arts. Mountain folk, you see? Sure, their knowledge of metals and mathematics and the nobler husbandries are enviable, yes - very enviable, I might say. But leave the business of bow and arrow to the Southfolk or barbarians of the East. There is lesson in this. Always lessons. A surgeon bleeds the wisdom of his parish."

An hour passed. The bandaged boy had stumbled back to the docks. The leeches were removed and after swabbing the cleaned flesh with vinegar - a process that made Tristan cry out loud - the doctor got to work with the suture. "Eight rants," he said to Tifaa, before plunging in with the bone-needle. The girls were instructed to hold the man down as the doctor made each heartless stroke. The thread was strong. "Clandshire horse-hair," he prattled. "Best for suture. The orphan girl, Prianne, rears them on the skirts."

With the passing of another hour the deed was done. Without word the doctor had departed to clean his needles. Tristan lay in the straw between the buckets of water, vinegar and leeches. The fever had taken hold, but his body was resilient. When at times he thrashed he would grasp Corinne's hand, and it was in this manner that he finally focussed his eyes.

There was a long stare, in which both weighed up their questions, till at length his dry lips parted. "The scroll..." It was like the plea a dying man, when needing to clasp his most valued posession to his breast. "It has the location. Please. Where is the scroll?"




DOCKERS WALK, ARGERIA

"I've a mind to..."

"They'll hang ya."

The docker sliced an apple with his gutting knife and passed one half to his friend. "We'll pay the surgeon for his troubles."

"Old goat'll want the troubles for 'imself." The other man finished bundling his ropes. "The seamstress is no bother. But the other might be plucky."

"The best fish are the strugglers." The first man grinned and licked his gutting knife.

A third boatman joined them on the jetty, a young boy with his face in bandages. "I'd be careful. There's a man with 'em. Carries a sword. He's a westerner, for sure."

The first man spat. "Then we pay 'im for his troubles too. I'm afeared o' no dress-wearin' mountainer!"

The three laughed, then as one paused to watch Ardia come rushing down the riverside towards Lovett Street. "I think the spirits are tryin'a tell us somethin'," grinned the man with the knife. "Three for three. Time to make you a man, my boy." He slapped the bandaged boy on the shoulder as he and his friend rose to watch where Ardia was going.

 
While the doctor went to "work" on Tristan after snapping at her like some house maid, Corinne occupied her time by wiping her tunic, smudging the blood Tristan had left there. She was not nit-picking over the way she looked; it just grew suspicion. Chaos had found a hole in Argeria and had seeped in like one of the leeches on Tristan's exposed skin. The Rants had better been worth the process, because it took more than 2 hours to complete. Most of the time, the doctor talked on and on about uninteresting subjects to both Tifaa and Corinne. Her mind was well occupied on the previous shouts from outside her shop. About how the Wounds had been found and, moments later, a man had nearly died in the streets without so much as a look in his direction.

Yes, chaos was a slippery tool. Toxic, if given the right push in the right direction.

She chanced a look over to Tifaa, wondering her place in all of the matter. She knew a fair bit more about their man, but there was more to her story than just friendly nature, yes? Such a thing was as rare as a quiet day in Skinner's Tavern, and just as needed. The woman looked well enough, carrying herself with a higher feminine air than the normal. Corinne deemed her some sort of warrior and looked past her. The shop's smell had either lingered or had a natural effect of acceptance to it. Whatever the two, the time spent there was not all bad. She just kept quiet, nodded when need be, and let her mind wander with her curiosity.

The doctor finished after telling Tifaa the damage to her pockets, walking away to do his sterilizing and leaving the three of them with nothing to do or say. Tristan's heavy breathing had bothered her. How close was he to death's rocky edge and what good was he alive? Was she the one who had acted in a friendly nature or had she wished for him to know something more about the spreading news? Dead men only talked in whispers. Tristan would be talking in rasps.

"The scroll..."

"Quiet."she snapped, her questions for him lodged in her throat for the time being. Her hand was sticky with his sweat but she still managed a small squeeze - for comfort or to to give weight behind her order of being quiet. She would not have been surprised if the barber spilled his blood where he lay over his information about the Wounds. Corinne discarded the thought and gave Tifaa a bow of respect, brown curls sticking to the fabric her neck. "I appreciate what you've done for him. It was quite kind of you and could have come easier,"she added, her fingers finding the bright red ribbon of rash from the earlier slap against her cheeks. "Another day in Argeria, I suppose."

Tristan's next words stopped her sentences cold in her parted lips as she swallowed nothing but the salty blood-stench air of the shop. A glare was sent his way, a deep warning behind her pressing eyes on his sweat caked face. The man must have longed for death.

"Quiet."she repeated, waiting for the doctor's return and her nearing departure, with or without Tristan's information or Tristan himself.
 
Tifaa gave a faint smile to Connie once they were alone, the doctor having wandered off to clean up his tools and such. She simply shook her head and held up her hand in a silencing sort of gesture, though it certainly was not the kind to force one to be silent immediately.

"It's no trouble. I believe that help should always be given to those in need, no matter the circumstance or risk to one's self. Though, you'd think I'd be dead by now with a moral such as that, right?" She joked lightly before looking down at the man.

He seemed very determined to get the scroll back even in his current state, something bother respectable and worrisome. Last thing they needed was him to try and walk out there in his current condition and try finding the damned thing on his own, that might actually kill him this time around. Looking to Connie, who also seemed to understand that his words were dangerous at the moment, she knelt down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention gently.

"Your words are dangerous here. You must not talk of this now. I know it is important but you life is worth more than a paper scroll...I shall find it for you." She started to say, knowing that she would regret it soon with the way this town had acted so far. "I will bring it back here to you once I have gathered it. So please, rest."
 
"Why, ah saw 'i, gettin' takin' way by tha guards!"

"He done road out of town on a stolen horse!"

"Shot right through the heart. Likely in the morgue."

"Hell if I know, gurl what'sit to ya?!"

By the time Ardia was rushing her way down Lovett Street towards the Barber's... healers...? Hell if she knew where she was going anymore. She was frustrated and annoyed. Ardia had learned very quickly that getting information in a town of gossiping lunatics was no where near as easy as she thought it would be. One person would say one thing, and the next person would completely contradict the other. The only consistent information anyone seemed to share was the man riding in to town, and a scroll about the wounds being found. When someone mentioned the man had been carried away by two women, Ardia wasn't too apt to believe that story either. In fact, as she stomped down the street, the only thing that seemed to keep her going was the need to know.

Ardia's pace slowed when she hit the street, reading over the signs looking for the right place. When she found it, she paused only to peek in through the windows to see if anyone was inside, then she waltzed in herself. Hands resting on her hips and fully expecting this to be another false location.

"Hello? I am looking for that screaming monk!"
 
It was hardly a taxing task, locating the monk through the bustling streets as the day had continued. After spending the morning scoping the town, Kendrick had finally managed to get word of a dirty contact within the northern supply lines. A reenactment of the King and the Hollow Sea, performed just adjacent to the alley he was searching for, provided excellent distraction for the shady dealings within the alley. Kendrick had been in a deal for some information on the whereabouts of a particular shipment for the northern general, a private reserve of wine, when the commotion had broke out, something about the discovery of the wounds and a monk riding into the city. Without so much as a second glance, the contact had run off immediately, screaming for his badge from a younger boy that appeared out of an alcove in the side street. "Damn it, I knew I should have killed him sooner.", Kendrick berated himself for having let the impostor of the northern barracks get away, much more so if the news about the wounds proved to be true.

With a moments hesitation, Kendrick quickly left the dark alley and into the bustling crowd of the sunny streets of Argeria, pulling up his cloak over his head and walking quickly behind two cult doctors he found patrolling the streets for signs of plague. I'm going to murder that bastard pig of the north, much less let the damn brute arm himself further were he to get his hands on the wounds. Keeping pace with the two cultists, Kendrick followed silently until the bend in the road had a minor split, which he deterred to as he heard a pack of small kids giggling and screaming loudly about the injured man only at the far end of the road.

When he had arrived at the small lodging that the monk was inside, he attempted to casually peruse the goods of the trinket stand that was next door. The sudden appearance of many other individuals, both presumably with the monk and those now seeking his attention, created a great bout of anxiety within his chest. "I'm still a wanted fugitive, I shouldn't be attracting myself to the center of attention, someone might recognize me or worse. They might catch me for something completely different as it is.", he groaned silently to himself. Still, the allure of the wounds would no doubt warrant an investigation from the north, especially with an agent on his way there now. In the event that one of the officers let it slip that he had left the borders, a nice opening would present itself to Kendrick.

Courteously, Kendrick bought a small metal necklace of tribal design from the merchant, to avoid suspicion. Putting it on, he lowered his hood and took a few small steps towards the half open door of the cottage, at which now a young woman was waiting and asking for the monk as well. The center of all local attention. You jack ass. Before he could continue his movements, he had stumbled to a halt next to the woman, looking rather suspicious as she caught an eye of him with his cloak hood withdrawn. "Afternoon.", he made up on the spot, before recognizing her from the show earlier and wondered if perhaps he had a way to play this off afterall. "I caught the performance earlier, I was expecting something more akin to a sea hag, as they often use." he did his best to express a light hearted smile.
 
An hour of searching and no luck. She'd questioned people, used her wit and charm, yet each time, she reached a dead end or someone unwilling to part with information. She'd thought she'd found Brindley's pub of choice, but he wasn't there, nor did he arrive in the half hour she wasted waiting for him. Realizing the trail was growing cold, she retraced her steps.

She found herself back in Fletcher's Alley, staring at the well walked ground. She couldn't remain here for long; time was running out and the Wounds were at stake. Yet, she couldn't form a clear plan of attack. Her shoulders began to tense. To be so close and have missed the most important event in her life thus far by just a few moments...

Dorinna's stomach growled. She wandered a while longer, hoping for inspiration to strike and eventually giving in to the need to eat. There was a cart nearby, filled with items that hardly passed as food. Paying quickly, she stuffed a bun wrapped bit of meat in her mouth, washing it down with water from her pouch. Belatedly, she realized she should have bartered. She was out of touch with this world, having lived softly for too long, and if she didn't recall her teachings, she'd be destitute and alone before long.

The search continued for another hour, and she finally managed to backtrack the story enough to learn of the westerner with his wounded leg. Her mind raced. It was unlikely the injured man had been able to chase after Brindley. Still, perhaps he'd read the scroll before it had been stolen, and if he had, there was a chance he could be of use to her. It took little time at that point for her to find the trail of dried blood. It was disturbed, walked over, trampled on at this time, but it was still there, enough for her needs.

The trail thinned as it neared the barber's shop. Dorinna swung down from her horse, hoping that this place was the end, for she no longer had any droplets to follow. Tracking was not her strong point and, without a trail of pain splashed out for her on the dusty ground, she'd be lost again.

A woman stood just inside the doorway, a man speaking to her. What was beyond was a mystery, one which Dorinna intended to solve. Tying her horse to a post outside, she moved gracefully and purposefully for the door.

"...a sea hag, as they often use," the man was saying. Dorinna stepped up next to the two, smiling softly and waiting patiently, body inclined just enough to hopefully attract attention.

"Excuse me. I've need to enter this shop. If the two of you would kindly allow me to pass, I'd be... most grateful." A smile curved painted lips upward.
 
Any man in Argeria could tell you where Filgerr was. The old, crooked man had carved out a niche in the center of the city with small operations like plague sores across the whole of the kingdom. Filcher himself, a successful thief until a tall fall had twisted his spine, resided in the heart of this territory, attended to by his personal selections from the local orphanage. The black hook marked his territory, and no man had sovereignty of his belongings there. Argeria brimmed with orphans, turned to the gutters to save a matron some extra coppers, they were scooped up by Filcher and his gang and taught to steal. He called them his mice, and the grown ones his rats, sending them out to immerse the market with theft and sabotage. The old man might have failed, had he not caught the eye of some influential parties. Now Filger worked as a front man, stealing items and delivering them to interested buyers with their heart set on a treasure. Save for his mice and rats, no one worked for the Crooked Man for long. He hired mercenaries and thugs for short jobs, never revealing more than he had to and rarely using the same sellswords twice. Few ventured into the Hook marked alleys without good reason, and fewer still left with all their possessions intact, if even their lives.

Brindley passed the first of the black painted hooks with a darkening frown on his face. Both hands were shoved into his pockets, one meaty hand wrapped around the scroll and the other around a blade. He and his own knew the risks entering this place, but with what the Butcher had to offer, he was confident he'd be walking out a richer man. Down and around the buildings they weaves, the slightly leaning architecture almost narrowing the alleys to a labyrinthine quality. Red eyed rats leered from missing chunks of masonry or shadowed corners, scurrying in the wake of the progress as if furry envoys of their arrival.

And at last they stepped out to a single jutting door, set slanted into an old grey building. The Honeysuckle, the hanging sing said, so worn and tattered by age that only the faint golden lettering remained. Filger had hollowed out the old bar for his own purposes years ago. A single man slumped against the door, leather armor around his chest and both sword and shield on his back. His head lolled to the side groggily, mumbling the lyrics of some slurred tavern song. A drinking skin lay at his feet, the dark stain of Brahmsberry wine dried across the dusty ground.

The butcher approached warily, nodding at one of his friends to move the man. Leaning down, the mop-head tried to push the sellsword away from the door, struggling under his weight. The drunk, yielded easily, rolling to the ground in a slump and a mild complaint, also mumbled to the point of incoherence. Sneering, the Butcher stepped toward the door, reaching out to open it.

"Nots'a fash!"

Stumbling to his feet, the sellsword drew his sword and shield, swinging the former against the door and the latter in an unsteady waver between he and the butcher. "Cann'open th'door wishoutn invitashun."

"What?"

He straightened himself, blinked and frowned, trying to shake the inebriation from his head, "You cansh enter wishout…wishout…" he moved his shield, sword dropping to the ground, point driven. The poor man looked vexed, "Wishout…wishout."

"Fuckin drunk," the butcher scowled and nodded his head, "Take care of 'im."

The mop head who moved him drew a knife and menaced the drunk, his other companions taking positions around him. Disoriented, confused, Brill swung his sword wide, missing his opponents easily before being pushed off balance by the mophead he'd taken his eyes off of. Crashing into the dirt, the world spun and the Butcher laughed, opening the door and stepping inside. The rest of his cronies kicked and punched at Brill, who could only defend by curling up. Sword and shield forgotten, he took blow after blow until the Butcher called them inside.

Brill lay on the dust outside the Honeysuckle, bleeding and bruised.

He still wasn't entirely sure what happened.


********
The inside of the Honeysuckle was greatly changed. The beautiful oil paintings on the walls were defaced with black hooks, blood stains, and protruding daggers. Eight men stood quietly inside the base, several more lounging at the tables. Coins and dice bounced off the scratched surface, rhythm to the cheer of victory or the flurry of curses at defeat. Several children danced nimbly between the larger men, delivering drinks with placid faces or sneaking a coin from the winnings when eyes were not upon them. Toward the back, ringed by luxurious tapestries and paintings, a crooked old man sat in a lavishly decorated throne. Jewlery and other baubles clung to its surface and adorned his body, several young girls knelt at his feet, massaging the bony appendages without a word. He leered at his visitors, gripping the arms of his seat and nodding to his guards. "Tread on the hole of Filger uninvited and I can't tell if you're brave or stupid."

"Uninvited?" the butcher scoffed, "So that's what the drunk outside wanted to tell us. Miserable waste, 'e was. Besides, you should be 'appy to see me."

"Happy to see Brindley, the gorged pig? Not in my home…not unless you come bearing gifts."

"I 'ave something you'll want," the Butcher maintained, a trickle of doubt seeping into his mind, "A real prize, taken from a bleedin bloke."

"Ah!" Filger crowed, clasping his jeweled hands together, "The scroll of the Wounds! Yes, yes, marvelous. I thought my little mice said you'd taken it."

"I want five hundred silver for it."

The room fell silent, rats and mice both swiveling their heads from their games to watch the exchange. No one gave Filger the first price, and fewer had entered the room uninvited. Still, there was news of the Wounds, and that alone seemed to grant them the immunity they needed to avoid meeting the spirits here and now.

"Such a hefty price," Filger sighed, shaking his head, "Not without verification."

"Think I'll just hand it to you?"

"Of course I do, you came all this way didn't you?"

The Rats drew their blades, prompting the same of the butcher's men. Swallowing his panic, the large man held out his right hand, withdrawing the left from his pocket. "Take it," he said, handing it to a Rat, "It's the truth."

The Rat crossed the floor in a moment, offering the rolled parchment to Filger. Taking it, the ganglord skillfully unwrapped it, reading through its contents.

"It's reliable." He said at last, nodding at the man who brought him the scroll, "Pay each of these men sixty silver and send them on their way."

"Sixty?"

"I'll pay three hundred silver for this, sixty to each man who helped bring it…oh…wait…subtract thirty from each account as per the uninvited interruption. Call it a mercy fee."

"You-" The Butcher started, but quickly quieted when one of the Rats leveled a crossbow at him.

"You…what?" The crooked man asked lazily, offering a hand to another young girl who began to file his nails, "You'll have to speak up, boy, if you want to be heard."

"Nothing." The Butcher snarled between clenched teeth, taking the offered bag of silver from the Rat and stepping back to the door. "I won't forget this."

"Oh to be young and remember every little transaction," Filger sighed, waving them away with his other hand, "I cannot say I'll be as dedicated to the memory. Good day."

The Butcher turned and left, taking his cronies with him, barely casting a glance at where the drunk used to be and where only flecks of blood glittered now.

"Go and thank our sellsword for his time," Filger said, waving at a few of his Rats, "We will no longer need his employment."

Nodding, two Rats took their blades and left.
 

LOVETT STREET, ARGERIA...

Though many had arrived, each in their fashion, they turned as one when Tifaa released a sharp breath. Tristan's hand had clamped her wrist. His eyes were open. And though pain and fever made merry on his face, there was in this malaise a look of urgency. "What is the hour?"

The archer went to hush him, as she and Corinne had done before in this oh-so-mixed company. But he only squeezed the harder, and his stare grew fierce. "WHAT IS THE HOUR?"

A glance to the churchtower, above the rooftops of Copper Yard, was all Tifaa needed. "It has just struck eleven. But--"

A shift in his expression told them he was calculating. It was less than a second. Then he grew a little paler. "Help me up... please!"

Whatever standoff there may have been between his saviours and the newcomers at the gate was broken as they moved to assist him. Ardia shrugged off Kendrick's comment and stepped into the barber's yard, and with the way unblocked Dorinna made a similarly speedy entrance. Kendrick followed and joined the circle around the messenger: five strangers at the threshold of a revelation.

The number was not without significance.

Propped up, half against Tifaa and half against a wood pile, Tristan was a pale and feverish sight. He blinked to clear his vision, rolled back his head, and moistened his lips from a water bowl offered by Corinne. Then from his throat came rasping words. "Hear me, any who can... I am Tristan Faulkner of Elswich. My village is destroyed. Man, woman, child and livestock... ravaged by the Hill Tribes. They came in the night, pursuing a Brother of the Caldane Order, who had escaped like slaughter in the eastern valley. I was messenger to this monk. He gave his life to put a scroll in my hand, and I have near lost mine to bear that scroll onwards to the Lord General of Argeria."

He stopped as his words disintegrated and, curling over Tifaa's arms, had a fit of coughing. Sweat was dripping from his brow. But still he persevered and fixed each of the strangers with his gaze. "By this hour the Hill Tribes will be through the valley. They will march on Argeria..." He paused again as some of those gathered gave sniffs of disbelief. "They will come," he insisted. "I know this... for the message I carried was one no man should dare let slip from his grasp... as I have done..."

Now their breaths were baited. As Tristan paused for more water there were almost glimmers in the eyes of those around him. They waited... and they had their reward.

"It is the Wounds... the Holy Weapons of King Ranthos.... they are found again, by the Order of Caldane. The scroll tells the location."


* * * * *​



As revelation, like a hammer-strike, was made in a barber's yard on Lovett Street, the valley to the east was shaking. What the watchmen had seen with their spyglass, and what the Lord General had been warned off before he sent Dorinna away, would soon be witnessed by the outer houses of Argeria.

The Hill Tribes were going to war.

Whatever dark and cunning masters had manipulated these savages; whatever hand had moved them to slaughter the monks and the village of Elswich; whoever they were they had now left their pawns to this frenzy. The barbarians were in bloodlust. And they were driven by a singular urge - to avenge the ancient wrongs which had made them exiles. It was a vendetta of generations, stretching back to the days of Ranthos, when whole legions of soldiers returning home were denied a plot of land to make a living. So in the hills and the wastelands they had festered, with hatred as their only crop.

Now amongst the harvesters came horsemen and berserkers, bearing bronze weapons and patchwork armour. Some wore horned helms and cloaks of fur. Some wore the bones and skulls of hill beasts, these men decked up like bears and wolves. Some brought fire and others nets. They came to fuck, to burn, to slaughter and to take the trophies of their passing.

Never had so many marched together. And never had they dared the walls of the heartlander cities.

But... as the people of Argeria would soon know... and as the people of the world would learn in time... today was no ordinary day.

 
Kendrick remain with his back against a wall, listening to the monks words with some mixture of anxiety, regret, and pure detachment. The appearance of the wounds would certainly mean great chances for those who used them, and greater changes for those that they were used against. For a brief moment, Kendrick was glad he was the last of his house, any other kin would only cause him worry in the approaching troubled times.

As Tristan finished his tale, Kendrick mustered all he could remember about the hill tribes, and none of it had been pretty. Ranging from barbarian rituals to petty bouts of power as display, most people had preferred to stay clear of their domain, traders particularly. The resurgence of the wounds certainly had already pulled on the greedy tendrils of man, much like a gold ring left in the midst of a den of thieves.

"So, the hill tribes are organizing to reclaim the wounds at any cost, it seems." he began, disparagingly. "I hate to say this, but you'll find that they are now ill the only ones seeking it.", and he reiterated his encounter with the courier of the king of the north, assuming that within a short time frame, he too would make his own plans to seize power. "There's little in this world to stop the advances of such men, except advances of equally strong men."

Halting to a stop there, Kendrick paused in his commenting, drawing into an uneasy silence. "No desire for the wounds lay within me, but I will not allow them to fall into the hands of any who might ruin honest lives, particularly the north."
 
Corinne did not say much as the others came in, all wishing to see Tristan. The man had become a popular item in the short time in Argeria; a time that would have been shorter if Tifaa and she had not saved him from the streets. Which fate would have been better, she wondered to herself. Whispers of a dead monk carrying such a heavy burden on his shoulders, or the same monk breathing and living with a golden knowledge dark people craved for. News of the Wounds came from his mouth, as well as this scroll he rambled on about. It turned out that it wasn't in his possession, which was why he was panicking about it. For good reason, as well. It hold a very high price for anyone who had it.

Tristan coughed a couple of times while he used Tifaa as human pulley. The wounds on him were cleaned but they still had to hold some sort of pain in them. The color hadn't completely come back into his visage, but if he had enough strength to breathe and talk, he was useful for something. Corinne folded her arms over her chest and shifted in her shoes, careful to keep her eyes off of the others. There was no point of throwing herself into the heart of the fire if she was still part of the embers. Tristan had managed to pull together some strange people from backgrounds she knew naught of. Tristan coughed again and Corinne handed him a water, interested in knowing what the end of his story brought.

It only brought more questions.

"There's little in this world to stop the advances of such men, except advances of equally strong men."

"I'm assuming this Hill Tribe are 'equally strong men,'"she stated, squeezing her arms tighter around her midsection. The leeches had her on edge and the smell of blood was rancid wherever she faced her nose. Kendrick finished his speaking and Corinne made no notion to agree or disagree with him on the matter. The Wounds may have not been a matter of importance to him, but that's where people's differences lie. Tristan held her childhood in a scroll he didn't have. In short, she was being taunted, and until Argeria bowed down and revealed the scroll, Corinne would be facing a lot more blood than that of a mere barber shop.

 
As far as Ardia was concerned, no one else in the room existed outside of the monk. Maybe it was because the man was such a good story teller. Knew how to bait the words and strike the perfect moment of revelation. Or maybe it was simply because it was true. That scroll didn't just contain information about the Wounds. It was the locations. She felt like her heart had stopped beating. Like the world had stilled. There was the talk of Hill Tribes wanting them. Other men. But those Wounds were hers. Rightfully hers.

And that blasted butcher and his men snatched it right out of my hands...!

Ardia paled and her stomached churned. She needed that scroll. But there was no way she could do it by herself. And the monk...! He was spitting blood, bleeding from the leg. The man was in no shape to help her steal something back from a bunch of thugs!

"I know where it is." she suddenly announced. An on the fly decision. It felt right. If this was going to happen, she couldn't waste time on over-thinking. "The local Butcher snatched it right out of my hands before I could make it here to return in. If I had help, we could get it back before he sells it or worse." Ardia left out her own personal reasons for wanting the scroll. Though she didn't intend to steal it herself, she wasn't going to throw out that option entirely...
 
Tifaa was struck silent at his demand to stand, but helped him nonetheless. After all, it would be safer if he had help to stand than trying to get up on his own, especially with his wounds at the moment. His words were more powerful than anyone probably realized, the message they delivered causing Tifaa to pale ever so slightly, if it was possible for her already white skin. For the locations of the wounds to just be floating about through the town, she could only imagine the power lust that would soon follow the small calm that had taken the town at the moment.

They had to find that scroll and get it into the right hands, hands that would do what was right hopefully. Or at least give her enough time to find her way out of town to avoid the chaos that would soon follow. She was not about to deal with pushy and grabby towns folk more than once a day and they certainly weren't worth her time if the Hill tribes were marching as they spoke to burn the city to the ground. She stayed silent a moment longer until a pretty red haired woman spoke up, mentioning the location of the scroll.

"We need to get that scroll back, before it ends up in destructive hands...or worse, greedy ones. I can offer my bow and arrows but I'm not much for brute force. No matter what it takes we need to deliver the message into the right hands...or at least bring it back to the monk in case the receiver of the message suddenly parts this world for unknown reasons..." Tifaa said smoothly before looking over to the monk.

"And if what he says is true...we have little time to try and obtain it again."
 
The smell of the place was overwhelming. She'd smelled worse, but not in years, and she could barely control her stomach, quickly pulling a handkerchief and covering her mouth and the lower half of her face so she could hide her expression of disgust. However, the words the man spoke were enough to make her forget all of her discomfort in the unfamiliar surroundings. She listened, flicking her tongue over her lips, letting the handkerchief and hand holding it lower.

The words of the man, then of the others, surrounded her like the buzzing of insects. She couldn't believe it. There was a chance to get to the wounds. So soon, too. She should leave, get it on her own, but she knew she didn't stand a chance. Not even her best charming graces could get something like that out of the hands of one who wanted it.

Which raised a problem. Just how was she to keep these people from taking it for themselves, leaving her out in the cold. Her eyes darted suspiciously from one to another. She hadn't counted on this. She'd have to play nice, then, for now. After all, what she really needed was a look. Then she could retrieve the Wounds on her own. And it seemed that they all had some want to play nice. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage. For now, she'd play nice. She'd go along.

She tried to ignore the pain the sight of the injured man caused her. She shut it away, as she had so much pain in her life.

"I'll help." Besides, she did care for a scarce handful of people in this town, so it made sense to try and protect those she knew from what ill might befall them. She tried to tell herself she wasn't doing this out of kindness, purely out of business. That was all. This was just a job. These people meant nothing to her and she certainly felt no empathy for the wounded man. None. No. Not any.
 
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