Closed Paint It Red

[Baird]

15th Fall 512 A.V.
Late night.

“I'd stop moving if I were you.”

Baird did exactly the opposite. He turned around slowly, trying to find the source of the voice, eyes searching the darkness around him. It was a misty and dark night, the lanterns that lit up the city of canals at night reduced to mere pinpricks of light by the haze. The canal beneath the bridge upon which he stood was still as glass, as though Lake Ravok itself slumbered. Above, half-drowned buildings leaned over the canal, all shuttered windows and crumbling brick. All was quiet.

That did not mean everything was alright, though.

Something moved at the far end of the bridge. Baird, squinting, could see several figures begin to appear out of the darkness. Their forms were obscured by the mist, rendered but mere specters in the gloom, but the naked blades in their hands were visible enough. Glancing over his shoulder, Baird could see a couple more specters had worked their way behind him, cutting off his exit. He was trapped.

So. Getting into trouble on his first night here? Sounds about right.

“We've been watching you for a while now,” the tallest specter said, breaking the silence. “Following our friend around town for the last bell, as you've been? Always keeping one ravosala behind him as he went around his business? I'm afraid we can't let this keep going on.”

Baird was relatively surprised to hear that. He hadn't expected the merchant man to be so well-connected enough to afford his own bodyguards, especially ones he couldn't see. He had expected the man to be little more than a lowly merchant, a middleman that could be easily replaced by his suppliers. Baird had expected an easy mark.

Not everything was what it seemed, then.

“So, before we do this, tell me one thing.” the spokesman continued, “Why did you do it? Why did you think it was such a bloody good idea to follow someone, at night, and in Ravok?”

Well, Baird couldn't say he thought the merchant might have a connection to the man he was seeking. He couldn't say that he had seen the merchant man before, back before the Fall of 511 when everything in his life had been right. He couldn't say that desperation had led him to pursue the connection, no matter how tenuous it might have actually been.

Instead, Baird chose a different response: “Well...honestly, I didn't.” and a longsword had materialized in Baird's hands. Moonlight reflected off the steel, settling the blade aglow with its own silvery light.

Somewhere, a crow started to caw.

The leader stepped forward, close enough that Baird could see his pearly white smile. “Good answer,” he said wryly. The smile grew larger. “It won't help you, though.”

And then, they all descended upon him.

[Nya Winters]

Nya had been following the man following the men. He'd done nothing wrong, truly, and had an aura of curiosity about him. Tiny tendrils of a breeze tickled her hair, whispering to him that the mans name was Baird and he was desperate. Nya had started to remember the breezes more and more and more now. And as she had started to acknowledge them again, they clung to her, almost trailing her, as if to remind her she had something important to do.

That 'something important to do' was a hard itch to scratch for a slave in Ravok.

But stalking the man scratched it a bit, caused her to focus, and gave her some relief from the nagging of her psyche that constantly seemed to demand her attention. It wanted her south, and made her long for things she didn't understand. A laboratory for one. Coin for another. And time alone for a third. All of these things should have been strange to Nya, but they were not. They were things she needed. And as time passed, the need grew.

And the breezes approved, even a zephyr that snaked in and snarkily said the men would attack. And they did, pouncing on her own prey. In frustration she yanked the tunic up over her head, shifted, and waded into the battle as a cat. Latching onto first one thug, she drug him out of the frey, killed him neatly and left his body to wade in and grab another.

It seemed to take them some time to realize a dire forest cat was picking them off one at a time as the man they attacked fought on.

[Baird]

The specters danced around Baird, and Baird danced with them. It might have been beautiful if not for the flashing of the cruel, cruel blades.

The swords of the enemies pierced through the mist, striking out towards Baird, but he parried, blocked, or sidestepped them all. The initial ferocity of the attack pushed him back a little bit, made his hands go numb as he deflected their strikes, but Baird soon learned his attackers were sloppy. They did not know how to properly exploit openings, and he was able to fend them off, pushing them back in turn. Baird fell into an old rhythm, the teachings of a mercenary life coming back to him in a rush. He was no longer as good as he was, but some of his skill still remained. He remembered to parry, block, and then thrust – and Baird heard one of the men cry out in pain, one of the blades disappearing suddenly. Blood seeped out onto the ground. The rest of them hesitated, wary.

Baird laughed in their faces.

The response was immediate. But something had changed about the battle; the ferocity of their attacks were diminished now. Something was amiss. Even as he fought Baird could sense something was different; there were cries from men he had not touched and he could see dark forms lurking behind his attackers. Were the specters fighting among themselves, or had someone else entered the fray?

A sword cut the air in front of Baird's face, so close he could hear the tip of the blade go whizzing by. In reflex, Baird struck back, and the dance began anew. There was no more time to think.

The battle continued on for a while, silent except for the sting of swords and the occasional pant or wheeze. Baird played it defensive, parrying several blades at a time. Despite the disadvantage in numbers Baird was able to hold his own – even if he had forgotten most of what he had learned, he still knew more about swordplay than his opposition. Plus, they kept on seeming to disappear...

Finally, it was reduced to him and two other swordsmen. The specters were desperate now. They had noticed the shift in their numbers, and kept glancing back over their shoulder even as they hammered on Baird with everything they had left. Baird watched and waited. One of the men, reaching his breaking point, overextended his arm in trying to take the dead man down in one final swing. Baird struck back without hesitation. The man's neck exploded in blood, nearly decapitated by the fatal blow. He fell.

The rush of adrenaline coursed through Baird, and it was one of the first real feelings Baird had felt in a long time. He laughed again. “Is that the best you filthy street maggots got?!” he shouted.

And then the other man snaked forward and stabbed at Baird's leg. He twisted and slashed at the man's shoulders in response, but it was too late. Something tore.

“Oh, you've got to be shyking me.” Baird looked down. No blood leaked from the gash across his calf, and yet it was still there, long and ugly and shallow. In retrospect, there wasn't any pain. It was simply the surprise of it that had made Baird cry out so. Instead, Baird didn't feel anything at all. And that meant anything. He couldn't even move it.

It also could no longer support his weight. Baird felt himself begin to fall.

Well, fuck.