38th of Summer, shortly after 9 bells.
Evenings in Zeltiva carried the smell of grog and seabrine. As Leth took her appointed position in the pockmarked sky, shadows transformed alleys into gullets and familiar landmarks into twisted nightmares of their former selves. This was an environment more befitting the cutpurse or the murderer than a scion of justice or citizen. So it was that Shroud ghosted from alleyway to alleyway, moonlight glinting off his brass buttons and nesting in the navy threads of his uniform. Tonight was no different than most nights, awake with the creaking of ship timbers and the distant sighs of sails. Often it was the normal nights which sought the most trouble of fate, and so the Waveguard ducked into an alleyway near the home of a certain Ludwin Trask and put both hands on the wall. Already his skin was shifting, Djed awakening along familiar lines. His form grew, if anything, more gaunt, his arms and legs lengthening into pale appendages with long, black-clawed fingers. He blinked once, opening his blood red eyes to see the world in a more favorable light, banishing shadow and mystery under the gaze of his Symenestra eyes. Hair lengthened, whitened, and two fangs crowded his mouth, long and sharp with anticipation.
Kicking off his shoes, the Symenestra scaled the wall of the house and peered over the lip of the roof. A single lookout peered into an alley on the other side of the building, squinting into the darkness for signs of movement. Silently, his bones much lighter than before, Wrenmae crawled over the lip of the building and took refuge in the shadows of the chimney’s shadow. The guard was occupied, watching a man walk back and forth in the alley beneath him, clapping hands softly and muttering to himself. It was suspicious enough to warrant his attention, certainly and so he nearly missed the sound of a blade being drawn in the night.
But Shroud was no adept spy, as he returned to his human form, arms and legs shifting back, bones strengthening and his hair returning to its chestnut hue, he slid on a bit of roofing with a barely audible clack.
The lookout turned, drawing his sword, approaching the chimney with marked apprehension. Cursing in his own mind, Shroud drew his rapier, keeping it close to his body, hidden by the chimney, as his adversary approached.
When the lookout was only moments away from discovering the Waveguard, Shroud leaped from the shadows, thrusting his blade forward into the lookout’s shoulder, strangling a scream within the man before it had time to properly be born. Instead, he hissed, pivoting back and swinging his long sword at the hypnotist. Shroud was already moving, ducking beneath the blade as it bit into the chimney with a solid crunch. The lookout wrenched it out and swung in on Shroud again. Up came the rapier to intercept the longsword, leading it aside and down, bringing both men close. Wrenmae raised his other fist and solidly dealt a blow to his opponent, feeling the crunch of cartilage beneath his hand. Disengaged again, the lookout growled fury, approaching much in the way he had before, a heavy overhead swing, easily avoided, spin and stick, cut into the flesh of his side, provoking the fellow to swing his sword sideways. Now Wrenmae’s left arm came up, Waveguard shield firmly buckled. The sword met the curved shield with a clang, continuing on and missing its intended target, biting air instead.
Wrenmae stepped into that gap, rearing back and kicking the lookout in the chest, knocking him backwards in a stagger. Pushing the advantage, when the fellow tried to pull around and bring the sword up, Wrenmae brought the shield across his face, crushing him to the roof.
Muttering, hissing, crying, mumbling, the watcher went for his sword but found the tip of a rapier tickling his throat. Shroud hung over him, a faint smile on his face.
“Good evening,” he said quietly, “I hope I haven’t startled you.”
The watcher made as if to say something, but it brought his throat painfully against the blade and he let the words die.
“No need to speak, my friend, not yet.” The hypnotist crouched down over the beaten watchman and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him roughly against the blade, “I want to know where the delivery is going down. Ludwin has a shipment of steel weapons bound from here to Sunberth. I’m guessing you don’t have a reason for me, you’re more the lackey. The shipment has moved from the warehouse and I want to know where it’s going.”
“Petch you.” He spit, a globule of saliva bright against the navy of his uniform. Shroud scowled. More fight in the fellow than he’d given him credit. Most hired hands would sing like a songbird when life was on the line. This loyalty was an uncharacteristic oddity.
Shroud let him drop back to the ground, rising and sheathing his blade. “So, a blade to your throat is not sufficient to move you. Very well.” Sighing, Shroud brought his image of nothingness to the forefront of his mind. Leaning down again, he put his knee on the man’s throat and arm, gripping the other roughly and holding it out to the empty space just above his palm up right hand. Pushing Djed into the air, into the night sky, he breached the barriers between worlds and birthed darkness more complete than any in the city of Zeltiva, and more terrifying than anything he could conceive.
And it was into that darkness that he shoved the watchman’s outstretched hand.
Evenings in Zeltiva carried the smell of grog and seabrine. As Leth took her appointed position in the pockmarked sky, shadows transformed alleys into gullets and familiar landmarks into twisted nightmares of their former selves. This was an environment more befitting the cutpurse or the murderer than a scion of justice or citizen. So it was that Shroud ghosted from alleyway to alleyway, moonlight glinting off his brass buttons and nesting in the navy threads of his uniform. Tonight was no different than most nights, awake with the creaking of ship timbers and the distant sighs of sails. Often it was the normal nights which sought the most trouble of fate, and so the Waveguard ducked into an alleyway near the home of a certain Ludwin Trask and put both hands on the wall. Already his skin was shifting, Djed awakening along familiar lines. His form grew, if anything, more gaunt, his arms and legs lengthening into pale appendages with long, black-clawed fingers. He blinked once, opening his blood red eyes to see the world in a more favorable light, banishing shadow and mystery under the gaze of his Symenestra eyes. Hair lengthened, whitened, and two fangs crowded his mouth, long and sharp with anticipation.
Kicking off his shoes, the Symenestra scaled the wall of the house and peered over the lip of the roof. A single lookout peered into an alley on the other side of the building, squinting into the darkness for signs of movement. Silently, his bones much lighter than before, Wrenmae crawled over the lip of the building and took refuge in the shadows of the chimney’s shadow. The guard was occupied, watching a man walk back and forth in the alley beneath him, clapping hands softly and muttering to himself. It was suspicious enough to warrant his attention, certainly and so he nearly missed the sound of a blade being drawn in the night.
But Shroud was no adept spy, as he returned to his human form, arms and legs shifting back, bones strengthening and his hair returning to its chestnut hue, he slid on a bit of roofing with a barely audible clack.
The lookout turned, drawing his sword, approaching the chimney with marked apprehension. Cursing in his own mind, Shroud drew his rapier, keeping it close to his body, hidden by the chimney, as his adversary approached.
When the lookout was only moments away from discovering the Waveguard, Shroud leaped from the shadows, thrusting his blade forward into the lookout’s shoulder, strangling a scream within the man before it had time to properly be born. Instead, he hissed, pivoting back and swinging his long sword at the hypnotist. Shroud was already moving, ducking beneath the blade as it bit into the chimney with a solid crunch. The lookout wrenched it out and swung in on Shroud again. Up came the rapier to intercept the longsword, leading it aside and down, bringing both men close. Wrenmae raised his other fist and solidly dealt a blow to his opponent, feeling the crunch of cartilage beneath his hand. Disengaged again, the lookout growled fury, approaching much in the way he had before, a heavy overhead swing, easily avoided, spin and stick, cut into the flesh of his side, provoking the fellow to swing his sword sideways. Now Wrenmae’s left arm came up, Waveguard shield firmly buckled. The sword met the curved shield with a clang, continuing on and missing its intended target, biting air instead.
Wrenmae stepped into that gap, rearing back and kicking the lookout in the chest, knocking him backwards in a stagger. Pushing the advantage, when the fellow tried to pull around and bring the sword up, Wrenmae brought the shield across his face, crushing him to the roof.
Muttering, hissing, crying, mumbling, the watcher went for his sword but found the tip of a rapier tickling his throat. Shroud hung over him, a faint smile on his face.
“Good evening,” he said quietly, “I hope I haven’t startled you.”
The watcher made as if to say something, but it brought his throat painfully against the blade and he let the words die.
“No need to speak, my friend, not yet.” The hypnotist crouched down over the beaten watchman and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him roughly against the blade, “I want to know where the delivery is going down. Ludwin has a shipment of steel weapons bound from here to Sunberth. I’m guessing you don’t have a reason for me, you’re more the lackey. The shipment has moved from the warehouse and I want to know where it’s going.”
“Petch you.” He spit, a globule of saliva bright against the navy of his uniform. Shroud scowled. More fight in the fellow than he’d given him credit. Most hired hands would sing like a songbird when life was on the line. This loyalty was an uncharacteristic oddity.
Shroud let him drop back to the ground, rising and sheathing his blade. “So, a blade to your throat is not sufficient to move you. Very well.” Sighing, Shroud brought his image of nothingness to the forefront of his mind. Leaning down again, he put his knee on the man’s throat and arm, gripping the other roughly and holding it out to the empty space just above his palm up right hand. Pushing Djed into the air, into the night sky, he breached the barriers between worlds and birthed darkness more complete than any in the city of Zeltiva, and more terrifying than anything he could conceive.
And it was into that darkness that he shoved the watchman’s outstretched hand.
The abnormally high torture award is for pure creativity. 