Skirmish with Destiny (Trente)

[Wrenmae]

Winter 36, 512 AV

Few men held themselves to the standard of a villain. Deep down, each and every moral challenged monster felt themselves above reproach, somehow beyond the castigation society would lay upon them. If, deep down, there was no evil save the concept born of divinity and philosophy, then did not each and every soul operate within some level of grey?

On the streets again, the click of cobblestone beneath hard boot heel beat a staccato rhythm in the sea tarnished air. The night before had been spent between buildings and within alleys, in the presence of strangers, and speaking sidelong into darkness. For several hours, Wrenmae had gathered information on his target. Trente, master of the Martial Association, Visionary and troublemaker in Zeltiva. His amassing of skilled combatants had caused a stir in the hierarchy when he'd been here before. Now Trente had changed little, back from Sahova with a mind to continue where he'd left off.

But he was yet unfocused, perhaps still tragically short-sighted in his ambitions. The man needed something of a catalyst, a motivation. So Wrenmae had worked his hypnotism with honeyed words and smiles, learned the route the man was like to take home and set himself along it.

In shadows he waited without word, giving pause only to consider the possibility his prey would not arrive, as the day grew longer into dusk and then the eve. Cold air made poor companions and with Zan away, Wrenmae was entertained only by the click-clack of gears turning in his mind. Yesterday he'd taken a life, hung it on a tree, left a message carved in its chest. No doubt Trente would have heard that little story by now, the poor Waveguard murdered and made to be an example. But the boy was proud, too proud to let the threat of a madman in the streets curtail his training and too confident to ask for armed accompaniement.

That pride would pit against the raw skill Wrenmae had chosen to reveal only snatches of the last they fought. With luck, his changed appearance and renewed viciousness would convince the man his fabricated identity.

But first he'd have to survive.

Steps.

They heralded his arrival, sharp beats against the stone.

Wrenmae held his breath, waited, and then swept out of the alley with both long daggers drawn, at his sides. The wide brimmed had over his face, a morphed persona of pale flesh and harsh features, cast him like a ghost over darkness, swaddled in the steel-cloth cloak Rayage had made for him.

"Good evening, Master Trente," The fiend regaled the darkness approaching him, "Such a cold evening for a nocturnal stroll, don't you think?"

[Trente]

*
Cold gripped at Trente and his child as they passed along the cobblestone, and eagerly chased the thought of bed. The interruption came without warning and Trente not only stopped but shifted back a moment. He was no man used to casual challenge, but his legs and mind were still fresh back from Sahova. It had been a trying time, and it would take some work to grow used to the peaceful city of Zeltiva once more. Not a task he needed to endure after all, not with men like Wrenmae around.

His eyes flicked fiercely along the pasty features of the man, stopping to truly see very little. He knew, however, from the brief assessment that this was a man of blades, and if his purposeful pose did not prove his threat then the faintest gleam of his eyes did.

Trente's hand reached mindlessly down to push Matilis back, but he had already fled several paces, no doubt wishing Professor Aelius was there to save them. The Professor had been there at every turn of danger for Matilis, since they had met several moons before in the anarchic city of Sunberth, which had so ruthlessly attempted to enslave both the boy and his Konti protector. The man had nearly started a battle to save the child and his accompaniment, and all his father had ever done to save him was send him without remorse tumbling down steep ship born stairs.

Trente wasted not another moment on thoughts for the child. Palm gripped cool steel and his eyes squinted through the near absolute darkness, as the short burst of sound from withdrawn sword ripped away from him by cold gusts of the bonesnapper. This situation was bad, and Trente knew it.

He was tense, his stomach clenched, his finger's cold. He wore gloves, as always, but they did little against the Zeltivan winter. He counted his blessings that his blade hadn't frozen to his sheathe as it had in seval occasions before. The point stretched out toward his opponent. The stalker possessed superior size, and from the looks of his confidence likely superior skill as well. Duel blades showed a certain indication of over confidence, perhaps formal training, this may be able to be used against them, but these were not the thoughts that frightened him the most. Most of all he looked to the long blades, and realized how imprecise his stalker would not to be to fix them into him, gut him alive. And Trente, stuck again with his rapier would need more light for a fair fight.

"Cold indeed. too cold? Never," he projected through sporadic gusts of whipping wind. They stood in a cross street, shielding from the bonesnapper's direct brace, but if he went for nearest lamp light they would be in direct route of the bay, and thus at the bone snapper's mercy.

"Cold enough that your fingers are tempted to freeze to your blade. You ought to sheathe them before you lose a finger." Trente both hated and relished the situation already. Would the man try to kill him? Why? Would he talk first? The troubled mutt hoped so.

Trente was smaller, by quite a bit, and he hoped this meant his blood moved smoother through him. He would perhaps retain heat better, especially with the metal head covering the stalker's had fixed to his vulnerable pale skin.

"Once you've proven yourself sensible and put those blades away, perhaps you could prove yourself civilized and introduce yourself."
*

[Wrenmae]

Wren caught the diminutive figure retreating behind Trente. A child? Well then, more to protect than simply his body and reputation. A cold grin crossed the borrowed face Wren wore, and he strolled toward Trente with the slow determination of murderous intent. Both blades remained out at his side and although Wren fought dual wielding poorly, still leading with one blade far better than the other, the extra control would be instrumental in dealing with Trente. The last they had faced each other, Shroud had kept the man on the defensive. With superior reach, Trente had kept the lunatic from cutting him. However, Shroud had been simply testing him, not trying to kill him.

Barely restrained murder poured from Wren's skin, the afterglow of his assault on the Waveguard Kip the previous evening. By now word was slowly spreading, but it might take Trente another few days to hear about the brazen killing and the message carved across his chest.

"Always polite, Trente, that's what I've heard about you. Quick with your words and quick with your blade, but I wonder how quick...how quick indeed." Both long daggers spun in Wren's grip with a dexterity and mastery of his weapons that indicated almost intimate familiarity. The cold sheen of the blades gleamed in the dark and he stopped just outside Trente's zone, blades having risen no farther than his hip for the entirety of his journey.

"You may call me Hound, if you wish, but when I'm through with you...I doubt you'll be calling people much of anything anymore."

He relaxed back a step, took a breath, released it with a pale green res, spitting it out over the empty air between them.

"Watch yourself, boy," the phantom warned Trente, closing his eyes for an instant before igniting the res into a flash of fire, blindingly brilliant in the night.

The light would likely blind Trente for an instant and that instant, Wren struck. Low and sprinting, he closed the distance between them and swung up with his blades.

Trente was skilled enough to mount a defense, certainly, but it would be barely there, and their range could not be more out of his favor.

"I hear there's murders out this time of night."

[Trente]

*
Nearly pure darkness bloomed into threatening flame with little warning from Trente's limited knowledge of magic. He was blinded, which somehow seemed less threatening in that moment than the flames racing toward his face. This Hound man wasn't going to waste as much as Trente had hoped on chatter. Something made no sense in all of this, and Trente didn't have near enough the time to piece it all together.

Trente's pose allowed a clean sweeping step to his right, shifting his feet with trained pose. His legs found themselves wider than one would advised, but desiring what little cover he could manage he acted hastily, his heart pumping frantically, only inspired to higher anxiety by the rare screech that Matilis let out, only to have extracted from him by the superior howl of the bonesnapper.

Trente's strategy was not pure intuition, however, intuition would not deliver him through this encounter alone. The cold stone wall seemed a welcomed bastion of safety as he slammed into it. In his mind his right side became protected, shielded by the environment. He found his rapier raise almost before he intended, and blindly blocked at his opposite side.

Desperation filled him as his eyes blinked wildly at the dead zone of vision floating before him in a way that offered only disorientation in the sea of blackness. Then is came with a sudden force and cool chill that bit at him worse than the bonesnapper itself. In his panicked state he could barely feel the exact location, but the pain he felt every ounce of. He didn't scream, or bellow, but let out a distant eery exhale. Hound had seen the clumsy block indeed and circumvented it completely. A single laceration tore from the tender flesh near his belly button upward nearly half his stomach before Trente's body peeled the inch out of the way that likely saved him from instant death. He should have stayed still and made it painless.

The wound wasn't deep, but it also wasn't clean, blood spilled in a matter of moments, and Trente wandered as he felt his heat seep out of him, and soaking along his dirty white shirt and cold skin if he was already dead, and just didn't know it, like the fencers he had heard so many accounts of.

The muted sound of Hound's second blade catching the steel of his own weapon through the beating wind struck him, however. Like a bell summoning the Syliran mutt to round two of their death match. He was reminded of their situation, a dual, and that morale was irreverent in a duel. One won, or they died, and likely both even at the best of times. Death was no limitation to a fencer, many fencers took serious life threatening wounds, were literally dead men walking, and still struck their opponent down.

Trente could not see but his mind blocked off the environment with broad assumptions and lightening speed. Behind him and to his left was open for retreat, and like a broad brush stroke all else there became irreverent. To his right was still blocked so he knew that his opponent danced somewhere between his blade, defending on the outside where the brush of blade to blade occurred and the cold dense wall stretching above them.

There was no room to twist his blade and thrust with any chance of seriously injuring his foe so he allowed it to swivel for a clumsy yet firm high guard instead. His other action was untrained, and nowhere near the second nature of shifting a bladed defense. His left arm arched around from the outside and hit Hound with some force on his dominant arm, Trente fumbled trying to grasp the man's cowl and bash his pasty skull into the hard wall beside them, which he was determined to treat as his ally. He sacrificed too much, however, and underestimated his enemy's familiarity with unarmed combat.

His weight proved insufficient to control the man before him as it was halved. The fencers instinct to retreat defeated his plans to brawl. Trente's dominant leg rose upon the whim of a fleeting thought as soon as he knew where his opponent stood, and planted his foot directly into the man's chest. Before he knew what had happened the man's cool cowl twist in his hand and fell through his fingers, obscuring his opponent's eyes for perhaps a moment but doing nowhere near the damage he had hoped. The two parted at frightening speed and Trente struggled to hold his footing as he landed with shooting pain several paces away.

Oddly it was moments like this that made him reminisce of the fool that instructed him in professional dance. Indeed, he could think of worse company than an ugly psychopath in an alleyway, at least he wasn't nice. At the thought any bystander could catch the most sardonic of smirks cross the panicking man's face.

It struck Trente that he was free, if for only a moment, and despite the possibly mortal wound on his abdomen he still had some fight in him. He ceased the moment of distance to cease higher ground. If the man wished to fight with fire then Trente would go where fire could not burn. It took only a few wide skips backward, abandoning hid fighting stance for speed, to close the distance between him and the main road, his next ally.

With luck the road would shield him from flame, grand him light, and open the field of easier movement. If Trente could survive long enough the cold would claim the bald man with metal cowl before him, but the wound bleeding out Trente's warmth would remedy the chances of that. Still, Trente had more immediate threats, for the mage before him had more tricks in mind then Trente could hope to anticipate.

Trente felt the violent whip of the bonesnapper as he cleared the alleyway, and nearly got blown clear off his feet. Matilis, already had. Toppled on the cobblestone and furred cloak whipping in the wind his father gave him not even a glance, turning to face his aggressor without a single thought of fleeing while he had the chance. Right or wrong, he wanted to see the fight through, besides he knew a pursuit would only bleed him out faster.
*

[Wrenmae]

With a snap of clashing blades, screeching metal, and blood, the two combatants spoke only in the language of combat. Wrenmae was swifter than his opponent, but perhaps not as invested. With one more to defend than himself, Trente handled himself with pure determination and forced grace. First blood was Wren's, a bleeding mouth across his torso. In the cold it would begin to leech his will and ability, but for now they battled between seconds, not minutes.

Trente landed a kick onto Wrenmae's chest, his steelcloth cloak absorbing the brunt of the damage, but widening the gab between them again.

As Trente dashed back into the main street, Wrenmae followed at a similar dash. The wind wrapping around the buildings of Zeltiva harshly thrummed a primal kind of music. With the voice of wind howling in his ears, the ice-slick cobblestone, Wrenmae faced the bleeding Trente amid lantern light and silence. The child was behind Trente, a protective barrier not lost on the murderer.

They caught their breath a moment, staring across the ground at each other. Holding up both blades, Wrenmae gave a single bow, his back dipping low and the cowl over his face before leaning forward and dashing at Trente, the blades out and glinting.

In the wider space, Trente could afford an easier defense. He thrust out toward Wrenmae as he closed, but his opponent stepped forward and twisted his body sideways to avoid the blow, pushing out with his left handed dagger to send the thrust sideways, pushing toward Trente's unprotected throat with his right.

Desperately, Trente leaped away from the blade, barely keeping his balance on the stone beneath him as the murderer melded into a dash again toward the swordsman.

Trente barely allowed the grimace to show on his face. His opponent was using one blade to catch his and the other to stab. It was a vicious tactic utilizing his style, but it was fairly clear he wasn't skilled in wielding both blades as one. The right usually was followed by the left, not synchronous. His mind swift, the life threatening duress of the situation all the more real, Trente feinted a thrust, pulling the blade away as the right hand dagger sailed past. The left was aiming for his leg, but slower than the first. Trente turned sideways, preventing the left from having full access to his body and slashed his blade at Wrenmae's side. The blow was a clear one, but it moaned against his cloak, pausing as if the cloth were somehow steel.

Wrenmae pushed against the blade, rolling alongside it and bringing his elbow up with the left, scoring a blow against Trente's face, crashing against his cheek with an audible crack.

Trente reeled, swinging his blade up to intercept the expected right thrust and leaping backward again to avoid the left. Despite the stranger's obvious lack of skill in dual wielding, he used each dagger he had with an expert edge.

So wrapped in the combat was he that Trente failed to realize the danger till he heard the quiet gasp but a foot behind him as he caught the blood stained blade of the murderer.

His son, flattened by the wind and shaking with fear, was almost within range of the murderer...the murderer who had been pushing him back toward his progeny since the fight began.

And the only indication his realization was part of Wrenmae's design was the widening grin across the face of his attacker.

[Trente]

*
Trente could not recognize all of the ways, but he knew enough to see that the assailant was stretching himself thin. Weakening his acrobatic poise with an unfamiliar morphed body, weakening his balance with a second blade, and blurring his judgement with the expenditure of djed, perhaps not as much as Trente's own with loss of blood. Still, it remained true that the man could only handle so much at once, and his one noticeable flaw was his confidence. His skill was superior, but he showed no respect for the art of chance. No respect for his own limitations, or Trente's opportunities at a lucky blow.

More importantly the man thought he could predict Trente, that Trente was some nefarious well to do noble man that founded a Martial Guild for political power. Most people did, so he couldn't fault his opponent for that.

He wasn't. He was a dirty, heartless, gambling, underhanded pirate, and he had no qualms proving it in a fight, no matter how improvised. He could be the monster that Hound sought after, easier then Hound might anticipate.

As expected he gave another slap of his blade then corrected another feint with a solid single strike and parry block, as per his usual tactic, while taking a final hurried step between Hound and Trente's own son. But then as Hound prepared another of his sweeping rushes Trente gave a true leap back, over his son, and nearly losing his footing on the landing as his off hand fumbled at his belt to take hold his blade which he scarcely knew how to hold. He hoped it would be enough.

He decided this would be it, three lives were at stake and the outcome would come in under five ticks.

His foot rose, and caught his son square on the chest as the small child rose to face his father, tears in eyes. The boy gave a frantic flail as he fell backward toward Hound. Trente exhaled hard, with a fierce yell to accompany, the first of his exclamation during the fight, and likely his last. He follow through by planting his foot firmly down and lunging after his son.

If shroud's advantage was his multiple blades then Trente would give him more targets then he could handle at once. What his attacker thought would be Trente's weakness would prove his only chance at victory.

The piercing flash of rapier point approached at a calculated distance above Matilis' head, backed by the full force of an unorthodox charge of full body weight, yet losing little of its careful angle from the side, prepared for a single motion parry and strike, while closing off any possible retreat to the murderer's right. Just enough so that a single strike could not injure the child and parry with a single blade. Trente counted on this tying up the man's dominant hand, and applying enough force to close distance to complete contact.

But only pure luck would dictate the last of his plan. The small blade in his hand seemed so light and insignificant in comparison to the near swords which his opponent wielded in each fist. Still the tool was tasked with absolute spontaneity. Parry, strike, Trente hadn't the time or experience to process before he lunged. He was no warrior of observation and tactics as his opponent was, and could not best him in true strategy or skill. The mutt was outmatched in all logical ways, which left only instincts and luck.

The bodies and blades flew and Trente accepted no outcome with ease. He poured everything into the final assault and held nothing back, like an animal backed into a corner, like the Kelvic he witnessed upon the deathly island of Sahova. Starved and dying, yet unrelentingly fierce, and brave.
*

[Wrenmae]

When Trente kicked the child, Wrenmae faltered. He saw, in it, himself and recoiled from the phantom. Taking the advantage, Trente charged the distance between them, rapier out first. Desperately, Wren parried the blade, his disguise faltering for a moment as flesh warped across his face like the rippling of water. Between the open folds of cloak, Trente’s dagger found Shroud’s side, slicing through his skin and continuing on, knocking them both to the ground. The pain was immediate, and Wren rolled from it, even as Trente flailed to bring his rapier up to slash haphazardly at his opponent.. Wrenmae rolled from his reach, shielded by the metal-cloth he wore, getting to his feet before Trente and stomping down on his blade, knocking it from his grasp. Still with the dagger, Trente was up and thrust at the murderer.

Pain brought sharp focus to the killer, and Wrenmae caught the dagger with one hand, delivering a shattering blow to Trente’s stomach with the other, the metal of the hilt strengthening his impact. Trente rocked on his feet, trying to gasp for the breath he lost but failing. He staggered back a pace, Wren slugged him across the jaw. Trente swung with his blade, ducking low and spinning to avoid the expected counterattack. But Wren simply pulled res from his body and blasted the young man from his feet with a gale of wind.

Striking the cobblestone, Trente would have risen if a boot had not planted itself between his shoulderblades. Trente struck backwards with the knife, but it was smashed from his grasp. A hand grabbed his hair, pulling the young man’s head up into an awkward angle. He could feel the cold steel of a blade at his throat then, a thin layer of skin separating the duelist from bleeding his life across the Zeltivan street.

The sobs of his child sounded far away, everything must have.

Wrenmae was breathing harshly, his other hand found the wound and came away bloody. It was not fatal, or rather, it wouldn’t be…but for now he had Trente to deal with…and no doubt their clash would have alerted someone. The Waveguard would soon arrive…but Wren was not ready to face them…not yet.

“I’m disappointed,” the rogue whispered harshly in his ear, “Using a child to defend yourself. You are less man than I had hoped, but as skilled as I like…so rather than kill you, I think I’ll offer you a choice instead.”

Turning to the boy, the ugly face of Hound grinned. Wide eyed, terrified, the child looked upon it in numb fear.

“Boy, if you would see this man live, walk to the docks. Stand on the edge. Do not face us.”

Almost mechanically, he obeyed, casting fearful looks back at his father as he took his place at the choppy water’s edge. The wind whipped his frail body, nearly hurled it to the sea. He balanced precariously there and Wrenmae stepped off of Trente, pulling res into this palm.

“The waters are harsh tonight, Trente,” Wrenmae said quietly, “Reminds me of Zeltiva.” Crossing to Trente’s rapier, he picked it up, the knife as well, tossing them to Trente’s feet. “My name is Hound. I will break this city with poison and violence. The Waveguard cannot stop me as they are and only you can lead them into something greater, be something worth protecting Zeltiva.” He waited for Trente to retrieve his blade, circling the warrior till Trente’s back was to his son. “If the Waveguard does not change…if Zeltiva does not change, many will die.” Holding out his hand, a blast of wind hurled Trente’s boy into the tumultuous waves, crashing and singing over his little, struggling form. Only a thin, reedy scream prefaced his descent…then only the splashing of water.

“I will remain here to oppose you for three minutes. Can you hold me off for that long? I will sheathe my blades when the time is up, I assure you. Or will you present your back to my blades now…to save the child?”

Grinning, the murderer spun both his blades across his fingers. A cold had seeped into his body, a warmth leaving him. The wound was considerable enough to warrant attention, but not till after this. He’d use the Maladicted sea star to heal himself after…but now he wanted to see.

Would Trente sacrifice the child rather than put his life in danger?

Or would he brave the blade and waves?

[Trente]

*
Trente's face remained stern as he struggled to his feet and applied pressure to the gash across his midsection, assessing its severity. He had little point for comparison, but it seemed bad enough that he dared not remove his hand, even when taking his blades one by one from the cold ground.

His face gave forth very little as Matilis disappeared over the dock's side, and window ripped past them, stealing heat from the both. Then, without a single word he rose his rapier once more, eyes glued without distraction or thought of running to higher group upon his opponent. Three minutes, he could do that.

His pose was rigid, focused, and purely defensive. Three minutes and he could seek medical attention. And his son, well... he thought little of it, but he knew the boy would have to prove himself to Laviku, or die, just as Trente did as a child. Cold and alone in frozen obsidian waves...

He had no quips for the superior fighter, and though the man's words rolled through his mind to be analyzed and processed he had no interest in engaging in a conversation with such a sick individual. He already had what he wanted, and he hoped it would be enough. He slid the bloodied dagger blade into it's sheathe and squinted against pain and cold. He resolved not to die, or to be lured into any offensive action.
*

[Cascade]

OOCPopping in with a quick post! Unbeknownst to the two combatants, the sea was watching. And when the child fell to the depths of an icy death, he was angered. Amidst the tension between the two, they would suddenly feel a chill rush through their skin and bones. It lasted only a second, but at that moment, they would feel gut-wrenching coldness, as if they were at the very bottom of the ocean itself. The boy, Matilis, felt the unfriendliness of the sea surround him like thousands of needles prickling his skin. It was painful and he fought for the surface, and it was out of his reach. He was a weak one, but he willed to live. The harshness of the sea continued to envelop him, pulling him to its deep and dark depths. He fought and fought, his hands grasping for nothing, and the water only proceeded to pull him further to its lowest points. It seemed like the more he fought to live, the more he realized he was not going to make it. What seemed like minutes turned to hours, and Matilis realized… his father was not coming for him. Then he saw it. There was a speckle of light, tiny at first. It got closer and larger and he realized it was a pair of hands. It had a silvery essence that shimmered in the darkness. It was the last thing he saw before his vision turned to complete darkness. He was carried to the surface, resting in the strong arms of the Sea God. To Trente and Wrenmae, it almost seemed as if the sea itself had pushed itself up unto the docks, and it carried Matilis with it. For some seconds, they would witness a man. He had a mess of long flowing hair and a beard that resembled seaweeds. The strange humanoid figure gently laid the boy on the ground. Matilis was unmoving. That was when Laviku brought his hand across the boy’ss face, and the boy abruptly stirred and grasped to sit up, coughing out water. The sea god had saved him. "You have crossed me before," said a voice that sounded like the rage of the seas. He was referring to Wrenmae. He then looked at Trente—at the father that did not care that his son was drowning. "This boy will not die in my domain. Neither of you shall challenge me further." And just like that, he was gone again, his body falling in a rain of water and merging with the sea. For years, Matilis had lived on the isle where Laviku rested. Whatever he had done to catch the god’s attention, he had done enough.

[Wrenmae]

From the turmoil of surf and spray, Laviku rose from the depths to deposit the child on the docks, gasping and sputtering. Had the boy been left to the devices of what water did best, he would have drowned. Trente had only turned when the commotion at the dock had caught his eye.

Wren ground his teeth together as the god singled him out. Again with his taunt, his pointless dissapproval. The Balnag had been set free because to be a prisoner was worse than death. The seas were nearly boundless and yet Laviku shrank away from a single manufactured serpent?

How he had ever come to respect such a cowardly being was beyond him...his time spent with the Svefra long gone upon his memory. The All-Father stooped low to save a single child while ships plunged into his breast and ne'er returned. Where was the All-Father when Wren drifted into the coast of Sylira, nearly delirious from thirst?

As Laviku plunged back into his briny domain, Wren resisted an urge to spit at his departure.

Instead his eyes found Trente's marking the surprise was as real to him as it had been to Wren. Neither of them could have known of Laviku's intervention...the god's presence lingered in the cold wind, a weight of majesty on the bay of Zeltiva.

Trente was going to let his child drowned.

And that was the only answer Wrenmae needed.

His blades spun in grasp before reaching their sheaths and the figure of Hound reached into his cloak to pull out the seastar he had maladicted ages ago. "Heal." He said simply, replacing it and feeling his Djed leech away, bit by bit, as his bleeding slowed and eventually stopped.

"I think this intervention is enough," he called across to Trente, the wind whipping his words, "You would have let the child drowned there, in the sea...admirable will to live, but perhaps not so fortunate for the boy."

He turned away from the swordsman, heading toward the alley, "I will strike again," he called back to Trente, "So long as the Waveguard are too weak to oppose me and you are too weak to oppose me, I will do as I please in this city."

He chuckled, pausing at the alley to look back.

"Our paths will cross again," he warned, "And when they do...I will not simply be testing you. Prepare for that time."

And then he was gone, leaving only the wind and wounds behind.