[Warehouse District] We Are Not Brothers (Wrenmae)

[Abashai]

Timestamp: 75th of Fall, 513 AV

The return to Syliras had stirred Abashai, quickened not only his commitment to the task Nya and he had planned, the revival of Tallshade magecrafting, but in the quiet pursuit of identity. When one's mind is opened to the cycle of lives lived, even learning the nature of some, the question 'who am I?' starts to become 'who am I now?'. Abashai knew he was not the man he was when he first walked into Syliras with Nya four years earlier. Indeed, it seemed like that too was a whole different life.

Even as Nya was wont to wander at night, the restless forest cat needing to stalk her territory, the anxious Benshiran too often found the urge to wander alone. Early evening found the man strolling the less couth streets of the Warehouse District. The elements of the neighborhood were less savory, but the sky was open above the storehouses and businesses. Even then, the expanse above the district was a deep purple as night fell, the lamps and torches being lit sparsely along the ways stealing Shai's ability to catch the last hues of the dying day. Perhaps, too, the Benshiran was drawn to the seedier part of the town for answers, as he had in the service of Kialandra Salvatrice in Ravok.

Abashai passed what had been the Tooth and Claw, as he remembered, but it was no more after the Djed Storm. Even from a distance, he could hear the din of activity from the Spinning Coin. Abashai had never entered the place when last he lived in the city, the then virtuous devotee of Yahal finding no interest in the vices of places like the Coin. He still found no comfort in those diversions, though the Benshiran no longer scoffed at such things in self-righteousness as he once had.

Abashai's steps continued, steady tap of boots along the cobblestone, long dark coat shifting about him slightly as he walked, crystal blue-green eyes surveying the landscape, the gaggle of tipsy drinkers, the pair of armored knights, a woman dressed too scantily for the fall air waiting to be invited to a warm bed. Then the man felt a sensation, an odd inclination that he had not experienced since he dwelt in Ravok, a place where this mental tingle arose often.

[Wrenmae]

The Warehouse District offered Wrenmae an opportunity to seek out the foodstores of Syliras. After his discussion with Nya, he didn't necessarily look to the destruction of the city as easily as he once had...there was a frustration under his skin, a notable annoyance at how easily the kelvic had disarmed his logic and given him such simple counter-proposals.

But he swallowed his annoyance, like everything else, and breathed it in short irritable bursts from his nose. Taking the day, he had wandered the Warehouse district seeking the more well defended storehouses, knowing that for a city of this size, food storage must be significant and varied to promote the purest stability of sustenance during the long winter. So far he had spotted three possible storehouses, each guarded by a pair of the gleaming Knights. Nothing worth guarding was ever left alone...and nothing worth nothing would waste the time of the Knights.

Wren had circled the location thrice now, mercurial face shifting his identity each time. So far, no knight had approached him or noticed that someone in similar clothes, but different faces, had passed several times throughout the day. It was enough, then, that he knew where to strike. All he needed was to be inside with the food for a moment or so, pass Vayt's blessing along, and Syliras would struggle in the winter, make some hard decisions and ultimately come out the stronger.

Satisfied, he strode back toward his temporary residence.

At least until he caught a glimpse of a man among the usual riffraff of the Warehouse district. The fellow was a tall with black flowing hair and the sun-kissed features of an Ekytolian. He wore boots and a black coat that followed the contours of his body as if a trained shadow.

But moreso, Wren could recognize the Chaon on him, just as he would recognize it on Wren.

Their eyes met, both narrowed imperceptively as both of them weighed the consequences of running into another Rhysol touched in the heart of Syliras. Wren knew the dark god, and much of those he chose. There was a conniving and ever manipulative nature within their hearts, a venom and hunger for chaos. Most followed Rhysol blindingly, never aware of his chaotic and truly horrific nature. Mostly, Wren served the god for the boons the lord would give him. He had offered up Syliras on a platter, doing what no operative could in three hundred years...and here he was again, within the very bosom he had betrayed looking down an operative he knew nothing about.

No.

He was too close to be ruined by Rhysol's own chaos.

Turning on his heel, Wren swung away from the man and started to stroll away, waiting for a larger man to pass him by before ducking and charging down an alley, cloak billowing behind him as he sprinted away from his marked brother.

He would not risk exposure with the unpredictability of Rhysol.

[Abashai]

It had been well over a year since Abashai had felt the presence of another one marked by Rhysol, but the unction was unmistakeable, as well as whom possessed the Chaon scar. The Benshiran's crystalline gaze fell to a man passing by. The features of the cloaked stranger were obscured, only the orange glow of a distant door lantern touching a face lost mostly to shadows. He was young, though his face was not soft. Nearly as tall as himself, the man had a moppish cropped mane and dark eyes that met the Benshiran's with an intrigued recognition.

Gazes locked, bootsteps slowed upon the cobbles. The discovery of another Chaon charged Abashai's concern, though his exterior would reveal only a flat countenance. Abashai understood the nature of Chaos to some extent. The Benshiran and Nya had first encountered Rhysol after defeating a small band of Ebonstryfe, sent with a Black Sun agent to establish a shrine in the Cobalts. Both of them were mortally wounded, Abashai with a crossbow bolt through his chest. The God of Chaos appeared, amused by the pluck of the couple, congratulating them for eliminating unworthy followers, and healing them. The incident was confounding for a man devoted to the Holy One, to find favor and healing at the hands of Corruption.

But that was only the beginning. Minions of Rhysol captured and enslaved the couple, and after a long season of torture and manipulation at the hands of the Black Sun, Abashai was deceived into denying Nya, abandoning her and severing bonds with his Kelvic wife. Again, Rhysol appeared unbidden, congratulating the hapless Benshiran on once again unwittingly fulfilling his purposes. For his grand treachery against his love, Abashai was involuntarily granted the Dark Lord's Chaon, a red marring over the place on his neck where Abashai and Nya's Chevas mark once lay. Bound to serve a Black Sun bitch, brainwashed and marked, Abashai became an agent of Chaos himself. Only after meeting the enslaved Nya once again was the power of his enemies over his mind broken, and they could flee. Since their exodus from Ravok, Nya and Abashai have sought vengeance upon Black Sun. Their very purpose in Syliras was to devise the means to do just that.

So, when Abashai felt, and saw with his own eyes, a Chaon, an alarm arose in his soul. He knew Chaon meant chaos, for he fought that foul corruption in his own blood. If indeed an Chaon agent of Rhysol was in Syliras, it bode great ill for the city. There was no fraternal greeting, no desire to exchange dark words. Only the realization within each man that the uncertainty of Chaon chaos could foil their plans. But their intents were contrary. Abashai sought to apprehend the stranger, to interrogate, while the other Chaon wished to withdrawl.

In a flutter of a dark cloak, the stranger fled, darting between pedestrians and disappearing. Abashai gave chase, spotting again the running shape moving down an alley. He ducked into the small street in pursuit.

[Wrenmae]

Wren had a head start, and that was usually enough to put the necessary distance between him and a pursuer. Luckily, the small alley he'd ducked into was not occupied, but it never occurred to him to turn around and attack the Chaon at his heels.

The staccato of boot heels on the cobblestone was enough to ensure the sorcerer that his marked brother had taken up the pursuit. But in a city of Knights all too eager to step forward and prove the mettle of their honor, the sound of steel would draw the Knights here like flies to honey. It would be hard to explain their disagreement then, and the risk of exposing himself here was not one he enjoyed considering.

After all, he had gone through the season in Syliras thus far with virtually no negative consequences.

Maybe this was a flu-

The pace of the heels increased, almost to a superhuman level. Wren dared a glance behind him and could not help but observe that his opponent was suddenly faster, taking longer strides, his eyes blazing in grim determination. Hissing to himself, Wren pushed Djed into his leg muscles, muttering a few nonsense words under his pained breath to access the magic of flux to expedite his escape.

But the man behind him could not be deterred. Wren dodged into other alleys, leaped over refuse, and even pushed old crates and barrels into the way of his adversary to slow his pursuit. Nothing could stop the other Chaon, a paragon of the chase.

He would corner himself soon, Wren knew it even as a fence imposed its stoic resistance to his continued travel. His legs ached, his breath whistled painfully from his throat, but gritting his teeth, he leaped for the top of the fence, hoping to grab it and spirit himself away over it.

But his fingers touched wood an inch below their purchase and instead he slammed into the solid construction and bounced back to the cobblestone.

Hitting the ground, sharp pains lanced up through his arms, even as the frenzied feet of his pursuer slowed.

Wren looked up at Abashai, the Chaon who looked down at him with level breathing and a hand on his weapon. On the ground, the sorcerer could do little more than summon res from his skin, like pale green smoke, to hide within his cloak and along his skin.

"Eager fellow," Wren gasped, coughing, "I don't suppose it's too late to ask you turn around and walk away, is it?"

[Abashai]

The more desperate the stranger's flight became, the more intensely Abashai pursued him. The man's retreat only suggested that there was some reason to catch him, whether he had perpetrated some act of chaos already, or was planning some nefarious deed, the Benshiran Chaon strongly suspected this man was, or would be, guilty.

But the Chaon stranger was strong, fast, and probably younger than the desert man. He leaped over obstacles with ease, and Abashai found himself falling behind as he pounded the stone streets after the man, wondering how his target moved so fast with such agility. If he were to have a chance to catch up, Abashai would have to resort to strength beyond his own. Rarely had he called upon the gift granted to him so long ago by the god he once honored devoutly. As he ran through the alleys, Abashai summoned the Ennervism, feeling it faithfully course through his body, feeding strength to tiring muscles and stony resolve to his purpose of pursuit.

Legs pumped faster and the Benshiran began to close the distance, bounding over or batting away the crates and debris the fleeing man flung behind him. the Abashai saw the fence before them, the running man making a valiant effort to scramble over the wooden wall. But his hold fell short, body slamming against the wood planks before careening to the ground. Abashai slid to a halt before the other Chaon, hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his belt, ready to draw if needed.

Abashai glared down at the man, frowning at the snarky comment. "No, not until I find out what you are doing here. Running away certainly does make one look guilty." The Benshiran replied in a thick desert accent. In the dim light, Abashai was not sure he saw the hint of res that lingered with the man.

[Wrenmae]

Taking another few breaths, the hypnotist gingerly began to get to his feet. The clink of tightening flesh on metal froze him though. His marked brother was smart, never let the opponent gain the ground he most comfortably stands on. He would have an explanation from Wren before the hypnotist stood. Easing himself back down on the cobblestone, he took a moment to listen for the telltale tramp of steel feet on cobblestone. No such harsh retort caught his ear and, for the moment, Abashai and he were obscured by the winding passages of Syliras...alone to their thoughts.

"I could aim the very same question at you," the hypnotist growled, flinching away from an expected swipe of the blade. When none came, he raised his eyes and smiled mirthlessly. "Chaon don't play well together, I'm sure you know this by now. Rest assured I won't be sticking my nose in your business here in Syliras. I'm only here to check up on something, personal self interest, so you can return to poisoning the city or...whatever you're doing in the Warehouse district."

He flexed his res, gathering it near his hands, sinking it into the earth and twisting it beneath Abashai's feet.

"No reason we cannot coexist, we both do the bidding laid down to us, there's no reason to capitalize on our gods OTHER namesake."