Evil things reside in the hearts of man
This is a lesson Kylar learns at an early age, and has only been reinforced as time turned forwards. It is recorded that magic left the world when evil entered men's hearts. They fell from the great heavens to the barren land forced to toil for eternity. And yet the ages continued to pass. Always they passed. Great kingdoms rose and fell, yet people endured. And then man was taught of vices, and murder was born. The one constant in the world. Men would kill men, for all time, for the smallest of things. And sometimes, for the greater good.
This is what Kylar told himself. It was for the greater good. In order to save lies, sometime someone must die. As rain danced all around him, and blood warmed his toes, death had come. Kylar had been it's instrument. A man lay dead, a dagger buried in his left eye. This was but a catalyst for the beginning. This was only what marked him as a murderer, and time marched ever forwards.
Torrin was a glistening gem that sat right at the edge of the Serpents Sea, and was always bustling with activity. High walls discouraged any attempt at an attack, and as such Torrin was able to hold its own neutrality, faux may it be. The market was more of an open corral for cutpurses and sneak thieves. Tellin ruled with an iron fist, and taxes were on the rise despite how crippling things already were. A constant smell of waste permeated all areas, though the nobles at least had the decency to wash theirs down into the warrens where it accumulated between the toes of any urchin that managed a misstep.
This was just where The Black Dragon Company decided to set roots. Once a great mercenary band, they had toured the lands over thirty years past, from battlefield to battlefield, sometimes switching in the heat of bloodshed.
Narbenth Bloodsoaked, ran the Company from his chair, now though. Long since laying his sword down in exchange for a pen. But that didn't change much regarding the Company. Mercenaries for any job, for any price so long as it matched the difficulty of the task. They've taken jobs from finding lost pets, to murder, from subterfuge to assassination. Anything you needed, with no questions asked and complete anonymity, you came to The Black Dragon Company, and you were assigned an 'Employee' for whatever your needs were. Sell swords of all kinds. At least that was Narby's vision. And he succeeded for the most part.
Kylar had worked for the Company all his life. Until one day.
The Black Dragon's sign held to the ceiling outside of the building by one frayed rope, causing it to twist and spin whenever it was hit by the tiniest whisper of wind. The building itself was small, only large enough to be considered a home, much less a place of business. When you entered through the wooden door the creak of rusty hinges sang hello. There was a desk not far from the entrance, and it wrapped itself from one wall to the other in a large L'. Behind the counter sat a large redheaded and bearded man. Narby was a bear of a man, and weighed about as much as one. His cheeks puffed with fat that was rare for someone who lived in the warrens of the town. The man hardly rose from his chair, and when he did, it was usually for a quick trip to a chamber pot or the side of the building to relieve himself. The only other things in the room was a pelt rug. Any visitors or clients would stand. A large iron door blocked everyone's path to the rest of the company. Though mostly it was just living spaces and training areas.
Kylar arose from his wooden mattress. He vowed long ago that if he had to choose between wood and hay, he wouldn't choose hay again. In fact, he didn't mind sleeping on wooden slats with only a small blanket to keep out the winter if it meant he could that ungodly itch that accompanied hay. It brought him enough grief that he was the only one in the company with such an affliction. In one swift motion he pulled his tunic over him, it fit a bit loosely, but once his trousers were on over his smallclothes he belted his sword to his right hip, lending some weight to the fabric and holding it tighter to his frame.
Next followed his leathers, the belts and clasps were intricate, but years of practice served him well and soon enough he was ready to start his day. Stifling a sneeze as he passed another's bunk, he pulled open the door to the mess, and let loose a yawn. He usually slept rough, but he felt like he hardly had any sleep through the entire night. Those wooden slats wouldn't be getting softer either. Maybe he should just deal with the itches and sneezes that came with the hay.
It was during this train of thought that he realized he hadn't grabbed any of his throwing knives, and he made a mental note to grab them before taking any jobs. It was never good to be unprepared.
This is a lesson Kylar learns at an early age, and has only been reinforced as time turned forwards. It is recorded that magic left the world when evil entered men's hearts. They fell from the great heavens to the barren land forced to toil for eternity. And yet the ages continued to pass. Always they passed. Great kingdoms rose and fell, yet people endured. And then man was taught of vices, and murder was born. The one constant in the world. Men would kill men, for all time, for the smallest of things. And sometimes, for the greater good.
This is what Kylar told himself. It was for the greater good. In order to save lies, sometime someone must die. As rain danced all around him, and blood warmed his toes, death had come. Kylar had been it's instrument. A man lay dead, a dagger buried in his left eye. This was but a catalyst for the beginning. This was only what marked him as a murderer, and time marched ever forwards.
Torrin was a glistening gem that sat right at the edge of the Serpents Sea, and was always bustling with activity. High walls discouraged any attempt at an attack, and as such Torrin was able to hold its own neutrality, faux may it be. The market was more of an open corral for cutpurses and sneak thieves. Tellin ruled with an iron fist, and taxes were on the rise despite how crippling things already were. A constant smell of waste permeated all areas, though the nobles at least had the decency to wash theirs down into the warrens where it accumulated between the toes of any urchin that managed a misstep.
This was just where The Black Dragon Company decided to set roots. Once a great mercenary band, they had toured the lands over thirty years past, from battlefield to battlefield, sometimes switching in the heat of bloodshed.
Narbenth Bloodsoaked, ran the Company from his chair, now though. Long since laying his sword down in exchange for a pen. But that didn't change much regarding the Company. Mercenaries for any job, for any price so long as it matched the difficulty of the task. They've taken jobs from finding lost pets, to murder, from subterfuge to assassination. Anything you needed, with no questions asked and complete anonymity, you came to The Black Dragon Company, and you were assigned an 'Employee' for whatever your needs were. Sell swords of all kinds. At least that was Narby's vision. And he succeeded for the most part.
Kylar had worked for the Company all his life. Until one day.
The Black Dragon's sign held to the ceiling outside of the building by one frayed rope, causing it to twist and spin whenever it was hit by the tiniest whisper of wind. The building itself was small, only large enough to be considered a home, much less a place of business. When you entered through the wooden door the creak of rusty hinges sang hello. There was a desk not far from the entrance, and it wrapped itself from one wall to the other in a large L'. Behind the counter sat a large redheaded and bearded man. Narby was a bear of a man, and weighed about as much as one. His cheeks puffed with fat that was rare for someone who lived in the warrens of the town. The man hardly rose from his chair, and when he did, it was usually for a quick trip to a chamber pot or the side of the building to relieve himself. The only other things in the room was a pelt rug. Any visitors or clients would stand. A large iron door blocked everyone's path to the rest of the company. Though mostly it was just living spaces and training areas.
Kylar arose from his wooden mattress. He vowed long ago that if he had to choose between wood and hay, he wouldn't choose hay again. In fact, he didn't mind sleeping on wooden slats with only a small blanket to keep out the winter if it meant he could that ungodly itch that accompanied hay. It brought him enough grief that he was the only one in the company with such an affliction. In one swift motion he pulled his tunic over him, it fit a bit loosely, but once his trousers were on over his smallclothes he belted his sword to his right hip, lending some weight to the fabric and holding it tighter to his frame.
Next followed his leathers, the belts and clasps were intricate, but years of practice served him well and soon enough he was ready to start his day. Stifling a sneeze as he passed another's bunk, he pulled open the door to the mess, and let loose a yawn. He usually slept rough, but he felt like he hardly had any sleep through the entire night. Those wooden slats wouldn't be getting softer either. Maybe he should just deal with the itches and sneezes that came with the hay.
It was during this train of thought that he realized he hadn't grabbed any of his throwing knives, and he made a mental note to grab them before taking any jobs. It was never good to be unprepared.
Love the beginning btw, can I RP with you?
Lucifer wrote:
Love the beginning btw, can I RP with you?
Certainly, It's open, so feel free to jump on in ^^
I should clarify that its currently an only human story, set in the medieval period, and magic has disappeared
The door swung open with a creak, admitting a stout woman into the Black Dragon Company's waiting room. She was clearly a warrior, decked out as she was in lamellar and chain, albeit a rather provincial one. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, revealing her crop of vibrant ginger hair. Probably the most notable thing she carried was the young child in a cloth sling, padded with hare pelts, or perhaps the elkhound that padded faithfully at her side. Currently the child slept, the dog panted, and the woman's dark eyes scanned the room before she entered. Her attention fixed upon Narbenth. "Sit við," she commanded the dog, who settled onto its haunches right beside her, before returning her eyes on the burly fellow behind the desk. "Þú. I need work." Her voice was thickly accented by some Northern dialect or another, though her common was well-parsed. "Have you any?"
((What are the limits as such to this?))
(pretty much already been listed. Human only, no magic, fit the setting.)
Jobs were assigned via cubby slot, with only a few key details to go about. This one would be a murder. An apothecary on the upper west side market. As he entered the main foyer, Narby was busy shaking his head, though slowly, the fat in his cheeks danced with the rhythm. "Fraid all has been ass-"
"You can join mine," Kylar interceded. "We'll need to find a smithy first though." A search of his lockbox before checking for any assignments had shown his weapons had been stolen, and most likely by another guild member. Originally he would have spent his time hunting down the thief, but it wasn't worth it any longer. Any lock could be picked after all, and he only kept subpar gear in the box to keep up the appearance of how poor he, by all accounts, should be. No, most of the good items he had, were kept stored in a safe house on the Eastern side of the lowtown Warren's. What he needed was a specific weapon, and only one Smith knew how to make it. Lucky for him, being part of the underground meant he had access to all sorts of banned items.
Jobs were assigned via cubby slot, with only a few key details to go about. This one would be a murder. An apothecary on the upper west side market. As he entered the main foyer, Narby was busy shaking his head, though slowly, the fat in his cheeks danced with the rhythm. "Fraid all has been ass-"
"You can join mine," Kylar interceded. "We'll need to find a smithy first though." A search of his lockbox before checking for any assignments had shown his weapons had been stolen, and most likely by another guild member. Originally he would have spent his time hunting down the thief, but it wasn't worth it any longer. Any lock could be picked after all, and he only kept subpar gear in the box to keep up the appearance of how poor he, by all accounts, should be. No, most of the good items he had, were kept stored in a safe house on the Eastern side of the lowtown Warren's. What he needed was a specific weapon, and only one Smith knew how to make it. Lucky for him, being part of the underground meant he had access to all sorts of banned items.
Inge propped her free hand on her hip when the scrawny young fellow entered the room. Her eyes picked him apart at the seams, but eventually she walked after him. The dog followed her, and, once close enough, gave Kylar a thorough sniffing. "You have the look of a sneak-thief," the woman commented, perhaps a little disdainfully. "Tell me about the job, little sneak! Tell me on the way to this smith, and show me this city." It was clear she wasn't from the area, judging by her accent and attire--and, less obviously, from the way her eyes kept lifting in wonder at the tall buildings and bustling traffic in the roads.
"Sneak-thief huh?" Kylar arched a brow. "Interesting thought." But he made no other motion for or against the idea. Titles were just what other people called you anyway. They only had power so long as you let them, and he had already learned that lesson.
After a few winding twists to avoid the street urchins eventually the road began to turn upwards, and, soon enough, the small squat shacks gave way to hardy treated wood structures. Though they had to be replaced every now and again, the people had long since learned how to delay rot, if not prevent it entirely.
The market was a bit less crowded than usual, so it didn't take long for Kylar to find a path to his destination, nicking a few coinpurses along the way to add to his own. "Keep a hand near yours," he had said as he sliced the loop that held a bag to a mans belt, "Open spaces make easy targets, and be double'y aware of children. Little guttershites are just as likely to take a finger with your purse. No finesse these days," His tone seemed sorrowful but his calm expression betrayed nothing, before his lips curled into a hollow smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "The jobs a simple one, I just need you for," He paused, almost as though he was searching for the right word, but his eyes had already locked on to a busty blonde that jiggled her way past the road. Only a moment after she was out of sight did he make finish, "Uhh, Insurance." He nodded to a nearby bucket. "Fill that with water. You'll know when it's time."
After a few winding twists to avoid the street urchins eventually the road began to turn upwards, and, soon enough, the small squat shacks gave way to hardy treated wood structures. Though they had to be replaced every now and again, the people had long since learned how to delay rot, if not prevent it entirely.
The market was a bit less crowded than usual, so it didn't take long for Kylar to find a path to his destination, nicking a few coinpurses along the way to add to his own. "Keep a hand near yours," he had said as he sliced the loop that held a bag to a mans belt, "Open spaces make easy targets, and be double'y aware of children. Little guttershites are just as likely to take a finger with your purse. No finesse these days," His tone seemed sorrowful but his calm expression betrayed nothing, before his lips curled into a hollow smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "The jobs a simple one, I just need you for," He paused, almost as though he was searching for the right word, but his eyes had already locked on to a busty blonde that jiggled her way past the road. Only a moment after she was out of sight did he make finish, "Uhh, Insurance." He nodded to a nearby bucket. "Fill that with water. You'll know when it's time."
"Am I wrong?" Inge asked as they headed off, though she didn't sound terribly concerned. The dog padded faithfully at her side, keeping a tight heel formation. The baby was quiet, seemingly asleep. "I might need to know your name, so as to call you that instead of 'sneak-thief.' Mine is Ingulfrid Bolverksdottir." She didn't introduce the dog or child--if Kylar was curious, he could ask.
The young man proved himself fairly quickly to indeed be a sneak-thief, and Inge did as he suggested, sliding her coinpurse to the front of her belt so that prying hands were less likely to find it. A ginger brow quirked high when he grew distracted by the buxom lass that sashayed past them. "'Insurance' is my game," she said wryly, flexing her hands.
The request to fill the bucket took her briefly off guard, as she couldn't yet determine its purpose. She pulled it under the spout and began to work the crank. The spigot gurgled at first, then began to flow. The pumping motion jostled the baby, who began to stir, yet made no sound.
The young man proved himself fairly quickly to indeed be a sneak-thief, and Inge did as he suggested, sliding her coinpurse to the front of her belt so that prying hands were less likely to find it. A ginger brow quirked high when he grew distracted by the buxom lass that sashayed past them. "'Insurance' is my game," she said wryly, flexing her hands.
The request to fill the bucket took her briefly off guard, as she couldn't yet determine its purpose. She pulled it under the spout and began to work the crank. The spigot gurgled at first, then began to flow. The pumping motion jostled the baby, who began to stir, yet made no sound.
"Am I wrong?" She had asked, but Kylar had only shrugged in reply. He was what he was, in one moment he very well could be a sneak-thief.
"Han Richter." His voice was even, and showed no hint of the lie. "You can refer to me by that for today." He rolled his shoulders and watched her grab the pail and head for the nearest pump. He turned and leaned over a nearby shelf. Sliding some gold to the grubby man behind the counter, he slowly grabbed a small vial of red liquid, doing his best to conceal what he'd grabbed by cupping his hand. It wasn't the best way to hide it, but anyone not immediately focused on him wouldn't see what he took.
He snatched a mug of ale, then crouched next to the bucket as it filled, paying no mind to the child or the pet. Dipping two fingers into the ale he began to pat his cheeks and neck with it, then took a mouthful of the bitter liquid. He swished it from one side to another, then spat it on the ground.
Lastly he dipped his hands into the water before running them through his inky hair. Wherever the water touched, it mixed with sweat, and his hair began to clung, looking as though he hadn't bathed in quite a while. He was lucky he had checked his assignment before heading to a wash basin, if he hadn't this job would have been much more difficult. Now, looking grubby and reeking of alcohol, he stood and nodded. It wasn't the best disguise, but it would do. "Keep the pail nearby. You'll need it for the fire."
"Han Richter." His voice was even, and showed no hint of the lie. "You can refer to me by that for today." He rolled his shoulders and watched her grab the pail and head for the nearest pump. He turned and leaned over a nearby shelf. Sliding some gold to the grubby man behind the counter, he slowly grabbed a small vial of red liquid, doing his best to conceal what he'd grabbed by cupping his hand. It wasn't the best way to hide it, but anyone not immediately focused on him wouldn't see what he took.
He snatched a mug of ale, then crouched next to the bucket as it filled, paying no mind to the child or the pet. Dipping two fingers into the ale he began to pat his cheeks and neck with it, then took a mouthful of the bitter liquid. He swished it from one side to another, then spat it on the ground.
Lastly he dipped his hands into the water before running them through his inky hair. Wherever the water touched, it mixed with sweat, and his hair began to clung, looking as though he hadn't bathed in quite a while. He was lucky he had checked his assignment before heading to a wash basin, if he hadn't this job would have been much more difficult. Now, looking grubby and reeking of alcohol, he stood and nodded. It wasn't the best disguise, but it would do. "Keep the pail nearby. You'll need it for the fire."
Ingulfrid kept pumping, though with one hand she now patted the top of her son's head to calm him. Her eyes were riveted to the strange young fellow whom she'd agreed to help. Every action he took added another layer of mystery to the whole affair--it was clear he was putting together some form of disguise. "If you want to look like a drunk, dump it down your chest," she offered, recalling a time she'd indulged in a bit too much Darkwater stout and wound up spilling half of it on poor Geirmund. When Kylar nodded to her, she stopped working the pump and grabbed the bucket's handle. "Fire, is it?" She shook her head and laughed, then recited something that sounded as if it were in verse, "Byrði betri, berrat maðr brautu at, en sé manvit mikit. I should heed this, but I do not. Go on then, little Han; make your move."
First he signaled Ingulfrid to hang back a few paces, but be prepared. "We'll split halfway, since you'll be making my job easier." This time his smile did reach his eyes, it was mischievous, but full of love for what he was about to do. Whatever, or whomever he was, there was love in such excellence. And excellent he would be.
He set his sights on a man near the end of the bazaar, just feet away from the railing that hid the sheer drop from the granite walls to the stairs leading to the beach. A fall wouldn't kill you, but it wouldn't be feeling too good either. He gestured the sign to Ingulfrid. Two finger point, low enough out of sight, with his left hand. This man would be the target.
He wasn't anything special. Long since balding only a belt of hair surrounded the man's head, and a thick mustache clouded his upper lip except for a small jagged scar that forbade any more to grow, causing one half to look much shorter than the other. He was dressed well enough, showing he wasn't overly rich, but wasn't impoverished either. The booth at his side was full of herbs and vials giving a nod to his profession.
Kylar uncorked the bottle, being careful not to spill any, but also keep it hidden in his hand, "Got summin' fer hangover?" He called, letting his left foot drag awkwardly causing him to stumble and overstep, sending him left and right unpredictably. As the apothecary turned to search his inventory, Kylar proceeded to undo the belt of his trousers, clicking the clasp open and pulling enough slack that any splash-back would be minimum. The sudden jolt of warmth caused the man to practically jump out of his skin, before he began beating the Kylar with the leather book he kept documents in. "What the-" In what he hoped appeared to be a desperate attempt to defend himself, he slug outward with the uncorked bottle causing the liquid to coat the man's garments.
Kylar had found the only person in Torrin's underground that sold Liquid Fire. It was moved carefully and in small doses because of it's audacious ability to spontaneously combust whenever it came in contact with water, so if it was even a tiny bit muggy out, you made damn sure not to open it. But on a crisp clear day like today, it was the perfect tool. The only thing that would stop it was salt, but with Ingulfrid's help, he'd already be fried by the time anybody would return with a pale from the ocean.
Wherever the Liquid Fire touched urine, flames burst forth, large and bright. If it wasn't his own plan Kylar himself might not have been able to escape them, but he managed to roll away, tucking his privates for safety, before dropping the persona entirely and disappearing in the ensuing panic.
He set his sights on a man near the end of the bazaar, just feet away from the railing that hid the sheer drop from the granite walls to the stairs leading to the beach. A fall wouldn't kill you, but it wouldn't be feeling too good either. He gestured the sign to Ingulfrid. Two finger point, low enough out of sight, with his left hand. This man would be the target.
He wasn't anything special. Long since balding only a belt of hair surrounded the man's head, and a thick mustache clouded his upper lip except for a small jagged scar that forbade any more to grow, causing one half to look much shorter than the other. He was dressed well enough, showing he wasn't overly rich, but wasn't impoverished either. The booth at his side was full of herbs and vials giving a nod to his profession.
Kylar uncorked the bottle, being careful not to spill any, but also keep it hidden in his hand, "Got summin' fer hangover?" He called, letting his left foot drag awkwardly causing him to stumble and overstep, sending him left and right unpredictably. As the apothecary turned to search his inventory, Kylar proceeded to undo the belt of his trousers, clicking the clasp open and pulling enough slack that any splash-back would be minimum. The sudden jolt of warmth caused the man to practically jump out of his skin, before he began beating the Kylar with the leather book he kept documents in. "What the-" In what he hoped appeared to be a desperate attempt to defend himself, he slug outward with the uncorked bottle causing the liquid to coat the man's garments.
Kylar had found the only person in Torrin's underground that sold Liquid Fire. It was moved carefully and in small doses because of it's audacious ability to spontaneously combust whenever it came in contact with water, so if it was even a tiny bit muggy out, you made damn sure not to open it. But on a crisp clear day like today, it was the perfect tool. The only thing that would stop it was salt, but with Ingulfrid's help, he'd already be fried by the time anybody would return with a pale from the ocean.
Wherever the Liquid Fire touched urine, flames burst forth, large and bright. If it wasn't his own plan Kylar himself might not have been able to escape them, but he managed to roll away, tucking his privates for safety, before dropping the persona entirely and disappearing in the ensuing panic.
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