'Children of The Shroud' - A Dark Fantasy RP (Interest/Recruitment - CLOSED AND STARTED)
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Name: Ezrah Fifthchild
Of the Fire Rekindled -
Of the Tomes Rewritten -
Of the Night of Blades -
Of the Exodus -
Of the Time of the Fall
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Appearance: Although a short, wiry little savage, with the gaunt frame so typical of children raised in the Drowned District, Ezrah keeps a healthy weight on him, because he?s learned what passes for eating, where it?s found and where it?s hunted, and who can be bludgeoned over the head for an extra morsel. Not uncommon behavior for one of the Marked. Ezrah posses a sinewy sort of strength, the kind born of running, climbing, and crawling not for sport but for survival.
Beneath a crop of short rusty, red-brown hair there?s a face full of odd angles, low, sharp cheekbones, and a square jaw that tapers into a narrow, squared chin. There?s something hawkish in the slant of Ezrah?s nose, something furtive and predatory that even a dash of freckles can?t soften. His eyes are sunken pits beneath a low browline, black or a brown so dark so as to make no difference, full of the low-burning, mad, furious intensity that lingers in the stare of every raptor, a reflection of the ever present hunger in their bellies.
Ezrah?s clothes are a ragged, ever changing circus of the stolen, the salvaged and the looted. The current show consists of a dead man?s boots and his hardened leather jacket, kept for is multitude of clever pockets, a linen undershirt bartered from a seamstress, a pair of canvas trousers snatched from the floor of a brothel while a whore slumbered, a simple satchel - a parting gift from the Crone.
The Marked are not hard to identify if one know?s the proper signs. The start of them can be seen at the nape of Ezrah?s neck. From there a pattern of scar tissue and knotted flesh trails serpentine down his back and around the right side of his rib cage. It tells the story of his times and the four generations that came before him, reaching back some hundred years to the time of the death of the self-proclaimed 'High Magus' Artor Sandovaal, the time of pride and folly.
History: Ezrah?s earliest memories are of the Crone, the only family he?d ever known in truth, if she could be called as much. Crone she was so crone he called her, as soon as he was old enough to have words in his mouth. He didn?t know her true name until he was nearly a man, Sheeva Thirdchild, Of the Night of Blades - Of the Exodus - Of the Time of the Fall. But before then, she was merely Crone, and in his heart he knows her by no other name.
There was something like love between Ezrah and the Crone. She raised him because she was of the rare few among the Marked who lived long enough to serve no other purpose. She knew that as her eyes dimmed and her bones stiffened, she?d need someone to tend to her needs. She knew she?d find no such tender mercy from her own kith and kin, little solidarity existed amongst the Marked, beyond a shared Beginning and a shared Ending. Ezrah filled the role sufficiently. When he was old enough to toddle, he was old enough to beg, and when he was old enough to run, he was old enough to steal. He filled their bellies, and in turn, the Crone filled his mind.
From the Crone, Ezrah learned of Artor Sandovaal, of his genius; the teachings that threatened to shake the priests of Juiniss from their slumber; the holy writ that tore at the foundations of the Chantry itself. Sandovaal knew the deep things, the old magics arcane and practical, the magic in the extracts of plants and stone, the magic of the apothecary and the grenadier, and he knew the One Truth: all things must end. He could see the pattern of it everywhere; every system, every civilization, every life, would eventually unwind and dissolve into its constituent parts. If Dus rose and Dus made and Dus was torn asunder, so all things would follow that pattern. One day, even the Gods would die, all would be silent, and all would rise again, changed, better. The World turns and all is Made and all is Unmade.
Ezrah learned of Artor Sandovaal, of his glory, his pride, and his folly; the folly that blinded him, the volley that made him think you could burn a man?s home and temple and that he would thank you for it, the folly that saw his writings and teaching deemed heresy, that saw him stripped, flogged and quartered, his wealth seized, his followers slain or scattered. This was the Beginning that all Marked shared, the knot that bound them. They were less than a people but more than a cult; all the world was a powder keg, forever on the cusp of ferment and change, and they were the drifting sparks.
Ezrah loved the Crone, loved her because she sharpened his mind and filled it with tools that could never be broken, because she bound his wounds and set broken bones after his misadventures, because she treated him with kindness. Of course, if a thing exists, so does its opposite, its reflection. Ezrah loved the Crone, and he hated her. He hated her because she showed him his own stupidity, why he must be faulted for any wound his body bore. He hated her because she showed him more pain than he?d ever found after a thrashing in the gutters. In his fifteenth year, she Marked him as was proper, so that his flesh might remember even if his mind forgot, binding him so he could not thrash about and painting him with oil and lye.
Six months ago, the Crone felt the creeping touch of her End, and knew that she must choose her own unmaking. Ezrah wept for the Crone who was less than mother but more than mentor, the only tears he?d ever spilled for another. She kissed them away, and bid him help her with her final preparations, to wrap her body and stuff her clothing with kindling, powder, and fuse. In the end, a boy and old woman left the Drowned District and made their way to Kragenau?s busiest market square. No one remembers the passage of the boy and the old woman, but all the city remembers the explosion. The World turns and all is made and all is unmade.
Personality: Ezrah has always been a quiet sort of youth, raised on the strange, cynical zeal of the Marked and all the cruelty the gutters could muster. An odd sort of egocentricity is bound up in the boy?s bones, a morality that works from the inside out, that walks a fine line between complete empathy and none whatsoever. Sandovaal?s writings praised the Natural Law, and Ezrah embodies such teachings. A savage in the purest, most unbiased sense, Ezrah would not hesitate to bludgeon a stranger to death for the bread he carried, just as a wolf does not shed tears over the deer it brings down.
The lad ascribes value to those he encounters, and this dictates how he interacts with them, a deadly and simplistic system that paints him kindly and meek towards some, and ruthless to others. He is honest, gentle, humble, and quite frankly, a casual killer. The value is key. To be valuable is to be human, but Ezrah is the only human Ezrah truly knows, all others must be judged. To those worthy of friendship, Ezrah is amiable and polite. To those without value, at best Ezrah is a mute ghost, at worst he?s an End. The brittle quality of such split reasoning might strain a more rational mind, but Ezrah has a mind like coiled razor wire and a patience that borders on the pathological, determining value is a simple thing.
Skills: Ezrah?s skills as an apothecary are limited. he knows the recipes and he knows how to acquire components, but the mixing itself was the Crone?s work. His attempts to replicate her techniques have met with only moderate success. His knowledge of explosives is even more vague and heavily ritualized, after all, most of the writing the Marked hold dear are more manifesto than manual. Still, a few of the more basic compounds are within his reach, and he?s got a mind to learn more. The trade and barter in poisons and potions was always informal, an easy route to food.
As far as any physical conflict is concerned, Ezrah knows how to run. If that?s not an option, he?s got a heavy wooden cudgel and a natural, latent ferocity, typically enough to handle the average Drowned District thug or stupid, desperate gutter child.
Of the Fire Rekindled -
Of the Tomes Rewritten -
Of the Night of Blades -
Of the Exodus -
Of the Time of the Fall
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Appearance: Although a short, wiry little savage, with the gaunt frame so typical of children raised in the Drowned District, Ezrah keeps a healthy weight on him, because he?s learned what passes for eating, where it?s found and where it?s hunted, and who can be bludgeoned over the head for an extra morsel. Not uncommon behavior for one of the Marked. Ezrah posses a sinewy sort of strength, the kind born of running, climbing, and crawling not for sport but for survival.
Beneath a crop of short rusty, red-brown hair there?s a face full of odd angles, low, sharp cheekbones, and a square jaw that tapers into a narrow, squared chin. There?s something hawkish in the slant of Ezrah?s nose, something furtive and predatory that even a dash of freckles can?t soften. His eyes are sunken pits beneath a low browline, black or a brown so dark so as to make no difference, full of the low-burning, mad, furious intensity that lingers in the stare of every raptor, a reflection of the ever present hunger in their bellies.
Ezrah?s clothes are a ragged, ever changing circus of the stolen, the salvaged and the looted. The current show consists of a dead man?s boots and his hardened leather jacket, kept for is multitude of clever pockets, a linen undershirt bartered from a seamstress, a pair of canvas trousers snatched from the floor of a brothel while a whore slumbered, a simple satchel - a parting gift from the Crone.
The Marked are not hard to identify if one know?s the proper signs. The start of them can be seen at the nape of Ezrah?s neck. From there a pattern of scar tissue and knotted flesh trails serpentine down his back and around the right side of his rib cage. It tells the story of his times and the four generations that came before him, reaching back some hundred years to the time of the death of the self-proclaimed 'High Magus' Artor Sandovaal, the time of pride and folly.
History: Ezrah?s earliest memories are of the Crone, the only family he?d ever known in truth, if she could be called as much. Crone she was so crone he called her, as soon as he was old enough to have words in his mouth. He didn?t know her true name until he was nearly a man, Sheeva Thirdchild, Of the Night of Blades - Of the Exodus - Of the Time of the Fall. But before then, she was merely Crone, and in his heart he knows her by no other name.
There was something like love between Ezrah and the Crone. She raised him because she was of the rare few among the Marked who lived long enough to serve no other purpose. She knew that as her eyes dimmed and her bones stiffened, she?d need someone to tend to her needs. She knew she?d find no such tender mercy from her own kith and kin, little solidarity existed amongst the Marked, beyond a shared Beginning and a shared Ending. Ezrah filled the role sufficiently. When he was old enough to toddle, he was old enough to beg, and when he was old enough to run, he was old enough to steal. He filled their bellies, and in turn, the Crone filled his mind.
From the Crone, Ezrah learned of Artor Sandovaal, of his genius; the teachings that threatened to shake the priests of Juiniss from their slumber; the holy writ that tore at the foundations of the Chantry itself. Sandovaal knew the deep things, the old magics arcane and practical, the magic in the extracts of plants and stone, the magic of the apothecary and the grenadier, and he knew the One Truth: all things must end. He could see the pattern of it everywhere; every system, every civilization, every life, would eventually unwind and dissolve into its constituent parts. If Dus rose and Dus made and Dus was torn asunder, so all things would follow that pattern. One day, even the Gods would die, all would be silent, and all would rise again, changed, better. The World turns and all is Made and all is Unmade.
Ezrah learned of Artor Sandovaal, of his glory, his pride, and his folly; the folly that blinded him, the volley that made him think you could burn a man?s home and temple and that he would thank you for it, the folly that saw his writings and teaching deemed heresy, that saw him stripped, flogged and quartered, his wealth seized, his followers slain or scattered. This was the Beginning that all Marked shared, the knot that bound them. They were less than a people but more than a cult; all the world was a powder keg, forever on the cusp of ferment and change, and they were the drifting sparks.
Ezrah loved the Crone, loved her because she sharpened his mind and filled it with tools that could never be broken, because she bound his wounds and set broken bones after his misadventures, because she treated him with kindness. Of course, if a thing exists, so does its opposite, its reflection. Ezrah loved the Crone, and he hated her. He hated her because she showed him his own stupidity, why he must be faulted for any wound his body bore. He hated her because she showed him more pain than he?d ever found after a thrashing in the gutters. In his fifteenth year, she Marked him as was proper, so that his flesh might remember even if his mind forgot, binding him so he could not thrash about and painting him with oil and lye.
Six months ago, the Crone felt the creeping touch of her End, and knew that she must choose her own unmaking. Ezrah wept for the Crone who was less than mother but more than mentor, the only tears he?d ever spilled for another. She kissed them away, and bid him help her with her final preparations, to wrap her body and stuff her clothing with kindling, powder, and fuse. In the end, a boy and old woman left the Drowned District and made their way to Kragenau?s busiest market square. No one remembers the passage of the boy and the old woman, but all the city remembers the explosion. The World turns and all is made and all is unmade.
Personality: Ezrah has always been a quiet sort of youth, raised on the strange, cynical zeal of the Marked and all the cruelty the gutters could muster. An odd sort of egocentricity is bound up in the boy?s bones, a morality that works from the inside out, that walks a fine line between complete empathy and none whatsoever. Sandovaal?s writings praised the Natural Law, and Ezrah embodies such teachings. A savage in the purest, most unbiased sense, Ezrah would not hesitate to bludgeon a stranger to death for the bread he carried, just as a wolf does not shed tears over the deer it brings down.
The lad ascribes value to those he encounters, and this dictates how he interacts with them, a deadly and simplistic system that paints him kindly and meek towards some, and ruthless to others. He is honest, gentle, humble, and quite frankly, a casual killer. The value is key. To be valuable is to be human, but Ezrah is the only human Ezrah truly knows, all others must be judged. To those worthy of friendship, Ezrah is amiable and polite. To those without value, at best Ezrah is a mute ghost, at worst he?s an End. The brittle quality of such split reasoning might strain a more rational mind, but Ezrah has a mind like coiled razor wire and a patience that borders on the pathological, determining value is a simple thing.
Skills: Ezrah?s skills as an apothecary are limited. he knows the recipes and he knows how to acquire components, but the mixing itself was the Crone?s work. His attempts to replicate her techniques have met with only moderate success. His knowledge of explosives is even more vague and heavily ritualized, after all, most of the writing the Marked hold dear are more manifesto than manual. Still, a few of the more basic compounds are within his reach, and he?s got a mind to learn more. The trade and barter in poisons and potions was always informal, an easy route to food.
As far as any physical conflict is concerned, Ezrah knows how to run. If that?s not an option, he?s got a heavy wooden cudgel and a natural, latent ferocity, typically enough to handle the average Drowned District thug or stupid, desperate gutter child.
Just so y'all know, I'm going back and adding another note to the notes/rules section that you'll wanna check out.
Recruitment isn't over over yet, we're still waiting on some more sheet submissions.CrazyGirl17 said:
Ah, okay then. I'm hoping things will pick up real soon, though maybe I'm just a little over-eager...Daystar Clarion said:
Okay, while I know of at least one person who is still planning to post a sheet, I think it's clear now that anyone else in the ether who might have been interested would have posted something by now if they were going to at all, So I'm initiating a 24 hour last call on recruitment. Anyone else out there working on something needs to have posted it here by 1:40 AM (GMT) tomorrow if they want to be considered. After that, I'll notify everyone who's been accepted via PM, we'll get the Skype group set up, and without further ado we'll be on our way! 
Name: Langston Devero
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Appearance:
When standing straight, Langston finds himself towering over those he considers his betters. He stands at an uncomfortable 6'3" and, as a result, he tends to sit down or hunch over when around others, hoping to lessen the attention his unnatural appearance draws. His family had always deemed his lanky figure unhealthy, claiming he was too thin. As his flesh begins to pull taut over his ribs he starts to realize just how wrong they were.
His angular face is slender with high cheekbones, a narrow pointed noise, and thin cracked lips that are only made vibrant by the surrounding white stubble. His skin is soft to the touch and colorless, aside from some bruises and the smears of charcoal that remain on his hands and furrowed brow. His large delicate pink eyes are undoubtedly his most striking feature, though the few who knew him stopped noticing long ago, and the few that notice him now only see that they are different. He rarely looks away from his work, but when he does, he does so subtly hiding his gaze beneath a wispy tuft of straight white bangs and a weathered hood.
Since coming to the Drowned District, Langston has remained innocuous. As a result he has been able to hang on to a few relics from his old life: a stained long sleeved button down shirt, a pair of pleated beige pants, a pair of suspenders with silver etched fastenings, a stick of charcoal, and a few loose pieces of parchment. Over his fine clothes he wears a large hooded coat he scavenged from a dead vagrant. He keeps the coat tightly fastened and tied in an attempt to hide his finer apparel. Like so many of his other possessions, his shoes were taken his first night in the Drowned District; he now binds his feet in whatever rags he can find.
History:
The Devero name is a highly respected name within Kragenau's walls and is well known throughout the Central Union of The Faith. (Debatably) Tracing their linage back to the First of Juiniss' chosen, the line once sired some of the most prominent masons in the nation's history.
Though the family name remains strong, their numbers are beginning to dwindle. Traditionally, the Deveros have been considered a reclusive family. When it comes to matters that are unrelated to business they treat non-members with an almost xenophobic fervor. Fearful of tainting their heritage, they only wed within their family or those families they believe are descendants of the first of Juiniss' chosen. Generations of inbreeding have lead to a decrease in fertility and a whole host of deformed children deemed "failures" by the priesthood of Gilliajilia. Over the past few generations the family's size decreased dramatically, and has been reduced to a handful of members. This is the source of their current decline.
When Jeanne became pregnant for a fourth time, she and Theodore agreed to refuse a midwife, or any help from the church of Gilliajilia for that matter. After having two miscarriages Jeanne felt blessed when she delivered her first baby, and damned as she watched it drown. They were determined to keep their 4th child, regardless of the consequences.
When Langston was born his parents' fears were confirmed. He, like his sister before him, suffers from a rare affliction that has tainted recent generations of the Devero line. They pitied their new son, as even with the estate at his disposal they knew he would have a lackluster life; but if he were to leave he would be found, and the Priests of Giliajilia would be merciless.
Despite being Deveros, his parents were quite the socialites, which meant that more often than not, Langston was alone. From a very young age he started to spend his days reading, studying architecture, sketching, day dreaming, or staring at his clock, watching the hands sluggishly move forward. He quickly found that the clock was his closest friend and an even crueler adversary. As months passed his contempt for the old thing grew, until the day it suddenly stopped. In a panic, he pulled the clock off his bureau and began to tinker with it. As he pulled it apart piece by piece, an abnormal calm washed over him. Time melted away and the day passed without his notice. Langston was eventually able to get the clock back into working order and, from then on, he passionately dedicated himself to the study of engineering alongside architecture.
By Langston's 12th birthday his obsession with tinkering and architecture began to consume him.
Though he was very knowledgeable about those two specific subjects, he was almost comically ignorant in every other area. To resolve this issue his parents hired their niece, Sandra Devero, to tutor him for five hours daily. Initially their relationship was strained (due mostly to Langston's shyness and inattentiveness), but over the years she and Langston developed an understanding which built the foundation for a beautiful friendship. Being 15 years his senior, Sandra became like an elder sister or a sort of surrogate mother. After he turned 19 and no longer needed the tutoring, she continued to visit for an hour each day.
As Langston grew into adulthood he became listless and his relationship with his parents (which was never great) became uncomfortable. Though he knew they both loved him deeply, he could not help but feel like a burden--his father had spent years teaching him about masonry, a skill that he could never fully utilize given his lifestyle, and his mother was still stuck taking care of him, though he was in fact an adult. Feeling the gap widen between him and his son, Theodore decided it was time to bring Langston to his place of inspiration: the catacombs. (Since the house is ancient, its basement connects to the catacombs.) He charged Langston with the task of exploring the area, mapping out the surroundings, and marking areas of interest (ones that could inspire some of his future projects.) Filled with a sense of purpose, Langston explored the catacombs with a renewed vigor.
Two months prior to the prologue, Theodore was selected as a candidate to become an "Adept Mason of the Temple of Juiniss," a very powerful and desired position amongst the wealthy of Kragenau. As soon as Theodore was selected, his political rivals began to search for a way to discredit him or black mail him into declining the position. Within the first two weeks Theodore realized that if he continued down this path he would not be able to hide his son any longer. He spoke at length with his wife and they both came to the conclusion that they needed to send their son away until Theodore was safely and securely in his new position. They arranged to have him secretly taken to the countryside where Sandra agreed to care for him until he could return.
Langston and Sandra were to travel in the family (vehicle) chauffeured by a family servant who, like all that serve the Deveros, had been paid for both his work and silence. After traveling for a time the car stopped. Sandra quickly grew suspicious and decided to peek out the thickly draped windows. The doors flew open suddenly and Langston and Sandra were drug into the streets by two unfamiliar men. Langston flailed out reflexively elbowing the man in the face and causing him to collapse. Langston turned to see two more men walk out from in front of the car and Sandra struggling against the third. When Sandra saw that he had been unhanded, she screamed at him, telling him to run. He obeyed her and started running, deeper and deeper into the Drowned District. After passing a few blocks he heard gun shots and then silence. Langston collapsed in the street, just now fully realizing what had just occurred.
Langston has spent roughly a month and a half in the Drowned District. Life has been very difficult for him: many of his possessions have been stolen, he has been beaten by the district's residents, and he has barely eaten since Sandra's death. Since being here he has learned to stay hidden and to remain inconspicuous. Langston is lost and is having trouble finding a way out of this predicament. He knows it's ridiculous, but his current plan is to find a way to the catacombs and navigate them back to his home.
Personality:
A life of general solitude shaped most of Langston's personality. At a young age he had become completely introverted and showed signs of odd behavior. When around others he rarely speaks, even if it is just his parents. When he does speak he does so slowly, choosing every word carefully while averting his eyes.
Langston is always stuck in his own head and finds it difficult to express his thoughts coherently to those around him. His blank, relatively static expression is difficult to read, and commonly described as off putting. Though his inability to communicate effectively can sometimes be frustrating, Langston rarely becomes angry or emotional at all. He instead patiently thinks of the best way to explain his thoughts. To compensate he sometimes employs the use of sketches to explain his ideas fully.
The only time Langston seems completely at ease is when alone, when working on a project, or when he is around Sandra. He becomes pleasant company, his posture relaxes allowing his lanky body to unfurl and he becomes quite talkative--almost excitable. Though most never see it, Langston is actually a tranquil and considerate man who is filled with an unwavering sense of resolve.
Skills:
Langston has had an extensive education and is able to read, write, and draw. He is well learned in the field of Architecture, but isn't very skilled. Having only built models, Langston's actual skill in the area is limited to sketching designs and map making. He has more practical experience in Engineering, considering he spent most his days pulling apart various objects and designing better methods for re-creating them. He is also very creative and able to think outside of the box. He delights in finding practical solutions to difficult problems.
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Appearance:
When standing straight, Langston finds himself towering over those he considers his betters. He stands at an uncomfortable 6'3" and, as a result, he tends to sit down or hunch over when around others, hoping to lessen the attention his unnatural appearance draws. His family had always deemed his lanky figure unhealthy, claiming he was too thin. As his flesh begins to pull taut over his ribs he starts to realize just how wrong they were.
His angular face is slender with high cheekbones, a narrow pointed noise, and thin cracked lips that are only made vibrant by the surrounding white stubble. His skin is soft to the touch and colorless, aside from some bruises and the smears of charcoal that remain on his hands and furrowed brow. His large delicate pink eyes are undoubtedly his most striking feature, though the few who knew him stopped noticing long ago, and the few that notice him now only see that they are different. He rarely looks away from his work, but when he does, he does so subtly hiding his gaze beneath a wispy tuft of straight white bangs and a weathered hood.
Since coming to the Drowned District, Langston has remained innocuous. As a result he has been able to hang on to a few relics from his old life: a stained long sleeved button down shirt, a pair of pleated beige pants, a pair of suspenders with silver etched fastenings, a stick of charcoal, and a few loose pieces of parchment. Over his fine clothes he wears a large hooded coat he scavenged from a dead vagrant. He keeps the coat tightly fastened and tied in an attempt to hide his finer apparel. Like so many of his other possessions, his shoes were taken his first night in the Drowned District; he now binds his feet in whatever rags he can find.
History:
The Devero name is a highly respected name within Kragenau's walls and is well known throughout the Central Union of The Faith. (Debatably) Tracing their linage back to the First of Juiniss' chosen, the line once sired some of the most prominent masons in the nation's history.
Though the family name remains strong, their numbers are beginning to dwindle. Traditionally, the Deveros have been considered a reclusive family. When it comes to matters that are unrelated to business they treat non-members with an almost xenophobic fervor. Fearful of tainting their heritage, they only wed within their family or those families they believe are descendants of the first of Juiniss' chosen. Generations of inbreeding have lead to a decrease in fertility and a whole host of deformed children deemed "failures" by the priesthood of Gilliajilia. Over the past few generations the family's size decreased dramatically, and has been reduced to a handful of members. This is the source of their current decline.
When Jeanne became pregnant for a fourth time, she and Theodore agreed to refuse a midwife, or any help from the church of Gilliajilia for that matter. After having two miscarriages Jeanne felt blessed when she delivered her first baby, and damned as she watched it drown. They were determined to keep their 4th child, regardless of the consequences.
When Langston was born his parents' fears were confirmed. He, like his sister before him, suffers from a rare affliction that has tainted recent generations of the Devero line. They pitied their new son, as even with the estate at his disposal they knew he would have a lackluster life; but if he were to leave he would be found, and the Priests of Giliajilia would be merciless.
Despite being Deveros, his parents were quite the socialites, which meant that more often than not, Langston was alone. From a very young age he started to spend his days reading, studying architecture, sketching, day dreaming, or staring at his clock, watching the hands sluggishly move forward. He quickly found that the clock was his closest friend and an even crueler adversary. As months passed his contempt for the old thing grew, until the day it suddenly stopped. In a panic, he pulled the clock off his bureau and began to tinker with it. As he pulled it apart piece by piece, an abnormal calm washed over him. Time melted away and the day passed without his notice. Langston was eventually able to get the clock back into working order and, from then on, he passionately dedicated himself to the study of engineering alongside architecture.
By Langston's 12th birthday his obsession with tinkering and architecture began to consume him.
Though he was very knowledgeable about those two specific subjects, he was almost comically ignorant in every other area. To resolve this issue his parents hired their niece, Sandra Devero, to tutor him for five hours daily. Initially their relationship was strained (due mostly to Langston's shyness and inattentiveness), but over the years she and Langston developed an understanding which built the foundation for a beautiful friendship. Being 15 years his senior, Sandra became like an elder sister or a sort of surrogate mother. After he turned 19 and no longer needed the tutoring, she continued to visit for an hour each day.
As Langston grew into adulthood he became listless and his relationship with his parents (which was never great) became uncomfortable. Though he knew they both loved him deeply, he could not help but feel like a burden--his father had spent years teaching him about masonry, a skill that he could never fully utilize given his lifestyle, and his mother was still stuck taking care of him, though he was in fact an adult. Feeling the gap widen between him and his son, Theodore decided it was time to bring Langston to his place of inspiration: the catacombs. (Since the house is ancient, its basement connects to the catacombs.) He charged Langston with the task of exploring the area, mapping out the surroundings, and marking areas of interest (ones that could inspire some of his future projects.) Filled with a sense of purpose, Langston explored the catacombs with a renewed vigor.
Two months prior to the prologue, Theodore was selected as a candidate to become an "Adept Mason of the Temple of Juiniss," a very powerful and desired position amongst the wealthy of Kragenau. As soon as Theodore was selected, his political rivals began to search for a way to discredit him or black mail him into declining the position. Within the first two weeks Theodore realized that if he continued down this path he would not be able to hide his son any longer. He spoke at length with his wife and they both came to the conclusion that they needed to send their son away until Theodore was safely and securely in his new position. They arranged to have him secretly taken to the countryside where Sandra agreed to care for him until he could return.
Langston and Sandra were to travel in the family (vehicle) chauffeured by a family servant who, like all that serve the Deveros, had been paid for both his work and silence. After traveling for a time the car stopped. Sandra quickly grew suspicious and decided to peek out the thickly draped windows. The doors flew open suddenly and Langston and Sandra were drug into the streets by two unfamiliar men. Langston flailed out reflexively elbowing the man in the face and causing him to collapse. Langston turned to see two more men walk out from in front of the car and Sandra struggling against the third. When Sandra saw that he had been unhanded, she screamed at him, telling him to run. He obeyed her and started running, deeper and deeper into the Drowned District. After passing a few blocks he heard gun shots and then silence. Langston collapsed in the street, just now fully realizing what had just occurred.
Langston has spent roughly a month and a half in the Drowned District. Life has been very difficult for him: many of his possessions have been stolen, he has been beaten by the district's residents, and he has barely eaten since Sandra's death. Since being here he has learned to stay hidden and to remain inconspicuous. Langston is lost and is having trouble finding a way out of this predicament. He knows it's ridiculous, but his current plan is to find a way to the catacombs and navigate them back to his home.
Personality:
A life of general solitude shaped most of Langston's personality. At a young age he had become completely introverted and showed signs of odd behavior. When around others he rarely speaks, even if it is just his parents. When he does speak he does so slowly, choosing every word carefully while averting his eyes.
Langston is always stuck in his own head and finds it difficult to express his thoughts coherently to those around him. His blank, relatively static expression is difficult to read, and commonly described as off putting. Though his inability to communicate effectively can sometimes be frustrating, Langston rarely becomes angry or emotional at all. He instead patiently thinks of the best way to explain his thoughts. To compensate he sometimes employs the use of sketches to explain his ideas fully.
The only time Langston seems completely at ease is when alone, when working on a project, or when he is around Sandra. He becomes pleasant company, his posture relaxes allowing his lanky body to unfurl and he becomes quite talkative--almost excitable. Though most never see it, Langston is actually a tranquil and considerate man who is filled with an unwavering sense of resolve.
Skills:
Langston has had an extensive education and is able to read, write, and draw. He is well learned in the field of Architecture, but isn't very skilled. Having only built models, Langston's actual skill in the area is limited to sketching designs and map making. He has more practical experience in Engineering, considering he spent most his days pulling apart various objects and designing better methods for re-creating them. He is also very creative and able to think outside of the box. He delights in finding practical solutions to difficult problems.
Name: Skylar Swyer
Age: 16
Gender: Female
Appearance: A waif-like, fragile little thing. Despite all of the dirt, fleas and other nasties in the Drowned District, she keeps her long blonde hair in a plait, rather than simply having it shaved off. Skylar looks much younger than she actually is, partly due to her short size and malnourished body, but mostly due to the fact that she hasn?t experienced puberty - even at her age. It is in fact an impossible for her to, not without expensive treatment. As if to spite her dismal surroundings, she always wears a glowing smile which pierces the darkness of the dirt on her face and body. In short, her smile is radiant.
Skylar?s skin is pale, not because of her condition, but because of the relatively short time she has spent outside. Sadly, the Drowned District was her introduction to the outside world. Her eyes are amber, dull brown until they catch the light, then the iris is filled with a burst of orange. Skylar has kind, child-like face, with a button nose. A mole can seen by her lips. Her only piece of clothing is what was once her nightgown and now just a piece of tattered clothing that still clings to her body. Even the ribbon looks a little mangled. Skylar goes barefoot, as slippers don?t tend to last long in such an environment.
History: She was the pride of the Swyer family and she was the shame of the Swyer family.
The Swyers were a good, honest, hardworking, Juiniss-worshipping merchant family. Though they were not the most prestigious or wealthy. Sixteen years ago, a beautiful baby was born to a Alexandria and Samuel Swyer. The midwife could see nothing wrong with it, and so it was permitted to live. But, the parents didn?t rejoice just yet. After numerous stillbirths, false starts and purchases of tiny coffins, they chose to hold their breath. Sighs of relief were had on Skylar?s first birthday, and with that success, the Swyers decided to try for another. Even so, little Skylar wasn?t neglected. Her early life was full of happiness.
She played with dolls, was taught how to be a lady, played with the maid hired to look after her while her parents went about their business and so on. Though, her parents were a little overprotective of her and never let her go outside. Nevertheless, things began to change once Alexandria gave birth to a son, who they called Dwight. Skylar was around thirteen at the time and found that she wasn?t the center of attention anymore. That dissatisfaction grew and soon she began to hate her parents, and their constant control over her life and everything in it.
Meanwhile, her maid that noticed something very peculiar about Skylar. The two had a very good relationship, the maid was the older sister she never had. They could talk about anything and everything, and did so. The subject of ?flowering? had been coming up more and more. Skylar had simply replied that it hadn?t started yet, every time. The servant relayed that little titbit to her parents and their celebrations of another successful birth were cut short by that development. But not for long. Samuel and Alexandria decided to wait a while. After, it could just have been that Skylar was a slow starter.
One and a half years passed, and still nothing. Even Skylar herself was getting worried, she didn?t want to remain a child forever. Her parents saw no choice but to confine her in her room and disallow visitors to avoid becoming a laughingstock. Skylar was left with her dolls, her dresses and her maid for company. However, she retreated inside herself, the once happy-go-lucky girl had became silent and sad, to the point where she wouldn?t talk with the maid. During that, her parents didn?t bother to visit her in that locked room. What once was a source of pride, had become a source of shame for them.
Their patience soon wore out when Skylar turned fifteen. One fateful night, her maid burst into the room and told her to run, to get away before the morning and to find somewhere to hide. Instead of the reaction the maid expected, Skylar perked up a little. Here it was, her chance for freedom! Skylar rushed out of her home as fast as she could. However, she soon discover that the outside world was a harsh place, with little freedom to offer. And so, she chose to heed the maid?s words and hid herself in the Drowned District. Somehow, she has managed at survive for a year.
Personality: Skylar is a very impulsive person, almost to the point of childishness. One day she might be a good mood only to be soured by something trivial such as the colour of the sky. Due to her sheltered upbringing, she is quite innocent and naive, especially on worldly matters. With being freed from her metaphorical cage, she has managed to recover her upbeat optimism and overall cheerful demeanor. Even with its flaws, she still regards the world with a sense of wonder. Just anything to block out the uncertainty she feels regarding herself and her future.
Skylar is very immature and will play practical jokes on others if the opportunity presents itself - which hasn?t been very often lately. But make no mistake, while she is childish, she isn?t stupid, Skylar is just still running on the excitement of being outside for the first time in at least a year, even if she has just gone from one cage to another. In addition to that, she is a very friendly person and will attempt to make friends if the person in question isn?t being hostile. On the other hand, she can easily be thrown into a sulk and is stubborn enough to maintain one for days.
Skills: Unfortunately, Skylar doesn?t know how to climb, steal, or pickpocket or brew up potions and poisons and the like. However, her finishing school-style education wasn?t a waste. Skylar shines in a social situation, if she had the clothes, she slip into the noble crowd, though people would question what a child like her was doing in a place like that. Additionally, she knows how to hide and with her small stature, she can fit into small spots. Skylar can run, even sprint, but only for a limited amount of time - she isn't an athlete.
Age: 16
Gender: Female
Appearance: A waif-like, fragile little thing. Despite all of the dirt, fleas and other nasties in the Drowned District, she keeps her long blonde hair in a plait, rather than simply having it shaved off. Skylar looks much younger than she actually is, partly due to her short size and malnourished body, but mostly due to the fact that she hasn?t experienced puberty - even at her age. It is in fact an impossible for her to, not without expensive treatment. As if to spite her dismal surroundings, she always wears a glowing smile which pierces the darkness of the dirt on her face and body. In short, her smile is radiant.
Skylar?s skin is pale, not because of her condition, but because of the relatively short time she has spent outside. Sadly, the Drowned District was her introduction to the outside world. Her eyes are amber, dull brown until they catch the light, then the iris is filled with a burst of orange. Skylar has kind, child-like face, with a button nose. A mole can seen by her lips. Her only piece of clothing is what was once her nightgown and now just a piece of tattered clothing that still clings to her body. Even the ribbon looks a little mangled. Skylar goes barefoot, as slippers don?t tend to last long in such an environment.
History: She was the pride of the Swyer family and she was the shame of the Swyer family.
The Swyers were a good, honest, hardworking, Juiniss-worshipping merchant family. Though they were not the most prestigious or wealthy. Sixteen years ago, a beautiful baby was born to a Alexandria and Samuel Swyer. The midwife could see nothing wrong with it, and so it was permitted to live. But, the parents didn?t rejoice just yet. After numerous stillbirths, false starts and purchases of tiny coffins, they chose to hold their breath. Sighs of relief were had on Skylar?s first birthday, and with that success, the Swyers decided to try for another. Even so, little Skylar wasn?t neglected. Her early life was full of happiness.
She played with dolls, was taught how to be a lady, played with the maid hired to look after her while her parents went about their business and so on. Though, her parents were a little overprotective of her and never let her go outside. Nevertheless, things began to change once Alexandria gave birth to a son, who they called Dwight. Skylar was around thirteen at the time and found that she wasn?t the center of attention anymore. That dissatisfaction grew and soon she began to hate her parents, and their constant control over her life and everything in it.
Meanwhile, her maid that noticed something very peculiar about Skylar. The two had a very good relationship, the maid was the older sister she never had. They could talk about anything and everything, and did so. The subject of ?flowering? had been coming up more and more. Skylar had simply replied that it hadn?t started yet, every time. The servant relayed that little titbit to her parents and their celebrations of another successful birth were cut short by that development. But not for long. Samuel and Alexandria decided to wait a while. After, it could just have been that Skylar was a slow starter.
One and a half years passed, and still nothing. Even Skylar herself was getting worried, she didn?t want to remain a child forever. Her parents saw no choice but to confine her in her room and disallow visitors to avoid becoming a laughingstock. Skylar was left with her dolls, her dresses and her maid for company. However, she retreated inside herself, the once happy-go-lucky girl had became silent and sad, to the point where she wouldn?t talk with the maid. During that, her parents didn?t bother to visit her in that locked room. What once was a source of pride, had become a source of shame for them.
Their patience soon wore out when Skylar turned fifteen. One fateful night, her maid burst into the room and told her to run, to get away before the morning and to find somewhere to hide. Instead of the reaction the maid expected, Skylar perked up a little. Here it was, her chance for freedom! Skylar rushed out of her home as fast as she could. However, she soon discover that the outside world was a harsh place, with little freedom to offer. And so, she chose to heed the maid?s words and hid herself in the Drowned District. Somehow, she has managed at survive for a year.
Personality: Skylar is a very impulsive person, almost to the point of childishness. One day she might be a good mood only to be soured by something trivial such as the colour of the sky. Due to her sheltered upbringing, she is quite innocent and naive, especially on worldly matters. With being freed from her metaphorical cage, she has managed to recover her upbeat optimism and overall cheerful demeanor. Even with its flaws, she still regards the world with a sense of wonder. Just anything to block out the uncertainty she feels regarding herself and her future.
Skylar is very immature and will play practical jokes on others if the opportunity presents itself - which hasn?t been very often lately. But make no mistake, while she is childish, she isn?t stupid, Skylar is just still running on the excitement of being outside for the first time in at least a year, even if she has just gone from one cage to another. In addition to that, she is a very friendly person and will attempt to make friends if the person in question isn?t being hostile. On the other hand, she can easily be thrown into a sulk and is stubborn enough to maintain one for days.
Skills: Unfortunately, Skylar doesn?t know how to climb, steal, or pickpocket or brew up potions and poisons and the like. However, her finishing school-style education wasn?t a waste. Skylar shines in a social situation, if she had the clothes, she slip into the noble crowd, though people would question what a child like her was doing in a place like that. Additionally, she knows how to hide and with her small stature, she can fit into small spots. Skylar can run, even sprint, but only for a limited amount of time - she isn't an athlete.
Aaaaaand done.
Right, I think I can safely say that recruitment is over now. I'll get started on Chapter 1. Congratulations to everyone who's been accepted and commiserations to those who didn't make the cut. Know that there was a very high standard of sheets, and being rejected certainly doesn't mean what you offered had no worth.
[HEADING=1]Chapter 1[/HEADING]
The downpour that came howling in from the west was oppressive, a weather rare for Kragenau at this time of year. No stars were visible through the thick blanket of cloud, within which low and mournful rumbles of thunder could be heard, and even the late night revellers of the Lower Town had been driven indoors, solemn. The poor and destitute of the Drowned District, the few with the privilege of being able to sleep with both eyes closed, would wake tomorrow to find their city just a little bit more rotten than they had left it the evening before. Even discounting the events earlier in the day, such nights were ill-fated to those who favoured superstition over learning. Any night sky through which the planets, the moving stars that served as portals for the souls of Seldus to influence the mortal realms, could not be observed was considered bad luck. One much never walk alone on such a night, nor plot a crossing by sea, nor lay eyes on the contents of the family safe lest all that dwell within vanish within a moon's turn. Some even believed that no man and woman should lie together on such a night, for they would bear an offspring dark and foul, hidden always from the eyes of the Gods.
Below the surface of Kragenau however, deep beneath the crumbling walls, corpse rats and creeper maws of the Drowned District, one soul did stir. A figure shrouded in black moved with confidence through the Catacombs, the only sounds the footfalls of his supple leather boots, the occasional scurry of some frightened rodent, and the steady drip, drip, drip from the ancient stone arches above. Rounding a corner, he stopped, pausing on the balls of his feet like a lion in the long grass when the antelope turns his head at the faintest whisper of a sound. Fluidly, he removed the glove on his left hand, exposing the palm on which the image of a skull grimaced. Holding the palm of his hand to his mouth, the figure whispered in some guttural, inhuman tongue, before turning his hand outwards, and making a motion as if to blow a kiss down the dark tunnel that stretched before him.
What followed was a rushing, whistling sound, though the man was far too deep into the Catacombs for any wind from the surface to reach them. As the sound passed about halfway down the tunnel, a bat that had been nestled, hidden, in the arches above began to glow as this strange whisper washed over him.
The man removed his hood, revealing a young face. He was bald, with a pointed black beard, hazel eyes and crooked, yellow teeth, that showed as he grinned at the bat, pleased with himself
"It was good of you to welcome me, brother." The man said, walking further down the hall.
At his words, the glowing bat began to twitch, the fur on its little chest heaving as to took what to it must have been huge, gulping breaths. When it seemed like the creature might burst from the effort of whatever had taken hold of it, darkness burst from its over mouth, a substance that seemed to be shadow made fluid, or perhaps tar made gas. From mouth, nose, ears and eyes it poured out of the creature, swirling down to the old grey flagstones below, where it took form. The darkness slithered over itself, layer upon layer, stretching out into arms, legs and a head, before the yawning black eventually gave way to detail, until another hooded figure, this one clad in navy blue, stood opposite the bald one. The new figure remove his own left glove, and the two of them shook hands. The bat, now returned to its own mind, took flight down the hallway in panic.
"I hear a congratulations are in order." the one in blue opened, though he sounded more stern than congratulatory.
"Our Lord has a valuable soul joining him in his hall tonight." replied the one in black.
"Remember you teachings." said the other coldly "Riches and titles are worth nothing in The Shroud. Mylaviss values all souls equally. You did no more great service for Him today than you do every time you crush a beetle beneath your heel. Still, killing him was no easy feat, and you did it clean."
The bald man's smugness had now faded somewhat. "Where is the Old Man? I had understood that he would be the one to receive me."
"He was summoned."
'Ah, fresh meat!' the bald man thought.
The other man's lips curled up into a smile. "They may be just that soon enough. We both know that our Lord chooses wisely, but even so, these catacombs are not as peaceful as they once were."
The downpour that came howling in from the west was oppressive, a weather rare for Kragenau at this time of year. No stars were visible through the thick blanket of cloud, within which low and mournful rumbles of thunder could be heard, and even the late night revellers of the Lower Town had been driven indoors, solemn. The poor and destitute of the Drowned District, the few with the privilege of being able to sleep with both eyes closed, would wake tomorrow to find their city just a little bit more rotten than they had left it the evening before. Even discounting the events earlier in the day, such nights were ill-fated to those who favoured superstition over learning. Any night sky through which the planets, the moving stars that served as portals for the souls of Seldus to influence the mortal realms, could not be observed was considered bad luck. One much never walk alone on such a night, nor plot a crossing by sea, nor lay eyes on the contents of the family safe lest all that dwell within vanish within a moon's turn. Some even believed that no man and woman should lie together on such a night, for they would bear an offspring dark and foul, hidden always from the eyes of the Gods.
Below the surface of Kragenau however, deep beneath the crumbling walls, corpse rats and creeper maws of the Drowned District, one soul did stir. A figure shrouded in black moved with confidence through the Catacombs, the only sounds the footfalls of his supple leather boots, the occasional scurry of some frightened rodent, and the steady drip, drip, drip from the ancient stone arches above. Rounding a corner, he stopped, pausing on the balls of his feet like a lion in the long grass when the antelope turns his head at the faintest whisper of a sound. Fluidly, he removed the glove on his left hand, exposing the palm on which the image of a skull grimaced. Holding the palm of his hand to his mouth, the figure whispered in some guttural, inhuman tongue, before turning his hand outwards, and making a motion as if to blow a kiss down the dark tunnel that stretched before him.
What followed was a rushing, whistling sound, though the man was far too deep into the Catacombs for any wind from the surface to reach them. As the sound passed about halfway down the tunnel, a bat that had been nestled, hidden, in the arches above began to glow as this strange whisper washed over him.
The man removed his hood, revealing a young face. He was bald, with a pointed black beard, hazel eyes and crooked, yellow teeth, that showed as he grinned at the bat, pleased with himself
"It was good of you to welcome me, brother." The man said, walking further down the hall.
At his words, the glowing bat began to twitch, the fur on its little chest heaving as to took what to it must have been huge, gulping breaths. When it seemed like the creature might burst from the effort of whatever had taken hold of it, darkness burst from its over mouth, a substance that seemed to be shadow made fluid, or perhaps tar made gas. From mouth, nose, ears and eyes it poured out of the creature, swirling down to the old grey flagstones below, where it took form. The darkness slithered over itself, layer upon layer, stretching out into arms, legs and a head, before the yawning black eventually gave way to detail, until another hooded figure, this one clad in navy blue, stood opposite the bald one. The new figure remove his own left glove, and the two of them shook hands. The bat, now returned to its own mind, took flight down the hallway in panic.
"I hear a congratulations are in order." the one in blue opened, though he sounded more stern than congratulatory.
"Our Lord has a valuable soul joining him in his hall tonight." replied the one in black.
"Remember you teachings." said the other coldly "Riches and titles are worth nothing in The Shroud. Mylaviss values all souls equally. You did no more great service for Him today than you do every time you crush a beetle beneath your heel. Still, killing him was no easy feat, and you did it clean."
The bald man's smugness had now faded somewhat. "Where is the Old Man? I had understood that he would be the one to receive me."
"He was summoned."
'Ah, fresh meat!' the bald man thought.
The other man's lips curled up into a smile. "They may be just that soon enough. We both know that our Lord chooses wisely, but even so, these catacombs are not as peaceful as they once were."
"Just what the bloody 'ell do ya' think ya' playin' at, Sparrow?" Badger poked the girl hard in the shoulder. Sparrow narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest, "The fuck you talkin' 'bout Badger?" She replied, with the usual layer of huskiness she added to disguise her gender.
Sparrow had been accosted, much to her dismay, en route to the sewers. There was something she needed to check out. Unfortunately, that meant going through Badger's part of the District, a decision she quickly regretted.
"I'm talkin' 'bout that fucking deal you fucked up last week, with The Twins." Sparrow's eyes drifted slightly, 'who the fuck grassed me up, there's no way they could have known it was me.' Sparrow looked up at the hulking boy. Badger was huge for a Drowned kid, at seventeen years old, he stood just over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and chest, his arms were lean and muscled, his hand hands alone were big enough that they could probably cover Sparrow's entire head. Probably the only reason he was in the position he was, it certainly wasn't for his smarts or good looks.
"You mean the deal you cut me out of? No, don't know nothin' 'bout it." Her eyes remained narrowed as she stood her ground. "DON'T 'CHU LIE TO ME!" The boy roared, punching a wall in the narrow alley they were standing in. Sparrow let her arms fall to her side. She needed to be ready if the moron decided to start throwing punches. "Fuck you Badger! I was nowhere near your bloody deal, I was on the West side that night, hittin' a place with Rusty." Badger frowned, looking over his left shoulder, he nodded at one of his goons. Sparrow clenched her jaw as the boy walked away from her, down the alley. Sparrow sighed, her shoulders drooping as she let her head fall back. "Can I go now, or do ya' wanna blame me for somethin' else I didn' do?" Badger narrowed his eyes, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. "Sparrow, li'l Sparrow, when will you figure out that ya' nothin' 'round 'ere." He chuckled slightly. "I mean, look at ya', ya still small time, we both used to run together and ya still in the same place you were two years a go." Sparrow stared at the boy. He wouldn't try anything sneaky, that wasn't his style, no, this one liked to brag first, he'd always been like that. "The truth is lad, I'm surprised ya' still alive, look at ya." He raised a fat finger in her direction, his other two goons laughed. "Ya, what? thirteen? An' ya still fuckin tiny, bet ya don' even 'av any 'air on ya bollocks yet." Sparrow's expression didn't change as Badger continued his witty barrage of insults. "Do ya even 'av a cock down there?" For a split second, a tiny smirk curled the corner of Sparrow's mouth. "Do ya even like girls? What with 'avin no balls an' all?" Badger's friends continued to guffaw, he was about to continue, when Sparrow's eyes caught movement at the end of the alley.
'Oh shit.'
Badger's expression hardened as he looked over his shoulder. "Ah 'ere he is, our good mate Rusty!" Sparrow kept her composure as panic began to rise in her throat. As the two boys approached. Rusty was being pushed along by the goon Badger had sent away. The red headed boy didn't look so good. Badger stepped aside as he let Rusty pass, pushing him to the water sodden ground in front of Sparrow. The girl didn't move, her face expressionless as the boy got to his knees gingerly. Badger grinned, crossing his arms across his fat chest. "Now, Rusty, tell li'l Sparrow what you done told me." Rusty glanced back at Badger, a look of terror in his eyes. Well, one eye, the other had swollen shut from what she could only assume was a good 'interrogation'. The boy looked up at Sparrow, "Mate, I..." He paused as his words caught in throat, tears beginning to well in his good eye. "They said they'd hurt my sister, I swear, that's the only reason why!" Sparrow narrowed her eyes, her expression hardening. 'Rat bastard.' Badger took a step forward and planted his huge hands on Rusty's shoulders, much to the boy's immediate discomfort, he squeaked in fear, choking on a sob. "Our boy 'ere told us all about your little trip last week, 'bout 'ow ya dropped that crate on a them Twins' boys, 'bout 'ow you drilled 'oles in them wine kegs." His voice grew more sinister and his grip tightened on Rusty's shoulders. "'Bout 'ow our mate Rusty here, 'elped you do it." Another sob escaped Rusty's throat.
Sparrow felt sick to her stomach, a spark of panic showing in her eyes. "You shouldn' have cut me out of the deal, Badger, you know what happens when people cut me out of a deal." Her voice was steady, with a small trace of menace. Badger frowned, his eyes beginning to burn with anger. "You cut me out of a fuckin' deal? Then I make sure there is no deal." She clenched her fists, anger trickling into her expression and voice. "You know this Badger, back when we ran together, what did I always say, huh?" Badger gritted his teeth as he thought for a moment. "What. Did. I. Say?" Sparrow repeated, her tone growing even more threatening. Badger was furious now, she could see it all over him, he never did like being shown up in front of his boys. Unfortunately for Rusty, he was at the brunt of the anger, Badger's hands tightening even more around his shoulder as he squeaked in pain. "Sparrow never forgets." He seethed. Sparrow nodded her head slowly, "Sparrow never forgets." She repeated with emphasis, her eyes locked with Badger's.
Badger took a deep breath, regaining some of his composure. "Ya' right Sparrow, ya absolutely right." He loosened his grip on Rusty's shoulders, patting them slightly. "I shouldn't 'av cut ya outta the deal." He looked back at his boys, nodding his head quickly. "He's right lads, I shouldn't 'av cut 'im out." They nodded back, confused looks on their faces. Badger returned his gaze to Sparrow, a spark in his eyes. "The problem is, li'l Sparrow, you forgot what I used to say." With one swift and brutal motion, he twisted Rusty's head, snapping his neck like a dried twig. A wicked smiled crawled over his face as Sparrow recoiled in shock. "Don't. Fuck. With Badger." He raised his hands, Sparrow's eyes were wide, her mouth ajar slightly as she watched Rusty's body crumple to the ground, with a pathetic splash. She looked as if she was about to speak, but words failed her, she lifted her eyes to meet Badger's, shaking her head slightly, her eyes searched his face for reasons she didn't know.
"Get 'im." Badger said simply, as his goons brushed by him, stepping over Rusty's body. Sparrow's expression hardened as she quickly fled in the opposite direction. She could outrun these morons no pro- "NOW!" As she heard Badger's shout echo past her, a couple of boys stepped from behind the walls on both sides of the alley exit, blocking her escape. 'Shit!' She began to panic, her boots splashing in the foot of water that covered most of that district. She clenched her jaw as she began to sprint harder. Garbage was strewn about the place, at the end of the alley, there was a couple of empty barrels, side by, lined up against the left wall. The walls of the alley weren't particularly smooth, a number of stones stood out prominently. As she approached the exit, she leapt on top of the barrels, and while keeping her momentum, she hopped to the right side of the alley, planting a foot firmly on an outcropping, she pushed herself away from the wall and towards the two blocking her escape, just managing to make it over their heads and out into the street. She stumbled slightly in the water as she landed, but managed to keep her balance as she proceed to head left down the street, the sound of an enraged Badger behind her.
Sparrow continued to run, glancing over her should slightly, the six boys were still hot on her trail. "SOMEBODY STOP THAT BASTARD!" Badger roared, as he barged his way through passersby. Sparrow weaved through the busy streets, trying to lose her pursuers' line of sight, but to no avail. Sparrow grimaced slightly as a sharp pain ran up leg. 'I think I sprained my ankle a little on that jump.' It was fine for now, but there no way that she'd be able to keep up her current speed. She needed to escape, and quickly. She looked to her right as she rounded a corner, a path to the rooftops revealed itself to her. She knew just where to lose them. It seemed Badger caught on to her idea as well as she heard him curse loudly behind her. Sparrow veered towards a horse drawn cart that was stationary in front of a blacksmith, hopping onto the back of the cart, she leapt off the side, planting her feet on top of one of the buildings window frames. Scurrying up the side of the building, she pulled herself onto the roof, taking a second to catch her breath, she no longer had to worry about being slowed by the water that permeated the street level of the district. She looked back down over the edge of the building as the group of thugs began their own attempts at climbing the blacksmith. She narrowed her eyes, normally they would have given up by now, 'Badger must really want me dead.' "I don't bloody care! We catch 'im now, or I'm taking it out on you worthless dogs!" Badger shouted, must have been answering a dissenter to the pursuit. Sparrow watched as a crowd of people began to form around the building. She slowly began to step back as the first of the thugs, including Badger, began to climb over the edge of the roof. Gritting her teeth, Sparrow turned and fled across the rooftops, hopping over a number of small alleys that got progressively wider as they began to reach the outskirts of the sub-district. 'They aren't letting up, I can't keep this up.' Sparrow began to panic as she searched frantically for an escape route. As the sounds of jeering and footsteps began to increase behind her, she knew they were gaining ground. 'It's now or never.' Her original estimation had them giving up at the blacksmith, now she had to revert to her secondary plan. The Leap of Faith. There was a wide alley, where that sub-district met the next, the only way to get to that distract via the rooftops was over that alley, it was called the Leap of Faith because one needed a certain amount of divine intervention not to fall and break one's neck on the cobbles below.
As they drew closer, she heard a couple of the thugs catch onto her idea. "Boss, 'e's 'eadin' for the Leap!" She heard Badger tear down their warnings and ushered them onwards. Sparrow began to pick up speed as the Leap drew near, ignoring the pain that was beginning to rise in her leg, she focused herself. She didn't need to believe in the gods, and she wasn't going to start now.
The world slowed around her as she approached the edge of her jump, with a burst of speed, she planted her foot into the very edge of the rooftop, thrusting herself through the air, she heard a number of shouts behind her as she came crashing down on the roof tiles on the opposite building, falling into a recovery roll as her ankle gave out beneath her, sprawling onto her back, she laughed in amazement, a rare laugh. Her levity was cut short as she heard the thugs cry out, followed by the sound of a thud as the top half of Badger's body hit the edge of the rooftop, his hands scurrying as his hands found grip. "SHIT! SPARROW! HELP ME!" The girl got to her feet and slowly walked towards badger, a small limp in her step. What she saw was the panicked look of a boy she hadn't seen in years, his eyes began to flood with fear as he held on for dear life. Sparrow crossed her arms across her chest, her face expressionless, her eyes cold. "Why should I 'elp you? You'd 'ave seen me in the gutter if your lads 'ad caught me." Badger winced as his arms began to tire, "No! I wouldn' 'ave!" Sparrow let her hands fall to her side as she squatted, locking her eyes onto Badger's. "If I help you, will you leave me be?" Her voice was quiet. "YES! Yes! Anythin'!" He replied, the fear leaking into his voice. Sparrow searched the boy's eyes, no doubt he would go back on his word, he was too stubborn to let Sparrow just slip by. She grabbed his left wrist, alleviating some of boy's burden, as he breathed a sigh of relief. Sparrow narrowed her eyes, letting the huskiness fall from her voice, it returned to its natural girlish softness. "Remember that job at the Lafferty estate?" A confused look appeared on the boy's face, "What happened to ya' voice? The Lafferty job? Wha' are you talkin' 'bout, just help me up!" Sparrow continued, "Remember when the guard dogs were let loose? Remember when you were s'posed to open the drainage grate so that me and Jimmy could escape?" Her voice took on a more sinister tone. "Remember when you didn't?" Her eyes narrowed. "Remember when I almost died?" She tightened her grip on the boy's arm. "Remember when Jimmy wasn't so lucky?" Badger's eyes darted in panic, "I... Why are ya tellin' me this now! I said I was sorry back then, that was years ago! Why are ya' rememberin' stuff like that now?!" Sparrow let her mouth open into a small smirk, moving her face close to his. "Why am I rememberin' it now?" There was small spark in her eyes as she loosened her grip on the boy's arm. "Badger, what did I always used to say?" She slowly got to her feet as she looked across at the boys on the other rooftop, shouting and pleading for her to help Badger.
"'Cmon Sparrow, stop messin' 'round, this ain't funny no more!"
"Sparrow 'es gonna fall!"
"We weren't gonna hurt ya, Sparrow!"
The girl looked down at the boy at her feet, there was no sympathy in her eyes as the answer to her question flashed across Badger's face. "Sparrow never forgets..."
"That's right."
Badger screamed as Sparrow kicked his hands from the tiles, he fell, smashing his skull across the cobbles below. She looked up at the thugs across from her, they had fell silent. A few of them looked over at her, a mixture of fear, anger, and surprise littered on their faces. Without a sound, Sparrow turned and walked away, looking for a way to get back onto the streets.
Sparrow leaned up against the wall of the narrow alley she found herself in. Having hopped onto a lower wall from the rooftops, she had managed to make it to street level. Slipping her hood over her head, she grimaced slightly as she rubbed her left ankle. Nothing major, should be fine by morning. Her stomach grumbled as she immediately regretted tossing away the food she had been given earlier that morning. 'Probably for the best.' She slipped her hand into the back pocket of her trousers and pulled out a piece of paper, a map. She was a fair distance away from her intended entry point, and she didn't want to risk getting lost in the catacombs, so it appeared she'd have to backtrack into the sub-district she had just left. She doubted she'd have any more trouble from Badger's goons, they were preoccupied with other things. She smiled slightly as she heard the a faint commotion in the distance, the direction she had just left. She wondered if any of the boy's 'friends' would have the guts to scrape his brains off the cobbles. Probably not. They probably left no later than she had.
"The God's of feasts and temples spurn you, but there is one who would value you still. The Shroud calls to you. Hear it, and know what it is to be feared."
What did the cloaked one mean? It wasn't gang recruitment, they were usually more forthright, and a hell of a lot less eloquent. She furrowed her brow, stuffing the map back into her back pocket, she began making her way back to her original destination, enjoying the dryness of the higher ground she currently found herself in. It wouldn't last long.
Without further incident, Sparrow approached the old sewer entrance, she checked her surroundings. Her brain was telling her that it was probably a trap, but her gut told her otherwise. There was something different about this arrangement, something that overwhelmed her usual standard of caution.
'Dammit Faye, this better be worth.'
Sparrow had been accosted, much to her dismay, en route to the sewers. There was something she needed to check out. Unfortunately, that meant going through Badger's part of the District, a decision she quickly regretted.
"I'm talkin' 'bout that fucking deal you fucked up last week, with The Twins." Sparrow's eyes drifted slightly, 'who the fuck grassed me up, there's no way they could have known it was me.' Sparrow looked up at the hulking boy. Badger was huge for a Drowned kid, at seventeen years old, he stood just over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and chest, his arms were lean and muscled, his hand hands alone were big enough that they could probably cover Sparrow's entire head. Probably the only reason he was in the position he was, it certainly wasn't for his smarts or good looks.
"You mean the deal you cut me out of? No, don't know nothin' 'bout it." Her eyes remained narrowed as she stood her ground. "DON'T 'CHU LIE TO ME!" The boy roared, punching a wall in the narrow alley they were standing in. Sparrow let her arms fall to her side. She needed to be ready if the moron decided to start throwing punches. "Fuck you Badger! I was nowhere near your bloody deal, I was on the West side that night, hittin' a place with Rusty." Badger frowned, looking over his left shoulder, he nodded at one of his goons. Sparrow clenched her jaw as the boy walked away from her, down the alley. Sparrow sighed, her shoulders drooping as she let her head fall back. "Can I go now, or do ya' wanna blame me for somethin' else I didn' do?" Badger narrowed his eyes, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. "Sparrow, li'l Sparrow, when will you figure out that ya' nothin' 'round 'ere." He chuckled slightly. "I mean, look at ya', ya still small time, we both used to run together and ya still in the same place you were two years a go." Sparrow stared at the boy. He wouldn't try anything sneaky, that wasn't his style, no, this one liked to brag first, he'd always been like that. "The truth is lad, I'm surprised ya' still alive, look at ya." He raised a fat finger in her direction, his other two goons laughed. "Ya, what? thirteen? An' ya still fuckin tiny, bet ya don' even 'av any 'air on ya bollocks yet." Sparrow's expression didn't change as Badger continued his witty barrage of insults. "Do ya even 'av a cock down there?" For a split second, a tiny smirk curled the corner of Sparrow's mouth. "Do ya even like girls? What with 'avin no balls an' all?" Badger's friends continued to guffaw, he was about to continue, when Sparrow's eyes caught movement at the end of the alley.
'Oh shit.'
Badger's expression hardened as he looked over his shoulder. "Ah 'ere he is, our good mate Rusty!" Sparrow kept her composure as panic began to rise in her throat. As the two boys approached. Rusty was being pushed along by the goon Badger had sent away. The red headed boy didn't look so good. Badger stepped aside as he let Rusty pass, pushing him to the water sodden ground in front of Sparrow. The girl didn't move, her face expressionless as the boy got to his knees gingerly. Badger grinned, crossing his arms across his fat chest. "Now, Rusty, tell li'l Sparrow what you done told me." Rusty glanced back at Badger, a look of terror in his eyes. Well, one eye, the other had swollen shut from what she could only assume was a good 'interrogation'. The boy looked up at Sparrow, "Mate, I..." He paused as his words caught in throat, tears beginning to well in his good eye. "They said they'd hurt my sister, I swear, that's the only reason why!" Sparrow narrowed her eyes, her expression hardening. 'Rat bastard.' Badger took a step forward and planted his huge hands on Rusty's shoulders, much to the boy's immediate discomfort, he squeaked in fear, choking on a sob. "Our boy 'ere told us all about your little trip last week, 'bout 'ow ya dropped that crate on a them Twins' boys, 'bout 'ow you drilled 'oles in them wine kegs." His voice grew more sinister and his grip tightened on Rusty's shoulders. "'Bout 'ow our mate Rusty here, 'elped you do it." Another sob escaped Rusty's throat.
Sparrow felt sick to her stomach, a spark of panic showing in her eyes. "You shouldn' have cut me out of the deal, Badger, you know what happens when people cut me out of a deal." Her voice was steady, with a small trace of menace. Badger frowned, his eyes beginning to burn with anger. "You cut me out of a fuckin' deal? Then I make sure there is no deal." She clenched her fists, anger trickling into her expression and voice. "You know this Badger, back when we ran together, what did I always say, huh?" Badger gritted his teeth as he thought for a moment. "What. Did. I. Say?" Sparrow repeated, her tone growing even more threatening. Badger was furious now, she could see it all over him, he never did like being shown up in front of his boys. Unfortunately for Rusty, he was at the brunt of the anger, Badger's hands tightening even more around his shoulder as he squeaked in pain. "Sparrow never forgets." He seethed. Sparrow nodded her head slowly, "Sparrow never forgets." She repeated with emphasis, her eyes locked with Badger's.
Badger took a deep breath, regaining some of his composure. "Ya' right Sparrow, ya absolutely right." He loosened his grip on Rusty's shoulders, patting them slightly. "I shouldn't 'av cut ya outta the deal." He looked back at his boys, nodding his head quickly. "He's right lads, I shouldn't 'av cut 'im out." They nodded back, confused looks on their faces. Badger returned his gaze to Sparrow, a spark in his eyes. "The problem is, li'l Sparrow, you forgot what I used to say." With one swift and brutal motion, he twisted Rusty's head, snapping his neck like a dried twig. A wicked smiled crawled over his face as Sparrow recoiled in shock. "Don't. Fuck. With Badger." He raised his hands, Sparrow's eyes were wide, her mouth ajar slightly as she watched Rusty's body crumple to the ground, with a pathetic splash. She looked as if she was about to speak, but words failed her, she lifted her eyes to meet Badger's, shaking her head slightly, her eyes searched his face for reasons she didn't know.
"Get 'im." Badger said simply, as his goons brushed by him, stepping over Rusty's body. Sparrow's expression hardened as she quickly fled in the opposite direction. She could outrun these morons no pro- "NOW!" As she heard Badger's shout echo past her, a couple of boys stepped from behind the walls on both sides of the alley exit, blocking her escape. 'Shit!' She began to panic, her boots splashing in the foot of water that covered most of that district. She clenched her jaw as she began to sprint harder. Garbage was strewn about the place, at the end of the alley, there was a couple of empty barrels, side by, lined up against the left wall. The walls of the alley weren't particularly smooth, a number of stones stood out prominently. As she approached the exit, she leapt on top of the barrels, and while keeping her momentum, she hopped to the right side of the alley, planting a foot firmly on an outcropping, she pushed herself away from the wall and towards the two blocking her escape, just managing to make it over their heads and out into the street. She stumbled slightly in the water as she landed, but managed to keep her balance as she proceed to head left down the street, the sound of an enraged Badger behind her.
Sparrow continued to run, glancing over her should slightly, the six boys were still hot on her trail. "SOMEBODY STOP THAT BASTARD!" Badger roared, as he barged his way through passersby. Sparrow weaved through the busy streets, trying to lose her pursuers' line of sight, but to no avail. Sparrow grimaced slightly as a sharp pain ran up leg. 'I think I sprained my ankle a little on that jump.' It was fine for now, but there no way that she'd be able to keep up her current speed. She needed to escape, and quickly. She looked to her right as she rounded a corner, a path to the rooftops revealed itself to her. She knew just where to lose them. It seemed Badger caught on to her idea as well as she heard him curse loudly behind her. Sparrow veered towards a horse drawn cart that was stationary in front of a blacksmith, hopping onto the back of the cart, she leapt off the side, planting her feet on top of one of the buildings window frames. Scurrying up the side of the building, she pulled herself onto the roof, taking a second to catch her breath, she no longer had to worry about being slowed by the water that permeated the street level of the district. She looked back down over the edge of the building as the group of thugs began their own attempts at climbing the blacksmith. She narrowed her eyes, normally they would have given up by now, 'Badger must really want me dead.' "I don't bloody care! We catch 'im now, or I'm taking it out on you worthless dogs!" Badger shouted, must have been answering a dissenter to the pursuit. Sparrow watched as a crowd of people began to form around the building. She slowly began to step back as the first of the thugs, including Badger, began to climb over the edge of the roof. Gritting her teeth, Sparrow turned and fled across the rooftops, hopping over a number of small alleys that got progressively wider as they began to reach the outskirts of the sub-district. 'They aren't letting up, I can't keep this up.' Sparrow began to panic as she searched frantically for an escape route. As the sounds of jeering and footsteps began to increase behind her, she knew they were gaining ground. 'It's now or never.' Her original estimation had them giving up at the blacksmith, now she had to revert to her secondary plan. The Leap of Faith. There was a wide alley, where that sub-district met the next, the only way to get to that distract via the rooftops was over that alley, it was called the Leap of Faith because one needed a certain amount of divine intervention not to fall and break one's neck on the cobbles below.
As they drew closer, she heard a couple of the thugs catch onto her idea. "Boss, 'e's 'eadin' for the Leap!" She heard Badger tear down their warnings and ushered them onwards. Sparrow began to pick up speed as the Leap drew near, ignoring the pain that was beginning to rise in her leg, she focused herself. She didn't need to believe in the gods, and she wasn't going to start now.
The world slowed around her as she approached the edge of her jump, with a burst of speed, she planted her foot into the very edge of the rooftop, thrusting herself through the air, she heard a number of shouts behind her as she came crashing down on the roof tiles on the opposite building, falling into a recovery roll as her ankle gave out beneath her, sprawling onto her back, she laughed in amazement, a rare laugh. Her levity was cut short as she heard the thugs cry out, followed by the sound of a thud as the top half of Badger's body hit the edge of the rooftop, his hands scurrying as his hands found grip. "SHIT! SPARROW! HELP ME!" The girl got to her feet and slowly walked towards badger, a small limp in her step. What she saw was the panicked look of a boy she hadn't seen in years, his eyes began to flood with fear as he held on for dear life. Sparrow crossed her arms across her chest, her face expressionless, her eyes cold. "Why should I 'elp you? You'd 'ave seen me in the gutter if your lads 'ad caught me." Badger winced as his arms began to tire, "No! I wouldn' 'ave!" Sparrow let her hands fall to her side as she squatted, locking her eyes onto Badger's. "If I help you, will you leave me be?" Her voice was quiet. "YES! Yes! Anythin'!" He replied, the fear leaking into his voice. Sparrow searched the boy's eyes, no doubt he would go back on his word, he was too stubborn to let Sparrow just slip by. She grabbed his left wrist, alleviating some of boy's burden, as he breathed a sigh of relief. Sparrow narrowed her eyes, letting the huskiness fall from her voice, it returned to its natural girlish softness. "Remember that job at the Lafferty estate?" A confused look appeared on the boy's face, "What happened to ya' voice? The Lafferty job? Wha' are you talkin' 'bout, just help me up!" Sparrow continued, "Remember when the guard dogs were let loose? Remember when you were s'posed to open the drainage grate so that me and Jimmy could escape?" Her voice took on a more sinister tone. "Remember when you didn't?" Her eyes narrowed. "Remember when I almost died?" She tightened her grip on the boy's arm. "Remember when Jimmy wasn't so lucky?" Badger's eyes darted in panic, "I... Why are ya tellin' me this now! I said I was sorry back then, that was years ago! Why are ya' rememberin' stuff like that now?!" Sparrow let her mouth open into a small smirk, moving her face close to his. "Why am I rememberin' it now?" There was small spark in her eyes as she loosened her grip on the boy's arm. "Badger, what did I always used to say?" She slowly got to her feet as she looked across at the boys on the other rooftop, shouting and pleading for her to help Badger.
"'Cmon Sparrow, stop messin' 'round, this ain't funny no more!"
"Sparrow 'es gonna fall!"
"We weren't gonna hurt ya, Sparrow!"
The girl looked down at the boy at her feet, there was no sympathy in her eyes as the answer to her question flashed across Badger's face. "Sparrow never forgets..."
"That's right."
Badger screamed as Sparrow kicked his hands from the tiles, he fell, smashing his skull across the cobbles below. She looked up at the thugs across from her, they had fell silent. A few of them looked over at her, a mixture of fear, anger, and surprise littered on their faces. Without a sound, Sparrow turned and walked away, looking for a way to get back onto the streets.
Sparrow leaned up against the wall of the narrow alley she found herself in. Having hopped onto a lower wall from the rooftops, she had managed to make it to street level. Slipping her hood over her head, she grimaced slightly as she rubbed her left ankle. Nothing major, should be fine by morning. Her stomach grumbled as she immediately regretted tossing away the food she had been given earlier that morning. 'Probably for the best.' She slipped her hand into the back pocket of her trousers and pulled out a piece of paper, a map. She was a fair distance away from her intended entry point, and she didn't want to risk getting lost in the catacombs, so it appeared she'd have to backtrack into the sub-district she had just left. She doubted she'd have any more trouble from Badger's goons, they were preoccupied with other things. She smiled slightly as she heard the a faint commotion in the distance, the direction she had just left. She wondered if any of the boy's 'friends' would have the guts to scrape his brains off the cobbles. Probably not. They probably left no later than she had.
"The God's of feasts and temples spurn you, but there is one who would value you still. The Shroud calls to you. Hear it, and know what it is to be feared."
What did the cloaked one mean? It wasn't gang recruitment, they were usually more forthright, and a hell of a lot less eloquent. She furrowed her brow, stuffing the map back into her back pocket, she began making her way back to her original destination, enjoying the dryness of the higher ground she currently found herself in. It wouldn't last long.
Without further incident, Sparrow approached the old sewer entrance, she checked her surroundings. Her brain was telling her that it was probably a trap, but her gut told her otherwise. There was something different about this arrangement, something that overwhelmed her usual standard of caution.
'Dammit Faye, this better be worth.'
The Pirate Galleon had come upon them out from behind the rocks, like a great behemoth on the waves. By its design, Will marked that it had once been a trader?s vessel. It was well armed, though not as well as a military vessel that size would have been. Despite that, it was armed as well as the St. Sylan, and was larger besides to accommodate for cargo. Its crew outnumbered theirs nearly two to one. A hard port turn had saved them from the pirate?s initial volley of cannon fire. Overclocking that turn had brought them swiftly around to return fire while the current was still holding the pirate ship on its course, and allowed them to return fire. Soon, the two vessels were close facing each other. The sound of cannons and rifles would have filled the air except for the crack of thunder and the pound of rain.
With the Captain holding the deck against invaders, William was given charge of the first boarding party, meant to swing across on the rigging and secure an area for the boarding ramp to be passed over. Aside from the pirate captain at the helm, and his men manning the topside cannons, the galleon?s deck was empty when Will and his men swung across. The cannon men put up some resistance, whirling short bladed boarding swords like cleavers. William?s men worked together with trained efficiency, and the cannon men were quickly dispatched. It was enough time, however, for the roars of the captain to bring reinforcements pouring onto the deck, armed with pistols, boarding swords, hatchets, knives and even meat hooks. William?s men formed a tight wedge, their long privateer?s sabres forming a dense web of defensive steel against their enemies, as two men at the back caught hold of the boarding ramp and nailed it to the railing. There was little planning gone into their boarding. It was done defensively; their only real option in the face of an attack they could not escape. But they had been at sea for months, and it was a miracle they had come through it in these waters with much more than a few minor skirmishes. The strange luck made the men almost as tense as the isolation did.
The wedge pushed forward as the St. Sylan?s Captain led a brigade of reinforcements across the ramp. The Pirates swarmed around them, and the wedge began to break. The effort cost the pirates a lot, and yet more when the reinforcements slammed into them, leaping on them from the boarding ramp with reckless abandon. As the pirates thinned, the combat became a series of isolated scuffles and duels. William and two men assaulted the helm. One went down with lead shot in his belly, and the other was tackled by two burly pirates with knives. Blinking in surprise, William found himself confronted with the Pirate Captain, who drew a long sabre that wouldn?t have looked out of place on the hip of a lord. The cannon fire, rain and thunder drowned out the clang of steel as their swords met, batting up and down. Initially, William raised his own sword, still bloody from his previous fighting, and pressed the attack, but was soon giving up ground defensively as the Captain pressed him. The man had quite a few years on him, but he was far more experienced, and merciless as a rabid dog. Will?s arm was getting numb from the shock of the blows he was deflecting. He couldn?t land a blow. His stabs and slashes were all either batted aside, or dodged, and soon he wasn?t even lashing out, but struggling to ward off the pirate?s blade that seemed to be everywhere at once.
Soon, he was pressed right up against the railing, sluggishly warding off the Captain?s attack, when suddenly the man planted his boot on Will?s chest. He went over the railing, and down onto the roiling crowd below, caught in the melee. The sword went spinning out of his hand, and he instead drew the large boarding knife sheathed behind his sword. Struggling in the crowd to regain his balance, he fought for his life. He slipped several times, barely getting back up before stamping feet came down where his head or hand had been a second before. The galleon?s deck was slick with blood mixed with rainwater. He had landed right in the middle of the crowd of pirates, and some directed their attention at him. Most, however, were too busy concentrating on the ring of privateers hemming them in, advancing, and thinning the pirate?s numbers. It gave Will hope, and that was likely what saved him and kept him going. Eventually, those who were left submitted. William retrieved his sword. Probably his, he thought; a privateer?s sabre with nobody to claim it, at least.
The galleon was too large to claim without leaving their own vessel too vulnerable to continue. In the end, the captain elected to burn it after the privateers had taken all out of the hold that they could to fill their own. The loot would become government property, which many of the men grumbled over. It was fine treasure; rolls of silks, crates of rare spices, and even a small chest of gold bullion. Having it around in such proximity to the men set Will?s teeth on edge, but it was not his place to say anything. He attended to his duties, having men help the St. Sylan?s captain to his quarters, and having him seen to medically. A stray pistol shot had caught him in the abdomen, and he was bleeding heavily. The next few days were even tenser than they had been, but the captain held things together, bellowing orders from his sickbed, while William handled the majority of the affairs. They had no choice but to make for the nearest port.
It happened six days later, as night was falling. It was raining again, though nowhere near as hard as when the pirates had attacked. William was making his rounds around the ship, dressing the night?s watch, when one of the rigging workers, a tall burly man perpetually stripped to the waist, stepped out from behind one of the cabins.
?Ah, you can tell the others I?m giving the order to furl sails for the night,? Will said, stifling a yawn. The man didn't answer.
?I said tell?? he was cut off by the man lashing out. Moonlight flashed off the ring he was wearing. It was brass; some kind of signet ring, but with a rough stud in the centre. Lights exploded in Will?s head, followed by darkness, and a hard slam all along his back as he fell to the deck. Fiery pain blazed across his face where he had been struck. His vision was blurry, and he was dimly aware of hands lifting him. He felt the pistol yanked from his jacket, and heard his sword and knife drawn from sheathes on his belt; it all sounded blurry, as though he were hearing it underwater. He twitched, trying to struggle, and his hearing sharpened slightly as he heard a splash; and voices. ?Good fuckin? riddens. I fought he?d never fuckin? kick it. Shoulda just slit his froat like I said. Too bloody weak to stop us, wont?ee??
?Dun?t matter now, does it??
A voice above him. ?I got young Twil here. What ya wanna do wiv ?im??
?Bin him over?t side wiv the Captain. Got his weapons??
?Yeah.?
There was a brief feeling of weightlessness as he was in free fall. Then the icy coldness of the water engulfed him, and the burning of the wound on his face as it poured over and into his mouth. It shocked him into motion and he started kicking and thrashing under the surface. When he broke through, gasping for air, the voices were continuing from some way away. He?d drifted under the water, but he could still hear. ?Wait, din?t he have that nice silver pocket watch??
?Ah shit, forgot about that. Fuck it though, we got plenty o?loot in the hold, don?t we??
Hoping he hadn?t lost his sense of direction, Will began to swim towards where he thought land was. It would be a long time before he would know if he was right, even if darkness hadn?t fallen. He?d likely drown before he got there, but he had to try. After a few minutes, he bumped into something, and recoiled in revulsion when he realized what it was. But then gripped tight to what he realized was his grim salvation. The body of the captain was floating in front of him, and it was all he had to buoy himself on the water.
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Will?s eyes opened blearily. He was damp. That was probably what brought on the dream; the damp was a reminder of sea?s cold embrace. It?d been several months ago. He?d been washed into the quay of the Drowned District, looking not much better than the rotting corpse he was holding onto. He curled up tighter where he sat, under the bridge, and pressed his face into his knees, knocking his leather tricorne hat askew. Sleeping was a dangerous necessity here, but he surrendered to it grudgingly. Still, he was reluctant to wake. Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet, and checked that the hem of his stained shirt covered the top of the large knife sheath strapped to his belt. The sheath was empty, but it helped if other people didn?t know that. He shivered as he set off to walk aimlessly, and wished once again for the heavy officer?s jacket he?d shrugged off to keep going in the sea.
Will?s belly grumbled and he thought of food. That parcel the strange man had given him hours ago was a pleasant little miracle, but one he wasn?t sure if he trusted. But he had little choice in the matter. Opening up the burlap bag, he stepped under an overpass and began eating ravenously. Before he knew it, the food was gone. All that was left was the little parchment map. He could have used it to start a fire for some warmth, but something had stayed his hand. So it was tucked beneath his shirt at the waist of his pants. His hand strayed, checking it was still there. Yes?
Will shook himself. The food had seemed fine. Still, something like that wasn?t likely to happen again. He thought he should start looking for food and water immediately. Sighing, he set off through the rain. Four months, and this was the first time he could remember having a full belly.