User:Michael Bard/The Cultists Strike Back!
{{#ifeq: User |User| The Cultists Strike Back! | The Cultists Strike Back!}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| The Cultists Strike Back! | The Cultists Strike Back!}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | ||
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | | Authors: ' |
Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} | |
Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Michael Bard | Michael Bard}}]]
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September, 707 CR (during the Fall Festival)
Yvarra had been so relieved to get off the bloody holy mountain and back into the civilization of Euper. Had been until, back in The White Hind. She'd bolted the windows, and was fast asleep. She'd been awoken by a bell from the Sword of Songs, a slipped open window, and the hiss of a dart. It hadn't hurt much, and whatever guck had been on it had been neutralized by her Alicorn. And, the attack had been so swift, that she never saw who did it, or had a chance to react. Her thrown dagger just went out the window into the night, never to be seen again.
And it happened three more times.
She'd switched to a different inn, The Lame Nobleman. They'd only gotten her twice that night. Yvarra had slept till past noon as, at least, they left her alone during daylight. At least they were given her a good stock of darts. Once she cleaned the guck off of them.
She hadn't realized what in the Nine Hells the cultists were trying, until she'd staggered down to the common room and went through three bowls of the porridge. And would have had another but that was it. She remembered when she'd killed the first cultist, how drained she'd been. And how drained she felt after the darts. It seemed that the healing took energy, her own energy. And, she only had so much.
It had taken her three tries, but, finally, she'd found a vegetarian concentrated dried ration she could stomach. Something small, portable, and easy to keep to hand.
She'd left The Lame Nobleman to find the streets almost empty. It didn't take long for her ears to pick up the sounds of a festival, or celebration of some sort. It wasn't in Euper, but in the commons outside. The gates were open, there were no tolls for once, and--
The Sword of Songs donged a warning just in time for her to feel the dart thump into her thigh. She felt the warmth from her forehead as she plucked the weapon out. At least she hadn't wasted a throwing knife.
So much for resting in daylight.
She needed a plan, and she needed it yesterday. The cultists were winning, and she had no idea how to find them, or how to fight them. She needed time to think. Maybe in a crowd--
Not running, but walking briskly, she hurried through the gates and off towards the crowded commons. She could mingle, have some piece, and figure out what in Eli's name she could do!
Usually she liked festivals. Perfect grounds for some simple wealth acquisition. But now, now she was afraid to touch anything because she had no clue who was a damn cultist! Snorting she adjusted her fedora. And she still needed to get a proper scabbard for the damn sword. Hopefully here...
The sword donged a warning.
Just great. She looked around, getting a bit frantic, and then saw where the booths were. She pushed her way through, blessing her height. Stopping, she stared. It was! It was that damn monster tiger. From the keep. She was betting the cult wasn't up there, and that suggested he was safe. And, Kelpnos thank, he looked to be selling weapons. She pushed her way towards him.
It wasn't far, and she watched him watching her from the counter he was behind. What was it with Metamorans and counters? What happened to the good old wagon and tent? Anyway, either he was a very poor merchant, or he'd been quite successful so far. Hopefully the later. Still, if he'd been in the keep, he likely wasn't a cultist.
She relaxed a bit, though she could feel her ears still flicking and she kept sniffing at the air. They were here. And they knew that she knew. And she knew that they knew that she knew. And-- She shook her head to clear it. If they got to her this easily, she was just dead.
Why was she here again? Oh right, the scabbard.
The sword plucked a note of agreement.
She stopped in front of his-- stall? Counter? "Hello, sorry, busy. I need a scabbard for this. There was an accident--" She unbuckled the strap from over her shoulder and pulled the heavy thing off. "You got anything that'll do?"
He stared at her with a neutral position. But then, did cats ever have anything else? At least his tail bent, unlike that bloody Brennar. The tiger's voice was deep and measured, full of barely restrained strength, and threat. "I might have something that would fit that weapon, but that would mean pulling apart an existing set of weapons in order to furnish you with the needed item."
She rolled her eyes. Damn smiths, always trying to raise the price. At least she only had to keep turning her head a little to see what was going on around her. "You have anything with throwing knives? I've been going through quite a lot recently--" If only he knew.
She watched him frown. Of course, she could hear him thinking, warriors never used throwing knives! Well, she hadn’t cared what others thought of her for a long time, and she didn't care now.
Still, he said nothing. Instead he asked, "Why are you carrying that large sword ma'am? Even I can see that you don't really know how to use it, and I have seen a lot in my life."
Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! Of course warrior would notice that kind of thing, just like she'd notice the same with knives or a sling. For a second she through of playing the arrogant noble given a toy, but the Sword of Songs was just too distinctive. When in doubt, mix the truth with the lie. "It's kind of an heirloom. It," the sword played the sound of a discordant cymbal, "-- she and I are still working things out. Learning to use it is on my list when I have the time." If I survive till the new year.
She watched him cock his head and wiggle an ear as the Sword of Songs commented. "I see," he said. He placed on the hilt of one of his swords.
Great. Damn finicky warriors. What had she done wrong this time?
Thank Eli he just continued. "Can I please take a closer look at your weapon so that I can get a good idea of what would fit it?"
Closer look? She clenched the hilt tightly. But then, what harm was he going to do? Especially here. She just prayed the cultists kept their distance. She could feel power here through her alicorn, hopefully the thing wasn't glowing. She needed more time! With an act of will she loosened her grip. "Sure. I do apologize for the scabbard -- it was what I had or nothing."
"It's a hack job if I ever saw one."
She snorted. If only he knew.
"You must've been in a hurry when you did it." He pulled the sword from the cut off scabbard and examined it. It made a low tone, like the long draw of a bow on a string.
She watched him, heart pumping, as he examined it. Her ears were flicking all over the place, and she began feeling a bit light headed she was sucking air into her nostrils so fast. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to calm a little.
The hilt had an elegant downward pointed cross-tree on it and there were subtle engravings on both the cross-tree, the pommel, and the first two inches of the blade. Yvarra had never really taken the time to look at it. Swords were just tools. But this-- When she stole stuff she looked for the ornate, the fancy, this-- No runes, no heavy detail, no sculpting, no gems. Just clean smooth lines. In its own way, it was more beautiful than the gold and gem covered monstrosities she'd seen so many times.
He stepped back, and she stepped forward. Then he pulled on hiw own swords from its scabbard and slid the Sword of Songs into it. It fit perfectly, and the two side thongs slipped over the cross-trees to reach their studs without a problem.
"How does this look?" he asked.
"It looks fine. Appearance isn't that big a thing compared to functionality. May I?" She reached to take it back--
"Wait a second miss! You are forgetting something. This costs money, and you did mention that you wanted throwing knives." He pulled down a baldric that contained four sheathes with throwing knives contained therein. "If you want both that will cost fifty suns."
"No I hadn't forgotten! Though I trust you, if I need this thing and my life is at stake, I have to know now how easily it draws. If you want, hold the scabbard whilst I draw my sword. Then we can talk."
He reversed the scabbard and undid the two peace thongs before pointing the hilt of her weapon towards her. He obviously had no intention of letting go of this scabbard until it was properly paid for. Merchant or warrior, she couldn't tell anymore. Not that it really mattered.
"Sorry -- I've just learned the bitter hard way that looks don't mean shit when somebody's trying to run you through." She reached up, such an experience -- she hadn't had to do that in a while -- and the Sword of Songs easily slid out and into her grip. She slid it back in, and out and in. "Good." She nodded in satisfaction.
"Well now do want the scabbard and these four knives?" he asked her, as he did, he flipped his cloak open a little to reveal the hilt of a monstrous sword and the heart shaped ruby set into its pommel.
She looked at the knives-- looked like good craftsman ship but no way to tell. And he was touchy. Better safe than sorry. "May I handle one, and do you have a target?"
He pointed to a post that he'd dug in for that very purpose two days before. "You can throw it at that post there. I personally guarantee that they will never fail you in combat."
As if he knew! With all the gods that seemed to be crowding into her life recently, she didn't trust anything to perform as advertised anymore. She drew one of the daggers and held it by the hilt. Good grip. She balanced it vertically on her palm -- easy. Good balance.
"Looks like you know your way around a throwing knife Ma'am."
Grasping it by the handle, letting the leather warm to her touch, she squinted, cocked her head, and found a knothole in the post. That'll do for a start-- A swift straight movement back, snap forward, and the dagger was wobbling by its blade, centred in the knothole. "Good balance. You need a smaller target," she continued dryly.
Chuckling, he reached behind his back and whipped out another knife at the target. It stuck into the wood right beside her own weapon quivering slightly. "That's always what I tell the guys at the Deaf Mule."
"May I try a second one?" Without waiting for an answer she threw it and it thunked between the two existing daggers, quivering not at all.
"At least you have some skill with knives ma'am. That makes up for your lack of skill with that sword. Why do you carry it anyway if you can't even use it properly?"
"Like I said, she's kind of an heirloom." She looked around nervously, licked her nose, and sniffed the air. Too damn many food odours. Some grain mush shoved its way up and she hurriedly chewed before swallowing again. "Fifty suns is enough to beggar my sick grandmother, make my poor lonely grandfather turn in his grave, and my eighteen children to die of starvation. Thirty."
"Ma'am unless you are not aware I make the highest quality weapons this side of the Western Sea. If you want my stuff you will have to be willing to pay my prices. But right now I can tell you that you will find no better hardware in all of the Midlands. My price stays unless you can make me a better offer."
Somebody was sure full of themselves, and no sense of humour. She'd been hoping to kill a few minutes. Crap. She had it in gold, barely, but she'd have next to no coin left. "Fine. Rules are yours. I'd offer a knife game with winner gets their way, but that's liable to take us all day. How about an equivalent gem in trade?"
She hadn't wanted to dig into this so soon, but things rarely went as planned. She reached into the pouch and felt around -- she'd have been happier if they hadn't been cut, or she'd had been able to find somebody she trusted to recut them. She had no need to go to the keep again, and anything that kept the Sword of Songs happy, and thus kept her alive, was good in her book. She felt a smaller one, felt the facets-- should be. Pulling it out she saw it was a brilliant star sapphire cut in twelve edges. Looked like it'd been pried out of a setting-- what to say--? Heirloom? Bad family times? No sense showing the rest of the wealth she'd taken from the cultists.
She put it on the counter. "Here. Should more than cover it, and your transaction fee to sell it. Old family setting, ring was fake -- no clue how that trick happened."
He picked up the gem and scratched at it with one of his claws before he held it up to his eye. "This is a very nice stone ma'am, but it will more than pay for what you are purchasing. Then again I do have to sell it."
"It's got bad memories. Ten gold from your end to cover the difference?"
He nodded slowly looking at the way she moved and her posture, her scent. Why did she always have to get the careful ones? For a long moment he just watched her, and then he pulled out five gold and dropped them on the counter. "Something isn't right about this, I can smell it. So I'm only going to give you half of what you want for it."
Damn! This was going to come back and bite her, she knew it. Be non chalant-- Where was some cud when she could use the distraction? "It's not worth the memories. Five is fine."
He shook his head at the lady and frowned. "Now you had best be on your way ma'am before you attract too much attention. I've been around long enough to know that something isn't quite right here."
If only he knew. She could scent his suspicion. She had a choice, either stay and try and reduce it, but that didn’t' seem likely, or get the hell out. Of course, if the cultists did try for her here, he'd have far greater things to worry about than a bit of lost money. Of course, they'd strike by a poison dart in the eye, or a toxined sharpened coin slid against your palm. She didn't even want to think of how many times her alicorn had saved her so far.
She felt something nick her leg and felt a wash of heat pour down from her forehead.
And again.
"I'd better be going. You're going to think the wrong thing when I say this, but just forget I was ever here. Sword, scabbard and daggers please?" She slipped the dart out, wiped the poison off on her pocket, and let it slip to the ground.
Taking her purchases, she pushed her way out into the crowd, chewing on the cud that finally chose to come up.
For whatever reason, it took a good chunk of the afternoon for the cultists to find her. Yvarra had almost relaxed, especially after getting both her stomachs full of delicious apples. How could a food taste so good? The only thing that was able to distract her from the wondrous taste was what appeared to be a muffin tossing game of some sort.
She just shook her head. Yvarra would never understand this place--
Just as she was turning away, the Sword of Songs gonged a warning. Without thought she dove for the ground, managing to keep her muzzle up this time to keep her Alicorn from getting stuck, in the grassy dirt. Something hissed just overtop of her and thunked into--
Klepnos! Not her, somebody else!
She'd started to turn her head when there was a scream, and she watched what appeared to be a child collapsing.
She blinked.
She couldn't go on like this. Sure, she enjoyed challenges, enjoyed winning her victories, enjoyed tweaking the rich and the slow. But nothing she'd ever done had hurt an innocent. Nothing! And now, now the Eli damned cult--
The boy vanished behind a crowd as she forced herself to her hoof and began to slink away. She shouldn't be here, she couldn’t be here any longer. And, as to the cult, well, fine!
If they wanted to play the game, that way, she'd play it that way. They'd taught her to kill. And, now, for the first time in her life, she wanted to kill.
Her ears flicked as the Sword of Songs played a mournful oboe note--
"He's alive!"
What? Yvarra spun around, trying to see past the crowd.
"She's just sleeping." "Stupid pranksters, playing with sleeping drugs."
Yvarra stopped, blinking.
Sleeping drugs?
How'd they know? Did it really matter? Assume that statement was true. There were people who could know. Find the dart, carefully taste what was on its tip.
But, if it was a sleeping poison, then why?
Either they had known that dart would hit an innocent. Or--
Or, they wanted her alive.
She shuddered.
Yvarra stood up straighter.
In the scheme of things, it didn't matter. The child was alive, or the adult, or whatever, and that was what counted. And yet, and yet it proved that the cult had crossed the line, and was willing to cross the line.
She wouldn't be safe in crowds. She'd never be.
Her heart steeled itself with a new resolve.
They wanted death, she would give them death.
And there was one place she could start. The only place she could start.
The bathhouse. There had been an entrance to the catacombs there. And, once she got there, got to where she knew how to move in silence, then she would make them pay.
But, first she had to prepare. A quick preparation. She couldn't go as she was now. She couldn't go until tonight.
She pushed her way through the crowd that was starting to disperse. There was a tanners district, by the river. It was impossible to miss -- especially with her newly enhanced nostrils. She'd pick a building at random, pay to be dyed black. Buy some clothes to wrap around her hooves for silence.
And then, tonight, tonight she'd go back to the bathhouse.
Nodding to herself, she made her way off the commons.
The dye was cold, and dark. But then it was black. Or it had better be. Yvarra kept a small stream of bubbles gurgling from her nostrils. The longer she crouched there, the darker the colouration. She hadn't told the dyer, but she was holding a knife, letting it move from hand to hand, though she had told her to leave her in her privacy. She didn't know the dyer, didn't trust him. Eli, she didn't trust anybody anymore. She'd picked this dyer at random, literally by flipping a coin. Hopefully he'd be safe, and she'd be safe.
But she wasn't taking chances anymore.
She couldn't afford to. The white had to go. Absolutely. Before she'd just worn dark clothes, blackened wax on her face and hands. Now-- Now she'd do whatever she had too.
Yvarra'd known that most of her alicorn would be above the surface, but she planned to dip it later.
It was odd. She'd have sworn, hell she'd have put good coin down, that she could feel air movment along it. In fact-- was that the door she heard opening? The dyer? She could see-- dagger-- Nine fucking hells!
Acting more on instinct than reason, she burst out of the barrel of dye and whipped the knife from between two fingers. Even as she blinked, even as the black oily dye dripped from her hears, she heard the gurgling and whimpering of pain. In the few moments it took her to clear her burning eyes, the room fell silent. The dyer was lying there in a pool of blood, a knife stuck I his throat. Or, the dyer who was male now and-- Argh! She hated the damn curse!
Climbing the rest of the way out, she let the thick liquid roll off her naked body to pool beneath her hooves, mixing with the dyer's blood. It was cold, cold as ice. Cold as her blood felt now that she felt no remorse at the death. Stepping carefully from the liquid, carefully across the body, she pushed the door he'd open the rest of the way. It didn't matter that she was leaving a trail of black, she needed to know now.
It didn't take her long to explore the small place, sniff around the stored skins to be tanned and dyed, to find the secret closet and the cultist robe. It didn't take her long to find his small stash of coins and take it for herself. It didn't take her long to find that there was no secret passage, no entrance to the catacombs.
As though she'd be that lucky.
It didn't take her long to find out that the alicorn would not take dye. Didn't take her long to find out that wrapping it was horribly, horribly uncomfortable.
And it didn't take her long to grab the loaf of bread the dyer had been eating, grab some clothes to wrap around her hooves, and leave the small shop in the moonlit blackness, leaving the door to hang open behind her.
Euper was quiet. In the distance she could hear the crackle and boom of fireworks as they exploded above the commons. The soft rustle of the river, the honking of a few geese, a flag flapping in the wind. In the distance, a voice called out, it's meaning unintelligible.
The rags on her hooves were not comfortable. And they killed what traction she had. It had taken practice to balance, but that was one of the things she was good at.
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