Post #2351141 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

The Qunari perched on the rooftop, a silent sentinel, and for the moment at least, completely still, poised at the corner of the building like a crouched gargoyle, hands gripping the stone ledge with the easy confidence of years of practice. Behind her, on the flat surface of the elevated platform, several human bodies lay in various states of unfortunate fate; some had clearly died much more swiftly than others, taken by the surprise of the Ben-Hassrath’s initial assault. One of several pockets of a particular nighttime gang terrorizing Lowtown. Such a thing would ordinarily be no business of hers, but she had it on good authority that they planned to expand their operations into the Alienage, tonight, in all likelihood.

That, she would not allow.

A breeze kicked up from over the ocean, but unlike on the Wounded Coast, it brought mostly the scent of fish and industry and human foundries. Sulfur, fish, sweat, cheap alcohol. It was the odor of Kirkwall, and she disliked how well she knew it. A flicker of movement below caught her attention, and Amalia shifted slightly, leaning out over the edge a bit and bracing herself with both arms and legs. Sure enough, there was another grouping of thugs below, these accompanied also by those hounds the Fereldan refugees seemed to favor. Mabari, she understood they were called, and smarter than the average beast. Smarter than any human who would trespass into the Alienage while she dwelled there, at any rate.

She had not lied to him; she could not protect them on her own. This did not mean she would not make the effort at all. The men below started to move, and the Qunari stirred, propelling herself to the adjacent rooftop with no noise. Clad in mottled dark blues and greys, she blended easily with the backdrop of the middle of the night; only the uninitiated believed that shadows were black, and these humans were clearly among them, making their dark shapes easy to trail after, even if they hadn’t been making more noise than any truly nocturnal creature had any right to.

From the Lowtown Market she stalked them, trailing behind them on rooftops, but the information had been good—they were unmistakably headed towards the Alienage, armed to the teeth and apparently somewhat intoxicated in several cases. Still, there were quite a number of them, and she would not be able to deal with them all before one of them managed to spot her. Even so, Amalia waited. If they did not set foot in the city-elves’ dwelling place, she would not touch them. The ones on the roof had died to keep her observations quiet, but she was not needlessly destructive.

They were rounding the final bend on their path, however, and as soon as the first had laid his foot on the steps leading down into the central common, Amalia let go of any remaining inclination to wait, reaching for the throwing needles at her thigh, loosing three before she capitalized on what remained of the advantage of surprise. Setting her jaw, the Qunari flicked her wrist, sliding the hidden blade there free of its home and leaping from the roof without so much as a whisper of sound. Flipping over once in her descent, she landed squarely on the shoulders of that first man, sliding the foot-and-a-half length of steel into his spinal cord before he had time to realize his knees were buckling under her weight.

Leaping from him before she could accompany his corpse in an ungainly tumble down the stairs, she landed in a crouch on the top stair, blade arm extended out to the side, and rose fluidly to a stand. ”You will leave this place in peace, or you will die,” she informed the rest flatly. There was silence for all of two seconds before they attacked.

Lucien was headed home perhaps a little later than he would normally have been, but apparently the client had been insistent that she could not show her face before the middle of the night, for fear of whomever was following her. He supposed he could understand that, but then in the end it had made precious little difference anyway, and the confrontation had been brief, but uncomfortable. One of the disadvantages of being willing to hear out absolutely anyone was that occasionally you were taken for a fool and someone tried to use you for petty revenge. It was only after he’d successfully explained to the jilted husband that he was not the second party to an affair that he’d been able to extricate himself from that mess, and now he was tired and really just wanted to sleep.

The universe seemed to have other ideas in mind, however, and it was some distance before he rounded the corner to his house that he heard the sounds of an armed confrontation, including shouting and the unmistakable clang of steel. If he wasn’t mistaken, there were hounds involved as well. Picking up his pace, the Chevalier jogged around the corner, a hand over his shoulder and on the haft of his axe, to be confronted by a most macabre sight.

A singular woman, slightly bent under the weight of exertion and what he presumed must be wounds, stood just in front of the steps descending into the Alienage, dripping blood from the end of a rather wicked-looking blade that seemed to be attached to her arm. She was also covered in it, but from the looks of things, not all of it was hers; perhaps not even most. Strewn about her in a rough half-circle were the unmoving bodies of several men, their dark clothes and the Mabari presence identifying them as members of the Dog Lords, a local gang. From the woman’s defensive stance, he suspected she was guarding the entrance to the elven slum, and though she was clearly human, he was almost certain he recognized her from the area. She held one hand to her side, glancing up at him as he appeared, but there was no readable emotion on her face.

The Dog Lords noted his presence as well, and it wasn’t more than a few heartbeats before half had split off to attack him. Lucien sighed through his nose. “Will you not leave without further death?” he asked, more than aware of the answer already. One of them spat at his feet and attacked, forcing him to take a step backwards and raise his axe to block.

Amalia had already given her warning, and she was ruthless. Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, she strafed forward and opened up a slash beneath one man’s chin, dropping him to the ground in a welling of blood. She kept her free hand clasped to her side, however, trying to stem the blood seeping from a wound there that one of them had inflicted as she tired. Hard to hit she may be, but the entire point of this endeavor was to hold a position, to not allow any of these basra beyond the spot in which she stood, and she was not accustomed to plying bulwark. That, indeed, seemed like something her happenstance ally would be better suited for, and she’d seen him doing just this on previous nights, close to here.

Ducking sideways to avoid a downward swing from a two-handed sword, she slipped in under her assailant’s guard, slamming her fluid-slick blade into his gut. He stumbled backwards with a choked cry, but she did not follow. That would place her amidst his comrades, and she could not afford to be so reckless. She played a delicate game of cat and mouse here, but with Darktown rats instead of mice. They were more than capable of shredding her if she did not remember her vulnerabilities.

Lucien fought his way steadily through his half of the Dog Lords, not so disadvantaged by open-field combat as the woman was, and certainly not injured at present. Making his way to her side, he glanced down out of the corner of his eye. “You seek to keep them out of the Alienage?” he asked, though the answer seemed obvious enough.

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure what reason this basra could have to care, but she knew his face by description, and what she’d heard was reason enough to trust his intent, for now.

After he took over as damage shield, Amalia was able to return to a much greater degree of efficacy, sliding effortlessly through the thick of the foes’ confused grouping, cutting them down from behind, and in the end, the Dog Lords had nothing more to show for their trouble than more dead members. The Qunari’s blade slid home with a muted click, and she turned to the armored human. “For what purpose do you assist me?” she asked, her tone steady despite her injuries.

Lucien regarded the woman with some concern. “There are few who would help these people, and I understand that one of those who did so with most vigor is no longer present.” Nostariel had told him of Ithilian’s desire to avenge the wrongs done the elves here, but he was fairly sure the man lingered in Kirkwall no longer, if the conversation he’d overheard in the Deep Roads was anything to go by. “You should get that wound treated; it looks bad. I know a healer, if you need one.”

Amalia ignored him, or at least the part of his answer that concerned her condition. She’d survived much worse than this; a few potions would do the trick just fine. “And what? You seek to replace him?” her tone was acidic, almost accusatory.

Lucien blinked in surprise; he hadn’t been expecting hostility. “Of course not,” he replied mildly. “but surely more than one person in the world can do the right thing? Was protecting them not your intent as well?” He replaced his axe on his back, as if to declare that his further intentions fell far short of hostility.

Amalia eased at this. “Indeed,” she replied, and it was answer to both questions. Straightening, she pulled a potion from her belt-pouch and downed it, rolling her shoulders as it took effect and closed off the wound in her side. “My suspicion is not unwarranted, but you are as the others say, basra.” It was not anyone who could show his face in the Arishok’s pavilion twice and come away unscathed both times, after all. “Your assistance is acknowledged.” She inclined her head as a means of thanks, and turned to depart.

“Basra?” he echoed behind her, and she stopped. “You are of the Qun, then? I did not think there were any female Qunari in Kirkwall.” He had to admit to some level of curiosity about this; he had always thought that the Qunari did not allow their women to fight.

“I am Qunari,” she confirmed simply, half-turning again to regard him from the corner of an eye. “But I am not of the Antaam, the Arishok’s army. My role is different.”

”But you fight,” he pressed, interested in this detail he had not known before. “That was clearly not your first battle.”

She nodded, acknowledging the statement for what it was. “The body may face adversity that it can only answer with hostility, and the same is true of the soul,” she said cryptically. Studying the man for a moment, Amalia tilted her head to one side. It was something that had struck her during their joint confrontation—though he was of a size and stature with the average male kossith, he did not move like one. Something about his training must have resembled hers, where flexibility and movement were key, though she could not say exactly what it might have been. The ways of basra were often opaque to her.

“There are many ways to fight, and not all need be of the kind armies use. I think you know this.”

Lucien smiled, and nodded. He wasn’t sure what to make of her comment about bodies and souls, though it seemed true enough to him. Precisely how it was an answer to what had come before was a little more obscure, but that was all right. They were speaking from different places; common understandings were not always easy things, and he was simply glad she’d explained as much as she had.

“May I have your name? Or your role, rather?” he supposed that would be the more appropriate request, wouldn’t it?

Amalia considered this for a moment. “You may. I am Ben-Hassrath, or Amalia. What are you?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I could answer to your satisfaction,” he said honestly. “My given name is Lucien, but I suppose unless you’d be willing to let me borrow a Qunlat word for mercenary, I have no role anymore.” It was interesting, trying to explain himself in these terms, and he wasn’t sure they fit at all. Still, it was something he would admit to some curiosity about, one that had been kindled largely by his limited experience with the Qunari thus far.

“There isn’t one,” Amalia replied. “It wouldn’t suit you, anyway. If we had one, it would be pejorative.” Mercenaries were not the kinds of people who did what was necessary for no other reason or reward, as he had done.

Lucien chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think. Well, I should be going. A good evening to you, Amalia.” With that, he inclined himself at the torso and left, heading back to his dwelling. She contemplated following; ally or potential future enemy, someone with his skill and demeanor bore watching, but she had a feeling the Arishok was already taking care of that, keeping tabs on anyone who had drawn his attention yet in this place. So she refrained, instead descending the steps to the Alienage, slipping inside the dwelling she shared with her Viddethari to more properly treat her wounds.

She wondered just how much longer she could exert herself for this entire district. She already had a role, and trying to take on two at once was not going to sustain either for very long. She was neither made nor trained to be Sataareth.

Snippet #2351141

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

Setting

Characters Present

Footnotes