Post #2406062 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

Sparrow followed Rilien, with her companions, through the dusky city, occasionally glancing at the Gallows sitting on the horizon, looming like a foreboding giant. Twisted statues, immense gates and ever-vigilant Templars watching like slavering shrikes. She wondered if it'd been done on purpose, building the archways in such a way that they'd be visible from all angles and levels of Kirkwall. If it wasn't for its grisly history, she might have thought it looked impressive. A castle in its own rights, barring away all signs of hope and freedom. It reminded her of Sophia. Certainly, not the brutality. But, the sense of justice that wafted down in waves. The docks came quickly, billowing the scent of rotten fish, sweaty bodies and who-knows-what-else. It was fetid, filled with bilge from the docked ships and whatever else Kirkwall felt free to dump here. Trash, old garbage, dead fish, dead people. She still enjoyed hanging around the sailors, opening up caskets filled with aged rum and clanking wooden cups together to celebrate another long haul she hadn't been present to enjoy—but, they still shared with her because she sang for them and made them laugh.

There would be no laughing on this occasion, and she hoped she didn't see anyone she recognized. Sparrow adjusted the straps of her chest plate, rearranged the weight distribution. Tightened and loosened the straps, fiddled with the fastenings. She was not as silent as Ithilian, nor Rilien. Her footsteps were clattering things, iron slapping against broken cobblestones. She kicked up pebbles until they skirted off the edge, plopped in the briny water. All clenched knuckles, mace-handed and frustratingly tense, Sparrow wondered if her companions, her hunting partners, were any amount of nervous she was. It didn't seem likely. Courage was a difficult thing to conjure. Every step closer seemed like a tangible thing that was making her shrink backwards, becoming younger and younger. More vulnerable, with fragmented bones, bruised lips and clouded lungs. Resisting the innate urge to step closer to Rilien, Sparrow removed her helmet and tucked it under her armpit. She wanted them to recognize her. She wanted them to know who was seeking their end.

She did not ask whether or not they were close. Exchanging a look with Rilien revealed that they were nearly there, rounding another corner until they descended a grimy set of staircases. It was surprisingly out of the way—and she wondered whether or not she even knew of this location's existence. No, she'd never been here. If she had... perhaps, she would have managed to kill them long ago. Sparrow chewed her lip, descending the last step. The metal plates of her amour, creaking at the joints, seemed to gain the attention of a few sailors. Sifting through wooden boxes on the decks of a discernibly large ship, hardly lifting their heads to identify who was making such a goddamn racket. The larger buildings and lower docking created a makeshift grotto, hiding it from view unless you tallied down the fishy stairwell. Few and far in-between, exempting Rilien, were willing to drift too far from the main docks, and for good reason, unless they wanted all of their coin pinched from their pockets.

Worse yet, being thrown into the water for trespassing on shady transactions. Sparrow squinted her dark eyes, noting oddly-shaped boxes at the end of the docks, slightly larger than the others, with rusty bars and emaciated forms hunkered in the middle. Her mouth went dry, and her breath hitched. Slaves—elves, humans. The closest sailor waved his hand at them, clearly confused as to why they were here. His crooked teeth flashed, pulling back into an ugly grimace. “Oi', bugger off.” The second sailor, long-haired and unkempt, clapped him on the back and whispered something into his ear. The exchange only lasted a moment. Crooked-teeth regarded them once more, eyes trailing to the human girl. “Eh, less 'ave got business, innit?” Three elves. It seemed peculiar that a woman would be leading unchained (and armed) slaves to the docks, where they'd been waiting for another shipment.

But, Fell Orden had told them that Little Sophie was a fiery lass.

If Rilien had been asked, he would have advised a much stealthier approach, for himself and the Dalish hunter if nobody else. The less their enemies knew of them, the better, but he was not asked, and Sparrow was not subtle, so in the open they all remained, conspicuous as that made them. Some of the men down on this dock knew him by sight, but these were none of them. He had no business in flesh, nor with those who traded in it. He may spare few thoughts to morality and suchlike, but even he was not cruel enough to bind someone in chains and sell them like one would a chicken or a goat.

He studied the arrangement of the gazes, reading from the motion of eyes what these men thought of their arrival. Though he walked slightly to the front, most looked at Aurora, the only human in the group, then the other three, then back to the redheaded mage. Rilien adjusted his gait slightly so as to fall into step beside her. “They assume that you are in charge,” he told her, curiously without seeming to move his lips at all. His voice was pitched low enough to be only audible to the three nearest him, so effectively, nobody else would know he'd said anything at all. “If you can act it, we may be able to sight our true targets before the killing begins.” He did not desire that they should wade their way through a small sea of blood and allow the actual intended recipients of Sparrow’s vengeance to escape in the meantime. A slaver was almost always a coward, and a coward would not remain after witnessing what damage such a small group was capable of inflicting.

It was likely not possible for Ithilian to appear as a slave, or to even get him to attempt to. He too would have preferred a more subtle approach, at least to open up the conflict, as his longbow and quiver of arrows were currently feeling suspiciously like unnecessary weight behind him. His right hand rested on one of his blades, the left itching to pull Parshaara and teach these slavers what agony felt like. He preferred a bloody fight to something quick and clean, especially against types like these, but it would have been ideal to at least start the fight with the upper hand. But, perhaps it could still be done.

The Tranquil's words reached his ears, and he frowned. Drawing them out could be difficult, if they were the cowardly type. Surely Aurora would have some experience with putting on a false face, if she had survived as an apostate for this long, but assuming the identity of a slaver was no easy task. Explaining why she was flanked by three armed and armored elves (or two and a half, perhaps) was even more difficult. Honestly, Ithilian had little expectation for the fight to be put off for long, but he was certainly willing to give it a shot. It would be a waste if they came here and spilled all this blood, and never found the particular pair of throats she was looking to slit.

Well, not that much of a waste. Killing any of these men would be a good use of his time.

What? He thought she was in charge? She was by far the smallest and most unarmed (to the naked eye) one among them, and she was the one in charge? Not only were the business they were in deplorable, but they were dumb as rocks too. Aurora had her head tilted when Rilien spoke to her, to which she rolled her eyes. If they believed that she was in charge, then everything else should be simple. "Fine," she said, less than enthused. Like or not, it was probably all going to end the same. In blood and destruction. At least this way they could see who they need to kill before things got inevitably violent.

It was hard enough to understand the slack-jaw with his lip in the way, and it caused her to issue a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Yes, yes, business. Glad to know that you can see," Aurora began, taking on an aloof tone. Truth be told, it wasn't that hard, "Now, am I to believe that I have to do this business with you? Or are you gonna go get your boss for me before I leave? I doubt he'll be happy, considering." Aurora crossed her arms and nodded to her three companions. As far as elves go, they didn't get much more healthy and interesting as those three.

Crook-teeth squinted at her, beady eyes roving down her shirt-front until he seemed to remember himself. He clicked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders, leaning heavily over the wooden railing to better inspect the three armed elves flanking her heels—slave-guardians, perhaps? Ambitious owners had been known to teach their slaves to kill for them, but three seemed like overkill. Especially for a woman who was said to have been able to hold her own against much larger men. Fell Orden's claims may have been embellished. He certainly did not know what she looked like, either. The silence grew between them, prickly and uncomfortable, until Little Sophie stepped ahead of her slaves and told them, quite clearly, that they'd better fetch their captains or they wouldn't be too happy with their inactivity. He chuckled awkwardly, flapping his hand at his companion to go bloody well fetch them.

“Oi, oi. Missus, they be comin' alright.” Crook-teeth drawled, bobbing his head back and forth. He hawked harshly and spat into the briny waters, eyeing Ithilian and Rilien. They might'en reward him for his diligence, too. They were a little early, but they never knew when to expect shipments these days. It was getting more and more difficult to shepherd them through Kirkwall without being seen—and the vagrant clans were getting wise to their schemes, hiding away their children like angry, circle-forming buffalos. His cheeky grin displayed piano-key teeth, pulled into something that he might have thought was coquettish, but only appeared lewd and vulgar. “Dressed mighty nice fer' dirty knife-ears, I say, messere Sophie. Look healthy, too. Dona' skimp on meals, get my saying—”

Sparrow seemed petrified in place, hardly moving from Aurora's side. Fear charged through her veins like a wild chariot, rearing its head only long enough for her to feel like she was shrinking backwards or being pulled between the slats of wood beneath their feet. It was unreasonable, and alarmingly stupid. She'd been waiting for this moment for ages. Every cutthroat, bloodthirsty thought had been cultivated in her dreams. She had been adamant, desperate for them to understand. The passion in the few short sentences she'd first uttered to Ithilian seemed foolish now. All of her doubts pricked numbing talons into her shoulder blades, bellying a gutlessness she could not comprehend. Her mouth went dry, for she knew not what to say to these dirty, disgusting wretches. Everything in her body urged her to simply do away with them and recklessly tromp through the ship until they found them—though, that plan was as unwise as simply walking down into this hidden harbour (which had also been her idea).

Thankfully, Rilien leaned into Aurora, quietly suggesting that she'd better take the reins and impersonate whomever they believed she was. The stagnant feeling in her stomach abated, if only a little. The tight knots wringing braids with her innards loosened. She wasn't required to do anything but stand there, masquerading as a slave. As long as she kept her mouth promptly closed, they wouldn't have any trouble right away. It was difficult enough while emaciated forms crooked forward like weeping willows, fingers wrung around the bars, and shallow faces watching them as they conversed with their captors. She felt ill. The temperature felt as if it'd dropped dramatically. Her flattened ears picked up advancing sounds of someone climbing wooden stairs. Thok, thok, thok.

Sparrow recognized him immediately, gracefully stepping onto the deck. He wore thick boots, loudly clopping as he strode over to the railing to join the ugly sailor. He nearly floated. Thick ringlets fell across his forehead, contouring cloudy eyes, awfully amused by their appearance. The expression faltered completely when he looked down at them—and Silian whipped towards Crook-teeth, scowling fiercely. “Idiot! That isn't Sophie. Get Arcadius, now. Send the boys up, as well.” He nearly slapped his head as Crook-teeth scampered away from him, as if he'd been struck. Like an exasperated mother who'd caught her children in the cookie jar, Silian turned towards them and combed slender fingers through his hair. He looked sallower then before, obviously having lost weight with age. “Tch. We were expecting a group of much more vulnerable... I see neither Fell, nor Victor here. But, instead, a lofty group of elves with a woman. Armed to the teeth, no less. Now, if you're adventurers, I'd suggest moving on your way. Forget you've seen this, or I may rip out your skull and beat you with it.”

The threat flew straight over her head. Sparrow cradled her discomfort, willed it to disappear. So, Arcadius was here, as well. Cotton lungs clenched. Her lip trembled, but she still managed to sputter, “You.” The mace was in her hand, though she had no recollection of reaching for it, white-knuckled and at the ready. Drums barrelled through her head, drowning out the sound of the tide slapping against the pier. Sailors were already stomping back onto the deck—armed with shiny blades still stained with blood.

Silian swung his lidded gaze onto her, eyebrows knitting. There was a tense moment of silence, before he laughed sharply, twisting the staff from his back and tapping it across the railing. “Me. And who are you?”

Perhaps, that was worse.

It did look a little bit like him. Rilien was not vain, despite was his appearance might suggest, and on a clinical level, he understood that it would not have been terribly difficult for a demon to make him look like this man—their hair shared a hue, their faces a fine-boned angularity. They were even of a height. Something twinged distantly in the back of his mind, a feeling of disgust, he thought. It took no more than the space of a blink after Silian had finished talking for Rilien to dart forward, drawing his enchanted knives from the sheaths on his back. The sailors were slower to react to the sudden burst of violent action than they should have been, but someone else could take advantage of that if they wished—he had only one target in mind.

Sparrow was clearly not in the right state of mind for this, but she would never forgive herself if these two men got away. He would make sure she did not have to fight that battle with her own mind, and trust that she would come around in enough time to do what she was really here to do. Ducking and weaving around sailors hastily-drawing their weapons, the Tranquil sprinted up the gangplank, throwing himself to the side in just enough time to avoid a burst of flame from the mage atop the deck, rolling back to his feet undaunted and leaping forward.

Silian’s own reflexes spared him from being unceremoniously skewered, and he took only a slice to the outside of his arm for the trouble. Taking no time to lament the loss of the clean kill, Rilien decided to settle for the dirty one. Lacking much of a conscience, he was not at all concerned by the thought of inflicting pain on this man, however unnecessary.

The mage, though, only smiled, as if the Tranquil had done him some great favor, and Rilien’s sixth sense lit up with a very different kind of magic—insidious and creeping, as though it lingered under their skins and threatened to sever everything from within. The dripping line of blood on the bandit’s arm rose into the air, and he hooked his fingers, driving it at the elf like a lash. Dropping into a crouch, the intended target ignored the crack overhead as it snapped, whiplike, into the space he’d just occupied, and pressed forward, hooking his right-hand blade out in an attempt to hamstring the man, who just laughed when it instead met a wall of hardened red, blocking access to the spot at which he’d been aiming. His control was formidable, and Rilien knew this would not be a simple matter of a few hits.

Ithilian liked the Tranquil's initiative. He'd been wondering if seeing one of the two targets would be an acceptable time to begin, but Sparrow herself seemed to be in no clear head to be making these decisions. Rilien, on the other hand, had just decided for them all that the battle was to begin, which Ithilian really had no problems with. Arcadius was supposedly on his way, and it would be easier to kill them in groups rather than all at once.

Leaving the blood mage to the Tranquil, Ithilian drew his blades and darted forward after the other elf did so. He didn't think starting a fire here would be wise, and so Parshaara remained in its sheath. The surprise of seeing Rilien simply charge into battle with one of their leaders was enough of a distraction for Ithilian to get his first kill free, by plunging his right hand blade through the belly of the nearest slaver up to the hilt, before raising a shoe to the man's chest and kicking him off of it, to fall backwards into the water with a heavy splash.

The second one came at him from the right, swiping quickly with a small hand axe that Ithilian sidestepped left out of the way of, flipping his right hand blade over in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged down, stabbing the short sword into the back of the man's knee, a light pop accompanying the sound of splitting flesh as the blade punched out of the kneecap, and the slaver went down to a knee in agony. He ripped the blade free and spun, flipping the sword back over in his hand and landing a clean, swift slice at the base of the slaver's neck, the weapon cutting clean through and shortening him by a head.

Really, Aurora would love to see the man try to beat her with her own skull. She was not impressed by the boast, and even less so when he revealed his control of blood magic. In fact, Aurora seemed a mite bit disappointed, going so far as to tiredly sigh. "It's always blood magic. This is why we get sent to the circle," Aurora monotoned, seeming less willing to plunge headlong into the fray. Blood magic, she had yet to meet a mage outside the circle who either didn't practice the art, or didn't want to kill them. Most of the time, it was both. Funny, the ones who turned to blood magic were always the weaker willed ones, who believed it would give them strength. It was a topic for thought, but for later, she was there to help, and help she would. Seeing how she was the least imposing member of their elven band, it left it with very few glances in her direction. Why would they, when the tranquil and dalish were right in the middle of showing off their own brand of ferocity?

She gave Sparrow one last glance before walking into the fray. Most of the commotion was centered on both Rilien and Ithilian, so it was with impunity that Aurora waltz up behind the nearest slaver, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him to the ground. She shifted her hand from his collar to the side of his head, steadying it while she rained down a number of quick punches to the top of his crown. When she was done, the slaver was out cold. Her actions did not go unnoticed, as another slaver watched this petite girl effortlessly dispatch his coworker. Unfortunately, this one had a whip. The air in front of her nose cracked as the whip cut through the air, and she threw herself back.

That would be problematic. Whips weren't deadly... but they hurt.

Snippet #2406062

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

Setting

Characters Present

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