Post #2509878 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

The storm had finally passed, allowing the sun to reappear in time for the sundown execution.

The light glowing along the horizon washed over the normally cold grey stone of Hightown, painting the wealthy district in yellows and oranges. It would be gone again soon, plunging the City of Chains back into darkness. The open area of the Hightown market had been cleared of merchant stalls as soon as shopping hours had passed. The guard had moved in like an occupying army, shooing away any of the vendors who lingered too long, or packed up their wares too slowly. The city guard did indeed possess a deconstructible platform for hangings, and this was quickly put together as the central attraction of the night's festivities. The platform itself was raised about four feet off the ground, with four separate trap doors for the soon-to-die to stand on, awaiting the drop.

While it was not accurate to say that Aatrox appeared to be in a good mood, he certainly looked invigorated by the prospect of making an example out of the four elves he'd brought with him, showing the city's elite that the guard was still more than capable of catching and dealing with the worst of Kirkwall's lawbreakers. The event had been well advertised as well, for such short notice, and even an hour before the hangings were scheduled to begin sightseers began to gather around the site. Many were well-to-do noblemen and women, come to see the oddity that was a public execution merely for the experience, but others were from Lowtown, most of those being elves, come for their own reasons. Perhaps they disapproved of the captain's work, and meant to berate him for it. Perhaps they simply wanted to see the condemned elves off to the afterlife.

When the captain took center stage and it was clear that the show was about to begin, the crowd gathered around the base of the platform, though a solid ring of city guards were sure to prevent any of them from getting too close. Four accompanied Aatrox onto the platform, seemingly handpicked for their strength, while others still patrolled around the larger perimeter, most bearing shield and spears. Guards were even posted to the nearby rooftops with crossbows, with excellent sight lines over the crowd. Before the captain spoke, the prisoners were brought forth, their faces covered by hoods, their hands and feet both bound. Two guards were assigned to each man, forced to awkwardly push them to their designated pole, where they were tied up, each before a noose, where they were to wait their turn.

"The enemies of order in this city," the captain began, his voice booming and powerful enough to silence the majority of the crowd, "have grown bold of late. Their reckless desire to see Kirkwall brought to her knees have taken a toll on us all. The brave men and women under my command have suffered losses in the past weeks, and these deaths weigh heavily on our hearts. But we have persevered. We will not give in to terror, and allow these criminals free reign over the innocent." He made a sweeping gesture to the four elven men bound behind him. "All four of these men have taken the lives of city guards in the past week. But rather than take a petty revenge, I would allow you, the people, to look upon their faces, the faces of murderers. You will decide what justice should be served to them."

A younger human man shouted out to hang them all already, and a few voiced their agreement. None of the elves in the crowd dared to raise their voices. Most of these people had come for a show, not for justice, and they would have it, one way or another.

Given the variety of people in the crowd, it was very easy to miss the cloaked woman standing near the front, arms loosely at her sides. Amalia, as she had planned, came not in armor, and her armament, such as it was, could not be seen. The protection she did have was minimal, mostly consisting of very light leathers that were more easily concealed under her loose shirt, and leather trousers tucked into her dragonhide boots, which were considerably less conspicuous than the rest of the set. Her palms itched—she was feeling anxious. That said, however, there were few people who understood the value of patience better than she, and in this instance, she could afford to be neither a moment too soon nor too late.

The others had been posted high: Ashton was actually disguised and among the guards on the rooftops closest to the Hightown stairs. Doubtless when he attempted to use his smoke arrows, the other guards would take notice, but he should be able to take advantage of the confusion and eliminate them by whatever means turned out to be necessary. She would prefer not to be shot during this process, but she was discounting no possibility at the moment. Nostariel was over the parapets closest to the exit to Lowtown—and several entrances to the sewer system, which would be most likely to provide them with a getaway they could survive.

The human began his speech, and Amalia took to scanning the surroundings. Four prisoners, eight other guards on the platforms with them. If possible, she would free the other three, but in all honesty, she would be doing it mostly for the additional distraction, and only if it was convenient. She had nothing against the other elves held there, but she would risk her life for only one of them if she desired even the faintest hope of success. The second—that one was Ithilian. She could make out the fact that his equipment, while tattered nearly beyond recognition, was indeed the same set in which he’d left the day before. Parshaara, however, sat currently at the belt of the Guard-Captain, another situation that would be rectified if time permitted. She could make another dagger—she could not replace her kadan.

Smoothly, flowing with the milling of the crowd, she moved such that she was one of the closest to the platform—a height which could be mounted in a single motion if necessary. Efficiency would be her cardinal virtue here. There was very little room for error.

"Behold the faces of these killers!" Aatrox said, turning to the captives and ripping their hoods off one by one. Ithilian might have squinted, the sun setting in his face as it was, but he currently wasn't able to see much of anything. His right eye was long gone, of course, but the left side of his face had clearly taken some serious blows, and the swelling had effectively blocked all vision to that eye, as well. A good portion of his jaw and cheekbones appeared broken, and from the obvious way he was carefully taking in short breaths, it was causing him a great deal of pain to breathe. His left arm was actually broken so badly that some bone could be seen poking through the skin near his elbow, and the right arm wasn't faring much better. His legs, at least, seemed in decent shape from the way he was holding his weight. It was possible that his trousers were hiding more severe injuries, of course.

"This man, a thief and a murderer both!" Aatrox explained, grabbing the first by the hair. "He was caught thieving by the guard, striking a fatal knife blow to a loyal man before he was chased down and apprehended." He moved on to Ithilian, stopping as if to inspect his own handiwork for a moment. "This one... a truly despicable creature. He attacked us in the night without cause, using savage Dalish tactics to infiltrate the Gallows. Over a dozen of our own did not live to see the dawn, but he will face justice now." He went on to detail the crimes of the other two, before turning to the crowd.

"All those in favor of seeing these elves hang, let your voices be heard!" A roar came up from the crowd, their ire worked up from the captain's tales of bloodshed and criminal behavior. Smiling in response to the support, the captain moved to the first prisoner's side.

"Time to meet your gods then, I suppose."

Amalia had never particularly understood the commonality of metaphors that compared anger to fire. Her anger, rare as it was, had always been something a little more like ice—cold, calculating, still rational. She had never really lost her head in any situation, at least not to the degree that other people did. Things could perturb her, and the people—few as they were—who knew her well could notice. But she never really lost the steely self-discipline that had always characterized her temperament.

In this moment, perhaps, she understood how it was that rage could burn. Her teeth grit together, but still she did not lose her patience, waiting until everyone in this farce was committed to their positions, and it was only then that she raised both hands to the cowl that kept her face shaded and pulled it down around her shoulders. That was it—the signal was not meant to be in and of itself flashy. She was not meant to look any different from anyone else in the crowd, not even when she was ushering in utter chaos. And if the others played their parts the right way, that was exactly what would follow.

Nostariel, though tempted to watch the goings-on at the platform itself, had fixed her eyes solely on Amalia, waiting for the signal. She could not deny that the way this crowd called for blood saddened and sickened her in equal measure, but she had seen worse displays of the depravity of men than this. At least they were deceived, in some measure. The moment the Qunari’s hands moved, the Warden nocked an arrow to the string, taking a deep breath to steady her hands, falling completely still in her low crouch and charging her arrow with magic. The distraction would come in two parts, and the first was hers—everyone needed to be focused on something as far from Ash and Amalia as possible. Thankfully, Nostariel’s skill set was well suited to this kind of thing.

As soon as Amalia’s motion was complete, Nostariel drew back the string, aiming for the staircase leading towards the Merchant’s Guild, sighting several storage crates leftover from one of the cleared-out merchant stalls. Softly, she relaxed her hand, and the arrow flew, arcing over the heads of those present to land amidst the crate. The spell attached to it triggered immediately, and the crates exploded in a fiery conflagration, sending splinters and flaming fragments of wood into the crowd. She didn’t waste any time, however, and the second arrow, she sent while she still had visibility, a disorientation spell aimed for the platform itself, targeting the backs of the guardsmen. It wasn’t much, but it was all the help she could really offer Amalia from this distance. Sniper, she was not.

Ashton was thankful that the guardsman uniform came equipped with a helmet, else it would've been impossible to hide the sweat that was dripping from his brow. It took effort to not seem as injured which itself was combined with the nerves of waiting. There was no time to wait the night before, no time to think and allow dire thoughts to drift in and out of his head. Here though, among civilians and other guards in a stolen outfit that hung tight to his shoulders, everything depended on the utmost precision, precision that he could only hope he delivered.

He needn't wait long, however. With the movement from Amalia, Ashton took a step backward on the roof which he was position and gripped his sword. A moment or two later, a pile of crates erupted in a magical flame. No one heard as metal scraped metal, and too many eyes were averted to see a guard impale another. "Run! Someone's attacking! Get out of here now!" He yelled, letting panic seep into his voice. A clamor rose from civilians on the roof and they began a mad dash to escape from constructed assault. No one knew who had opened the second guard's throat, nor did any see the coating of gore on the last surviving guard's sword.

With the two guards around him having mysteriously fallen, Ashton drew his bow and nocked a special arrow. With a shaft of poplar and fletching of gray, it was made to splinter on impact and deliver the pouch that was tied in place of an arrowhead. Upon release the arrow launched a lazy arc, but struck where Ashton had intended. The corner of the platform erupted in a thick plume of smoke as the saltpeter and sugar in the pouch mixed and ignited with a few other ingredients. More soon followed the first, dispersing the smoke around the platform and some into the crowd for good measure.

His tender palms were screaming under the duress, but Ashton tried his best to tune it out. Satisfied with the smoke billowing from below, he switched to more lethal arrows and began to watch for anywhere they were needed the most.

It took very little time for the crowd to begin to panic, and that was exactly what Amalia had been hoping for. With all the confusion, the disorienting spell Nostariel had hit a large chunk of the Guard with, and the smoke billowing around to obscure visibility, nobody noticed the single human woman swing up and onto the platform, at least not immediately. Withdrawing a hand from her cloak, Amalia lashed her wrist, sending a pair of poisoned needles into the eyeslit of the guard on Ithilian’s left. She would have repeated the process with the one on his right, but an arrow beat her to it, placed into the man’s throat by Ashton, no doubt. Emptying the remaining needles into the nearest other guard who looked to have a few wits left about him, she did not even pause in her stride, sliding a knife out of her boot.

An arrow went slightly wide of her position, hitting someone else in the shoulder, but the smokescreen was doubtless obscuring the vision of the archers by now, as well as the people on the platform itself. Fortunately, she was close enough that she no longer needed to see very far to make her way with surety towards Ithilian. His injuries looked bad, and, unsure how much he could see, she swung around behind him and spoke low into his ear. “Left off the platform. We have cover fire, but not much.” The knife sliced through the bindings on his hands, and then she crouched to hack through the ones on his feet. Another explosion rocked the area somewhere ahead—she hoped, though she dare not assume—that most everyone would be vacating the area as quickly as possible, and they could disappear into the tide of panicked civilians.

Unfastening the cloak around her shoulders, she threw it over his, pulling the hood up to better disguise his features from a distance. “Let’s move.”

Ithilian could not see much other than a light before him, but he did not need to see to know that Amalia and the others would come for him. The moment the brute of a captain had stated his intentions to execute him the following day, Ithilian had known that if he could survive that long, he would have a shot at escape. There was apologizing that needed to be done after this, but first they needed to get out alive, which was far from certain. The captain had disappeared into the smoke, but he could not be far away, and there was little chance he would let this stand. Not without attempting to take the lives of those responsible.

When his bonds were cut, Ithilian attempted to take a solid step forward, but the explosion occurred simultaneously, and the strength of his legs failed him. Halfway to plunging face first onto the platform, however, Amalia caught his weight, sending a painful set of stabs through his chest. The pain would have been far worse if he had fallen the rest of the way, however. Trying desperately to push himself forward and not leave the entire effort to his lethallan, Ithilian directed himself left, as she commanded. The edge of the platform would be approaching, he knew, and he also knew he couldn't make a jump successfully even a few feet below.

He had no choice, however, as a shield with a heavy weight behind it plowed into Amalia and himself from behind, pushing them off the edge.

Amalia went to great pains not to land on Ithilian, twisting in midair and coming down hard on her side as a result. That said, the drop wasn’t particularly long, and she rolled to her feet seconds later, though in his condition, Ithilian was not nearly so lucky. She knew she had to make a decision about what to do, and quickly. In the end, it wasn’t much of a decision at all. A bit of sleight-of-hand produced a potion, the best she could do for him right at this moment, and she set it right against his good hand, rising to her full height and consciously stepping away from where he lay. She was armed only with a single knife and about half a hand’s worth of needles, but it would do. It would have to do.

Aatrox, now flanked with two of his guardsmen, seemed more interested in her than the mangled elf, and that much, she had been counting on. Ithilian was not presently much of a threat to him or his authority, and if Nostariel’s characterization of him was on point, he was much more inclined to subdue those who thought they could fight him than anything. She supposed she could speak to him, taunt in the manner of other fighters, but it wasn’t really the kind of thing she did. She didn’t feel much like speaking with him.

She felt like killing him.

The rest of her needles found a home in the eye sockets of the guard to the right, and she surprised the two that remained by springing right for the captain, up onto the very edge of the platform. The shield came to bat her away again, but she was a little too close for a bash maneuver to be effective, and gripped the edge of it instead, using the man’s solid planting to swing herself around, drawing the fight back up onto the platform itself and turned away from Ithilian. She continued sprinting for several more feet, grabbing hold of one of the hanging nooses and using it to swing herself up onto the horizontal bar that held them all in place, bereft of the necks they had been promised to squeeze. It rocked, but held her weight as she ran along the length of it, reversing her direction and instead launching herself off it, right onto the shoulders of the second guard.

The impact carried him to the ground, Amalia’s knife driven down, the entry point just barely above his collarbones. His esophagus tore, and she sprang away as Aatrox’s blade came down for where her head had been until that very moment. Landing in a three-point crouch, Amalia shook stray hair from her face and pulled her lips back from her teeth in something between a grimace and a silent snarl. She had little but her bare hands left to her now, but that did not stymie her aggression in the slightest, driven as she was by something more concrete than a philosophy, more resolute than a religion. There was nothing in this about the good of the whole, nothing about teaching or mending or helping. There was only the cold burn at the pit of her stomach, only icewater in her veins, and only this one person before her that seemed somehow to embody everything that she despised.

She charged. Aatrox met her with the shield, ready this time when she attempted to get in under it, driving her back with a stabbing motion that whispered just barely past her skin, tearing a rent in the side of her shirt and skimming the thin leather beneath.

She should have moved back. Should have kept the proper distance to allow herself to take advantage of her mobility.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Amalia grabbed his wrist, attempting to twist it around behind his back—break it, break him, she cared not—and found herself floored by the answering blow from the shield. It knocked the wind out of her, clipping her temple and sending her sprawling to her back, and Aatrox was not such a fool that he waited long to move in for the killing blow, driving the point of his sword for her throat. She’d cracked at least a few ribs, and the blow to her head fogged her vision, but she had the wherewithal to know that staying in one place was a foolish idea, and so she moved, and instead of her neck, the point of the sword found her face, hitting just below her right eye. Her own roll away dragged it down her cheek and to the line of her jaw, flaying open the skin to her bone, and Amalia let out a half-strangled hiss at the pain of it, unable to draw the breath for more than that.

Clearly, however, he hadn’t been expecting her to move, and they wound up too close together for his weapons to be of much use. Thinking quickly, he discarded the sword and drew Parshaara, flames licking around the bone blade. This time, her snarl was audible, and Amalia backed up several steps, towards the center of the platform. He followed, clearly cautious of her, but quite confident that he was the one who was still armed in this scenario. True enough, until she stomped on her heel just so, and a small knife ejected from the trigger mechanism at the toe of her boot. It wasn’t more than a couple of inches long, but it was better than nothing.

This time, Amalia remembered her patience, and let him rush her, her timing as precise as she could make it. Parshaara swung for her, but her leg was longer than his arm, and she kicked directly up into the underside of his chin, burying the blade there and grabbing hold of a pair of nooses, using them to hoist her other leg up to hook around his shoulders, driving him to the ground. The wet squelch followed by the smell of charring flesh made it clear enough what had happened, even if the white bone knife sticking out of his back was not enough.

Dropping back to the ground with a heavy thud, Amalia shoved the body to the side with her foot, withdrawing the knife from his chest and the sheath from his belt, sliding the dagger home into the lacquered wood. Her anger, that cold feeling, did not abate, really, but it subsided. Aatrox was dead. Ithilian was not.

It was enough.

Snippet #2509878

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

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