Drakon

Hood's breath, not exactly the fatherly type, are we? Iaira scoffed inwardly, bringing memories of her own childhood in mind. Dassem had been harsh -even cruel at times, the expectations of his children brought out the general more than they did the father. But he had been fair, and he had protected and taught them everything they had needed to be able to grow to be capable and independent. For that, she was thankful.
Although...perhaps a tad too capable.
In any case, she would not feed the family spite further, even though the man's tone made her fingers itch to slice a pretty smile on his face- or throat, for that matter. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant and low, her eyes widened with surprise and concern.
'I-I...' she stammered quickly, 'Apologise f-for the interruption at...this hour, m-my good Sir.' She courtsied, bowing her head low. She faked some coughing, her whole body trembling slightly. 'I am named Apsalar, a friend of your son, Sir.'

Ulysses looked over to Iaira, puzzled by what she had just said, but he remained quiet. She's smart. Ulysses thought. She knows what she is doing.
"A friend? Of his?" Ulysses' father broke out into a wheezing laugh, which was cut short by an obviously unhealthy cough.
"Ulysses has no friends, girl. Never has. Tell me how you really know this man."
"Father, she's not lying. Apsalar is my friend. Can we stay the night?"
"Stop calling me Father. I'm unsure if I want that connection with a savage right now. Call me by my bloody birth-name. And no, you may not stay the night. I have no desire for a pathetic street urchin and a bloody savage to be in my home."
"Fath-" Ulysses paused and exhaled heavily.
"Ioreth... I am your son. And this 'pathetic street urchin' is my friend. Have you no heart?"
"Fine. I'll allow you to stay for one moon, and one moon only. That is as far as my pity goes." Ioreth turned and walked back into the dark house, leaving the heavy door open for the two.
"Bastard." Ulysses said under his breath, turning to Iaira.
"What is this 'Apsalar' business? Does your name carry weight in Drakon?"

Seems like these two aren't too warm with one another...ironic, considering Ulysses's art. She chuckled with her own joke as soon as the sulking man had left.
'My name carries weight everywhere. And names wield power. I cannot risk to pass them like coins from one hand to another. Which is why you'll just play along.' She stepped in, her gaze curiously crawling along the stone walls, taking in every ornament or framed picture she saw. There weren't many. This was the residence of a stern man who would not be shaken by embelishments. There was little light, the one that slid through the few narrow windows like slim blades, filtered by the glass.
'And we cannot stay for a whole moon here. I have information that the rebellion will soon reach this city and I do not wish to partake into it- either as a victim or as a soldier. I'm afraid that following some deity would not suit me- I'm more of an attention seeker myself, the competition would kill me.'

Neiu yawned as she watched the house the pyromancer and the show dancer were in. She had found them as they left the tavern together and had followed them, keeping the Gral men within sight as well. She observed the predicted fight unfold from a nearby village house, huddling into the small wall encircling the rooftop. The clay was still warm from the day's scorching heat yet the night's cold breezes were sharp. She could, of course, have stayed them. But she was far too engrossed in the fray below to think about taming the light winds. Truly, it was the cold in the air that bit into her skin, and she was not yet able to change the temperature of the fickle element.
She had wrinkled her nose when the stench of charred flesh reached her. She waved a delicate hand and the pillars of smoke drifted south, away from her. What a filthy art pyromancy is, she thought as she watched the dead man's ashes float in the air, mixing into the air that the warriors breathed. Yet she could appreciate his skill. Pity he was a product of the Magi Tower.
The girl had a quieter skill, yet she was just as deadly. Her face was set in an expression of unwavering grimness as she danced about her opponents, and as they fell at either side of her. She was reminded oddly, of the midsummer dances of her youth. The girls of the village used to dance around with colourful streams of ribbons to celebrate their passing into womanhood. Her blade was far less colourful than their ribbons, but there was the same quality of grace in its movement.
The battle quietened down as the last remaining Gral reassessed his situation. It was far too late for cowardice, however. In the momentary silence, she could hear a deadbolt lock into place. That'll be the tavern, she thought mournfully. The sounds men make as they draw their last breath always have that effect on others who were perfectly safe. But that meant the pair below would have to find another place to stay for the night, and she'd have to wait outside.
Within seconds, the last man was dead. The pyromancer, Ulysses, felt her presence then, and she ducked down as she listened to them murmur together. She thought they wouldn't notice for another day, at the very least. She let them go ahead a mile, tracking the disturbances they made in the air them from the rooftops.
They led her to a blacksmith's home. She wondered what they were doing there. She had not been told much of their history in hope, perhaps, that she would not attempt interact with them. Yet it hindered her now. Were they there for the night? Or were they looking for weapons? Was the blacksmith a friend or foe? With a deep sigh, she resigned herself to a long night of waiting.

"Rebellion?"
Ulysses followed Iaira into the house, and slammed the door behind him. He was now suddenly intrigued, and sat on an old rocking chair beside the slither of moonlight.
"Forgive me, I have been locked away all of my life. What rebellion? The Tower smith, Yuri, used to tell me of stories of the East in uproar, but I had always considered it to be untrue, just him trying to get to me."
Ulysses sat in silence.
"Well? Is it true?"

'Your friend was right in many things, but the war has escalated, I'm afraid. There is no longer talk of uproar, no.' She cleared her throat and dragged herself on a nearby chair, unclasping the cloak at her throat.'The Seven Cities Rebellion, or Whirlwind is the name of the rebellion led by Sha'ik on the continent of Seven Cities. Followers of the Whirlwind are said to follow the Whirlwind Goddess, a mysterious ascendant of unknown origin to the humans who lived on the continent. It is aptly named, as demonstrated when Sha'ik Reborn opened a magical book, releasing a giant whirlwind that surrounded the rebel's home base, the holy desert of Raraku. The Whirlwind was said to be the rage of the goddess amongst the Seven Cities natives, though this is a slight twist on the truth, if I may say so.' Iaira paused then, regarding him with a hint of slight smile on her lips, 'Or, if you'd rather adopt the followers' title, you may call it the Apocalypse.'

"Ah. I see. So the rebellion has not reached the Far East? That is good. Yuri made me wonder how far East this actually was, I was beginning to worry about the poor beings. But the Seven Cities? I had no doubt that would break out. All of that friction had to create fire. But this Whirlwind business. You don't believe in it, yourself, do you?"

'There has to be some truth in it, as there is in every legend. The Apocalypse myth has been going on for decades now. But that is not the worst thing. The fanatics numbers have risen to an immense peak- and the army created by the Emperor is...unorthodox at best.' She turned around and wrapped the cloak around the back of the chair. 'Bring me some water, will you, love? Killing makes me thirsty, thank you, you're such a dear. Now,' Iaira continued, 'He has appointed Rake as the High Fist of the army sent to drown out the rebellion. Here's the catch; it sticks in the throat. Half the officers there saw their first blood facing that bastard Rake, and now there he is, about to take command. Hood's knuckles,' she hissed,'won't be any tears spilled if the Hissar Guard cuts down Rake and every one of his Wickan savages right there at the Quay. The Seventh army doesn't want to believe that they need them.'

Ulysses waited until Iaira had finished talking before walking over to the musty kitchen to collect water from the tap there. He rummaged around in drawers and cupboards for a glass, and instead found a single half-empty flagon resting on a cluttered table. He tipped the remains of the ale that was in the flagon and washed it through twice. With the tap turned on, Ulysses filled the flagon with water and put it to his mouth, taking only a sip before walking back into the sitting room where Iaira was, and handing the flagon to her.
"So, Rake is a supposed warlord? He doesn't sound like much to me." Ulysses said in a mocking tone, pulling up the chair he was sat in before and rocking in it slowly, fondling the ring on his finger once again.
"Sounds like you aren't very fond of this Rake, my dear. Nevertheless. Thank you for telling me about this little problem in the East, Iaira. I'd very much like to go there to see this rebellion. It could be... interesting. Afterward, I could go to the Far East. I have always wanted to go since I was a boy."
Ulysses stopped rocking in the chair and stood suddenly.
"I will buy a horse and travel to the Seven Cities. I have read it is a gorgeous place, and who knows? It could be educational." Ulysses smiled.
"You may stay here. I'm sure my father will not mind, little Apsalar."

She chuckled harshly and sat up, taking the flagon from his hand, pouring some cold water into the rusty tankard. 'Not much for luxury, are we? Minimalist. I like it.' She brought the tankard to her lips and sipped greedily, her eyes never leaving his figure for a second. 'Don't ever underestimate Rake or any Wickan for that matter, love. It'll be your last mistake.' She sat back then, setting the tankard on the floor at her feet with a clattering sound. 'You might think he's an odd choice, considering he was a well-known and feared enemy of the Empire.' Iaira shrugged. 'Rake united the Wickan clans in an uprising against the Empire. The Emperor had a hard time bringing him to heel -as some of the officers may know first-hand. True to the Emperor's style, he acquired Rake's loyalty- no-one knows how.' She smiled. 'The Emperor rarely explained his successes. In any case, since he held no affection for his predecesser's chosen commanders Rake was left to rot in some backwater on Quon Tali. Then the situation changed when Dassem was killed in Darujistan, High Fist Paran and his army turned renegade, effectively surrendering the entire Campaign, and the Year of Dryjhna approaches here in the Seven Cities, prophesied as the year of the rebellion. Ammanas needs able commanders before it all slips from his grasp. The new Adjunct is untested.So..' the assassin nodded, her scowl deepening. 'Rake, sent here to take command of the Sevent and put down the rebellion. After all,' she said dryly, 'who better to deal with insurrection than a warrior who led one himself?'
A brief pause, eyes lost somewhere ahead.
'Rake's a snake, if that's what you're asking. If the High Command at Aren thinks they can dance around him, they're in for a nasty surprise.'
Iaira stood up then, straightening the fabric of her front. 'I admit,' she said wryly, 'that I look forward to meeting the Seventh's new Fist. Which is why I will follow you in your travels.'

She chuckled harshly and sat up, taking the flagon from his hand, pouring some cold water into the rusty tankard. 'Not much for luxury, are we? Minimalist. I like it.' She brought the tankard to her lips and sipped greedily, her eyes never leaving his figure for a second. 'Don't ever underestimate Rake or any Wickan for that matter, love. It'll be your last mistake.' She sat back then, setting the tankard on the floor at her feet with a clattering sound. 'You might think he's an odd choice, considering he was a well-known and feared enemy of the Empire.' Iaira shrugged. 'Rake united the Wickan clans in an uprising against the Empire. The Emperor had a hard time bringing him to heel -as some of the officers may know first-hand. True to the Emperor's style, he acquired Rake's loyalty- no-one knows how.' She smiled. 'The Emperor rarely explained his successes. In any case, since he held no affection for his predecesser's chosen commanders Rake was left to rot in some backwater on Quon Tali. Then the situation changed when Dassem was killed in Darujistan, High Fist Paran and his army turned renegade, effectively surrendering the entire Campaign, and the Year of Dryjhna approaches here in the Seven Cities, prophesied as the year of the rebellion. Ammanas needs able commanders before it all slips from his grasp. The new Adjunct is untested.So..' the assassin nodded, her scowl deepening. 'Rake, sent here to take command of the Sevent and put down the rebellion. After all,' she said dryly, 'who better to deal with insurrection than a warrior who led one himself?'
A brief pause, eyes lost somewhere ahead.
'Rake's a snake, if that's what you're asking. If the High Command at Aren thinks they can dance around him, they're in for a nasty surprise.'
Iaira stood up then, straightening the fabric of her front. 'I admit,' she said wryly, 'that I look forward to meeting the Seventh's new Fist. Which is why I will follow you in your travels.'

"You're coming with me? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had feelings for me." Ulysses said with a slight chuckle.
"Fine, then, shall we depart? It is early. As we are riding into the East, we will need the time. The days will be shorter."
Ulysses offered his hand out to Iaira to help her get up, and called out to his father. A loud acknowledging grunt was heard from one of the further rooms.
"You're a fool if you think you'll get to the East with ease, boy."
"You always have underestimated the art. Besides, I have Apsalar. She's perfectly capable of handling a few bad situations."
"You can drop the act now. The blades at your side tell me you're more than a street urchin, girl. You're a practitioner of the forbidden arts, aren't you? Not so good, telling by the wound on your leg you've tried to hide from me."
"Bastard." Ulysses said under his breath once again.
"Why haven't you gotten the damned thing looked at, yet? It's only shallow by the looks of it, but it can still fester if you are not careful."
Ioreth stood from behind the long dinner table he was sat at, and walked towards Iaira.
"Come here, girl, let me see."

'Feelings? My dear, if I had feelings for you, you'd already be dead; it's how I express my love.' She accepted his hand with a grin, standing up, collecting her cloak and checking to see if all her belongings were in place- and most importantly, the otataral long-knife. We will be needing it in Raraku. Ioreth's voice startled her and she quickly turned her attention to the old man who entered the room with the most bitter expression she had ever laid eyes on. Iaira was not comfortable with the idea of letting such a man tend to even a minor wound like the one she had, but she was certain Ulysses would have interferred otherwise.
And in any case, if we shall be companions, he will need to feel that I trust him. Which I don't. But he doesn't need to be informed of that.
'Make it quick, we don't have much time. I know the schedule of every shipment along with the cargo that will be arriving, and I don't want any Red Blades sniffing us out.' She approached Ioreth and tugged harshly at the fabric covering her thigh. The cut was indeed shallow, seemingly a mere cut. She had intended to clean it herself when Ulysses would be asleep, but things hadn't gone as planned. 'Well?' she questioned, eyeing him impatiently.

"It'll need cleaning and bandaging. Unless, of course, you want to leave in such a hurry? Perhaps your life is worth less than your time, huh, girl?" Ioreth hissed, turning away from Iaira to head into the kitchen.
"I will clean it with some pure water. You don't want any of that shit my son gave you in your wounds, it'll make you ill."
"Mind your manners, father."
"My name is Ioreth. Pray you remember that." Ioreth tore a section of material from the tablecloth and poured a small amount of clean water onto it. He walked back over to Iaira and bent down on one knee to assess the wound.
"Yes, nothing but a small scratch. It should be fine. But one can never be too careful when travelling." Ioreth began to wipe away the dried blood on Iaira's leg and then moved onto the wound itself, pressing the cloth hard around the edges of the cut.
"Stop moving, girl. I cannot clean it if I cannot touch it."

"Ioreth, stop it, you'll make the damn thing worse by pressing that hard." Ulysses took the cloth from his father's hand and helped him to his feet.
"She'll be fine. If it gets dirty, she will wash it. She is capable of looking after herself." Ioreth looked at Ulysses with a disgusted expression on his face.
"Don't come back here when she gets ill. I'm not going to help you." Ioreth returned to the dark and sat back behind the table once again, resting his head in his hands.
"Now, leave me alone. I've got too much to think about." Ulysses swung his gaze from Ioreth to Iaira and shrugged comically. He exhaled deeply, which was muffled into near silence by the thickness of his mask, which blasted the hot air from his mouth back onto his face, warming it slightly in the cold air.
"I guess we're off, then." He said, clicking his neck once again.
"It was a pleasure, father." Ulysses called out mockingly. Ioreth waved his hand in dismissal and placed his head back in his hands once again as if he were mourning, sighing heavily a he did so. Ulysses raised the collars on his overcoat, fixed the position of his top hat, and turned on his heel in the darkness to face the door. As he walked through the doorway, he laughed and put a sovereign down on a small and dusty table with a single unlit lamp on it.
"Come on, then, Iaira, we haven't all night."

Neiu had finally settled into a comfortable position when the door knob of the blacksmith's rattled down below. She was tracing images in the dust that had settled on the surface during the day. A square soon formed into a little garden. She remembered the feeling of grass beneath her toes wistfully. There was not much grass in this city, but at home, her mother used to tend to a little garden. The well was near to their house, and Neiu would often waddle there to get a bucket of water for the grass. By the time she would have returned, the bucket would be half empty, its contents dripping off the front of her dress. But her mother would never get angry. With Neiu out from between her feet, she could finally do housework. Her father would be out working in the fields.

The memory still haunting her mind, she slipped her cloak off her legs and peered over the edge of roof. It was the pyromancer. He and the girl were leaving. She ducked down again and gathered her cloak around her. Where are you going now?

'Paying the innkeeper, are we?' Iaira chuckled, pressing her palm against the reddened wound with a flicker of annoyance. She stepped back and archer her neck, scanning the dim-lit room to find Ioreth's slumped figure again. 'Thanks for the affection, Ioreth, I don't get it a lot nowadays.' Her hand was raised to her chest, and she made a heartfelt gesture of despair. 'I will never forget you, promise.' She returned to the hall, holding her folded cloak in hand. Iaira walked through the door and into the clean nightly air, taking it in greedily. She opened her mouth and turned to Ulysses-
Coming to a halt-
Her gaze trickling upwards. The stone, branch-covered wall of an abandoned building to her right, skipping over the shuttered window, the wood covered in mold, loose and hanging-
Higher up, over the stained, rounded chipped bricks of the roof-
Where a cloaked figure crouched. Admittedly small-framed. And yet there was something there. Something that gave Iaira pause. She took a step back into the shadowed entrance of Ioreth's residence and held out her arm that snapped in front of Ulysses' chest, halting him.
'Quiet, now. I think I found our third wheel,' the assassin murmured, her other hand loosening the scabbard at her hip with a flick of her fingers. She gestured towards the roof with a tilt of her head, her brows arched. 'Up there. Usually my admirers are a bit bigger, I'm afraid this one is not my type at all.'

Ulysses placed his hand on top of Iaira's and put it back at her side.
"I see them." He said, taking another step forward. He tilted his head to the side and hesitantly waved slowly at the figure. Nothing. He turned to face Iaira and shrugged his shoulders once again.
"I'll get to her." Taking off his gloves and placing them in his inside pocket, Ulysses began to briskly walk towards the house, and sped into a jog, then a sprint as he neared the wall, his overcoat trailing far behind him in the air. As he reached the wall, he jumped and put his leg out onto a small window ledge at street level, using all of the force in his leg to kick him upwards, grabbing another small window ledge as he did so. Quickly, he launched himself from the ledge to the lip at the top of the window, the smooth stone cold against his bare hands. Launching himself again, he grabbed the slanted roof edge and pulled himself up onto it. He was now facing the figure in the shadows as he fondled his overcoat pocket for his gloves, finally finding them, and putting them back on. His hands were not used to the harshness of usage, and were numb because of so. He rubbed them together to warm them up, and hopefully restore the feeling to them.
"So," He said, taking slow steps towards the figure. "Who are you?"

Her cloak fastened, Neiu returned to watching her subjects. Their stance had changed into something more guarded. A subtle nod. A glint of steel. A murmured word, betraying suspicion. Neiu's lips curled back into a snarl. The winds damn them. She slipped back into the shadows of another building, her fingers clasping for her scarf. She wound the dark material around her face, covering all but her eyes. She turned to push herself off the roof and into the alleyway behind, but the scrape of boots on the sandy rooftop behind her stopped her.
"So," the pyromancer said. "Who are you?"
Do not interfere with them, child.
She raised her head and looked straight out, still as a pillar. She had no choices left. If she jumped, he might attack her. The Shadow Dancer might track her. They knew her now. But those who sent her should have known. Neither a fire nor a shadow can have a shadow.
Slowly, she turned, palms up. "I..saw you." As her wavering voice carried across the still air, she hunched her shoulders and kicked a little pebble at her feet. It skipped a little over the uneven ground, before coming to a defeated halt. "You create fire with your hands. You killed a man." She shuffled closer, eyes wide. "Are you from the Magi Tower?"

"Nonsense. I killed several." His lips curled into a sharp smile underneath his mask and he muffled a slight chuckle.
"I am from the Magi Tower indeed. Proudly"
His eyes trailed up and down the girl. She was small, but he would not let that fool him. As far as he knew, she was a danger. He had seen a shadow dancer just as small cut down several armed men with ease, even wounded. This girl was a potential threat to Ulysses and Iaira.
"You can lower your arms. I am not going to hurt you." He took a step closer to the girl. Her eyes were the only thing visible on her face, lit up in the moonlight. They were a gorgeous brown that seemed to draw him in. He shook his head and placed his head within a cupped hand, sighing quietly.
"I apologise." He said, taking his hand from his face and holding it out to the girl.
"My name is Ulysses. Might you bless me with your name, now?"

Proudly. Proudly from the Magi Tower. Neiu had to stop herself from spitting on the ground. Fool that he was, she could not blame him for his ignorance. His captors never allowed another view on the subject. Yet to boast of his being taught there.. It made her skin crawl, as if a hundred black widows ran up and down her body. Still, she kept her face in control. She let a little fear creep into her countenance, as was suited to a girl from the markets. The Magi Tower captives were feared by the city's people. Too many tax collectors employed them to ensure that their rates were met, to every last copper. Too often houses were flooded, or burnt to the ground or crumbled for failing to pay their taxes. It made the people furious, but the fear of punishment prevailed over their anger. They kept their heads down, and in return they were not harmed. Much.
Breathing deeply, Neiu raised her hand, and placed it in his, enclosed in a glove. The material, although soft and supple, felt very warm. "May the winds favour our meeting, Ulysses. Some call me Jaya." Neiu used the name of a market girl who supplied the Small Order with some small information. "I'm afraid I startled you and your companion. I was just curious."

And there he goes again, proving that subtlety is not among his virtues. Iaira shrugged. Might as well end some business while those two do their talking.
The stars bristled overhead, the moon yet to rise as she made her way towards Jen'rahb. The old ramps climbed to the hill's summit like a giant's stairs, gap-toothed where the chiseled blocks of stone had been removed for use in other parts of Drakon. Tangled scrub filled the gaps, long, wiry roots anchored deep in the slope's fill.
The assassin scrambled lithely over the rubble, staying low so that she would make little outline against the sky, should anyone glance up from the streets below. The city was quiet, its silence unnatural. The few patrols of Aetherian soldiery found themselves virtually alone, as if assigned to guard a necropolis, the haunt of ghosts and scant else. Their unease had made them loud as they walked the alleys and Iaira had been able to avoid them with little effort.
She reached the crest, slipping in between two large limestone blocks that had once formed part of the summit's outer wall. She paused, breathing deep the dusty night air, and looked down on the streets of Drakon. The Fist's Keep, once the home of the city's Holy Priest, rose dark and misshapen above a well-lit compound, like a clenched hand rising from a bed of coals. Yet within that stone edifice the military governor of the Aetherian Empire cowered, shutting his ears to the heated warnings of the Red Blades and whatever Aetherian spies and sympathizers had not yet been driven our or murdered. The entire occupying regiment was holed up in the Keep's own barracks, having been called in from the outlying garrison forts strategically placed around Drakon's circumference. The Keep could not accommodate such numbers- the well was already foul, and soldiers slept on the bailey's flagstones under the stars. In the harbor two ancient Falari triremes were moored-off the Aehterian mole and a lone undermanned company of marines held the Imperial Docks. The Aetherians were under siege with not a hand yet raised against them.
Iaira found within herself conflicting loyalties. By birth she was among the occupied, but she had by choice fought under the standards of the Empire. She'd fought for her father. And for Adaephon. But not Ammanas. Betrayal cut those bonds long ago. The Emperor would have cut the heart out of this rebellion with its first beat. A short but unremitting bloodbath, followed by a long peace. But Ammanas had left the old wounds to fester, and what was coming would silence Hood himself.
Iaira swung back from the hill's crest. The landscape before her was a tumbled maze of shattered limestone and bricks, sinkholes and knotted shrubs. Clouds of insects hovered over black pools. Bats and rhizan darted among them.
Near the centre rose the first three levels of a tower, tilted with roots snaking down from a drought-twisted tree on its top. The maw of a doorway was visible at its base.
Iaira studied it for a time, then finally approached. She was ten paces from the opening when she saw a flicker of light within. The assassin withdrew a knife, tapped the pommel twice against a block, then crossed to the doorway. A voice from its darkness stopped him.
'No closer, Iaira Blackmont.'
Iaira scoffed loudly. 'Mebra, you think I don't recognize your voice? Vile rhizan like you never wander far from their nest, which is what made you so easy to find, and following you here was even easier.'
'I have important business to attend to,' Mebra growled. 'Why have you returned? What do you want of me? My debt was with House Blackmont, but it is no more.'
'Your debt was with me,' Iaira said.
'And when the next Aetherian dog with the sigil of your disgraced House finds me, he can claim the debt as well? And the next, and the next after that? Oh, no Iai-'
The assassin was at the doorway before Mebra realized it, lunging into the darkness, a hand flashing out unerringly to grip the spy by his throat. The man squawaked, dragged from his feet as Iaira lifted him and threw him against a wall. The assassin held him there, a knife point pricking the hollow above his breastbone. Something the spy had been clutching to his chest fell, slipping between them to thud heavily at their feet. Iaira did not spare it a glance; her green eyes fixed on Mebra's own.
'The debt,' she said.
'Mebra is an honourable man,' the spy gasped. 'Pays every debt! Pays yours!'
Iaira grinned. 'The hand you've just closed on that dagger at your belt had best remain where it is, Mebra. I see all that you plan. There in your eyes. Now look into mine. What do you see?'
Mebra's breath quickened. Sweat trickled down his brow.
'Mercy,' he said.
Iaira's brows rose. 'A fatal misreading-'
'No, no! I ask for mercy, Iaira! In your eyes I see only death! Mebra's death! I shall repay the debt, my old friend. I know much, all that the Fist needs to know! I can deliver Drakon into his hands-'
'No doubt,' Iaira said, releasing her grip on the man's throat and stepping back. Mebra slid down the wall into a feeble crouch. 'But leave the Fist to his fate.'
The spy looked up, in his eyes a sudden cunning. 'You are outlawed. With no wish to return to the Aetherian fold. You are Seven Cities once again! Iaira, may the Seven bless you!'
'I need the signs, Mebra. Safe passage through the Odhan.'
'You know them-'
'The symbols have bred. I know the old ones, and those will get me killed by the first tribe that finds me.'
'Passage is yours, with but one symbol, Iaira. Across the breadth of Seven Cities, I swear it.'
The assassin stepped back. 'What is it?'
'You are Dryjhna's child, a soldier of the Apocalypse. Make the whirlwind gesture- do you recall it?'
Suspicious, Iaira slowly nodded. 'Yet I have seen so many more, so many new symbols. What of them?'
'Amidst the cloud of locusts there is but one,' Mebra said. 'How best to keep the Red Blades blind? Please, Iaira, you must go. I have repaid the debt...'
'If you have betrayed me, Adaephon Delat shall know of it. Tell me, could you escape my brother with his warrens unveiled?'
Mute, his face pale as the moonlight, Mebra shook his head.
'The whirlwind.'
'Yes, I swear by the Seven.'
'Do not move,' Iaira commanded. One hand on the long-knife at her belt, the assassin stepped forward, crouched and collected the object that Mebra had dropped earlier. She heard the spy's breath catch and smiled. 'Perhaps I will take this with me, as guarantee-'
'Please, Iaira-'
'Silence.' The assassin found herself holding a muslin-wrapped book. She pulled the dirt-stained cloth away. 'Hood's breath!' she whispered. 'From the High Fist's vaults at Aren... into the hands of a Drakonian spy.' She looked up and met Mebra's eyes. 'Does Promqual know of the theft of that which is to unleash the Apocalypse?'
The little man grinned, displaying a row of sharp silver-capped teeth. 'The fool could have his silk pillow stolen from under him and would not know it. You see, Iaira, if you take this as guarantee, every warrior of the Apocalypse will be hunting you. The Holy Book of Dryjhna has been freed and must return to Raraku, where the Seeress-'
'Will raise the Whirlwind,' Iaira finished. The ancient tome felt heavy a slab of granite in her hands. Its bhederin hide binding was stained and scarred, the lambskin pages within smelling of lanolin and bloodberry ink. And on those pages...words of madness, and in the Holy Desert awaits Sha'ik, the Seeress, the rebellion's promised leader...'You shall tell me the final secret, Mebra, the one the carrier of this Book must know.'

Ulysses tilted his head ever so slightly to the right.
"Curious? Is that perhaps why you have spied on us upon a rooftop, which is not easily accessed, may I add, concealing your identity when confronted? Of course you're curious. No. You, my girl, are doing something much more sinister, I am sure of it." Ulysses began to walk around Neiu in a circle.
"You have an aura about you. Mystery. Hardship." He stopped in front of her and shrugged.
"Just a feeling I get with people. Haven't been wrong so far. Me and my companion here ar-" He paused as he looked down to where Iaira once was. Where the bloody hell has she gone, now? He thought.
"So much for jolly co-operation, hey? Just the two of us, then." He proceeded to sit down on the ledge of the roof and grab his head as if in pain.
"Come, girl. Sit. I won't bite you unless you pay me." He said with a brief childish snicker.

Neiu's smile faded as the pyromancer began to circle her, like a tiger appreciating the size of a antelope before pouncing. She pulled at the ends of her scarf as she silently listened to him accused her of deception, ensuring that they would stay in place. Her first act was up now. He wasn't fooled. She must needs tread very carefully from here on out. His words were casual, but she sensed fire brewing beneath them, as if only his will was stopping them flow out like torrents of lava.
He stopped in front of her, and Neiu finally had a chance to examine his intricate mask. It covered his entire face. Not a speck of flesh was to be seen. She wanted to touch its painted skin. Would it be hot to the touch, as his gloves were, or cold in the night air? But he moved away again, only to discover his companion had disappeared.
Neiu's nostrils flared. She was supposed to watch them both, not allow them to split. But there was nothing she could do that would not arose suspicion.. Perhaps more suspicion would be more accurate, as the pyromancer still watched her as if she would draw a knife on him at any given second. He sat down at the edge of the roof, and lay his face -his mask- in his hands. He invited her to join him with a a brazen joke, and she complied quietly, sitting across from him.
"My real name is Neiu." She said, as she observed how he held his head. "You're right. In some aspects. But I have no sinister motivations in following you." The scarf muffled her words, but not beyond comprehension. She plucked at the material over her lips, to make her voice clearer. "I saw you in the tavern. I noticed they released you from the Magi Tower. So I followed you. Because," she turned back to the pebble she lifted earlier. Slowly, she lifted it with the air and brought down between them. "I'm a mage. But I've never been there."

"An apostate? I see. Thank you for the truth, Neiu. If that is your real name, indeed." He chuckled.
"Controlling the air, is it? That's new to me. It seems interesting. I bet you could do a lot with that." He nodded thoughtfully and mumbled to himself.
"I understand you do not agree with the taming of magic. But think of it like this; Magic is a fantastically dangerous being. It comes in many forms, all of them deadly. Hydromancy, for instance. The art of producing water. It sounds harmless. But everything is deadly, given the right dosage. I have seen a Hydromancer attempt to escape the tower. He tried to unleash his full power against one of the guards, and the water plucked the skin clean from his hands, and from the guard's face, of course." His head turned to face Neiu.
"I imagine with a power like yours, you can, say, sweep men off of their feet and throw them with immense force? Strangle them until they choke to death on their own blood? That must be incredible. Such power."
He inhaled sharply for a moment, then stood suddenly, and offered his hand once again to Neiu.