Episode 68 - Loose Ends
| The Assassins | Keldirk - Rogue 6th level NE (PC) |
| Locale | The Artisan's Quarter - Del Mord. |
| Date | 9th Goodmonth 582 CY |
| Time | Mid-morning. |
Keldirk loved to work alone.
Truth be told, working solo was all Keldirk ever wanted to do, however since graduating from the training academy he had little opportunity to do so. From his perspective, the three clowns he had to work with were baggage, little more than obstacles to be worked around. Admittedly, they had their uses in some situations but, for the most part, Keldirk considered them unknown quantities that offered little but uncertainty. And, in Keldirk's line of work, any uncertainty, any unknown variable, was a sure path to failure.
It had been many months since Keldirk had the chance to flex his murderous muscles and he wanted to make sure that he did this job right. His new Vesper, Shakha Kuss, had decreed that Caruthers, the man-servant to their previous Vesper, was to be eliminated. In truth, Caruthers probably knew little about the Family or its operation but, to Shakha's way of thinking, he was a loose end. Shakha ordered Caruthers' immediate death and offered the contract to the four Assassins.
Keldirk leapt at the chance to fulfil the contract, and he requested that he take the job on alone. Craven, Creighton and Azareth were only too happy to leave this somewhat menial task for the young assassin.
Keldirk knew where Caruthers lived and, having been there on many occasions, he had an insider knowledge of the building's floor plan. He knew, too, that Caruthers was a civilian and would pose little or no threat if it came down to combat. The risks were low but the benefits high. Keldirk saw this as an opportunity to excel, a chance to prove his worth to Shakha Kuss. With any luck a successful mission here would result in more solo missions.
Being somewhat familiar with the old retainer's routine, Keldirk waited across the street for Caruthers to leave for his daily errands. Disguised in beggar's rags, Keldirk smiled as the elderly man walk determinedly down the busy street.
| Keldirk | (to himself) Midday, just like clockwork. Tsk tsk, old man. |
Keldirk realised that the man had fallen to bad habits since Saradock's death; the golden rule was to never stick to a routine. To be predicable is to invite trouble. Habit was a weakness, that all assassins are trained to exploit. Caruthers obviously had no idea that his life was in jeopardy. Yet, he should have known better.
Keldirk removed the rags he wore and hid them behind a crate in a nearby alley. Taking a key from his pouch, he approached the door to Saradock's former residence. It certainly wasn't typical for an assassin to actually possess a key for the house where your target lived, but like all things in life you need to make the most of your opportunities. With a twist of the key, the door was unlocked and Keldirk quickly made his way into the house, closing and locking the door behind him.
| Keldirk | (to himself) Too easy. |
The young assassin listened intently, trying to discern if there was anyone else in the house. His keen hearing picked up nothing and he made his way carefully into the kitchen where he knew Caruthers would prepare his lunch.
Keldirk had not spent much time in the kitchen but he reasoned it would be an ideal place for the attack. The kitchen was located at the rear of the house and had a single, small highlight window set in one wall. The window was far enough away from the street to limit the noise and small enough so that anyone in neighbouring buildings could not see in. Against one wall stood a pantry full of staples, the jars and boxes clearly labelled in Caruthers' meticulous script. A large stove and wood-fired oven occupied the other wall. The kitchen had two exits, one from the main hall and another swinging door that lead to the formal dining room at the front of the house. Keldirk nodded to himself, secure in the knowledge he had chosen the location of his attack wisely.
Looking around the room Keldirk noticed that the single chair at the wooden table sat with its back to the small window which gave it a clear view of both exits. The placement of the table and chair would make it difficult for Keldirk to hide anywhere in the kitchen. Clearly Caruthers hadn't forgotten everything that Saradock had taught him.
Keldirk decided that, instead of remaining in the kitchen, he would hide in another room and rely on his stealth for the kill. Keldirk moved to the table and sat in the chair. Checking his peripheral vision, Keldirk reasoned he would have more chance to emerge unseen if he entered from the dining room while his unsuspecting quarry ate at the table.
| Keldirk | (nodding to himself) Okay. Now, where to hide? |
Keldirk reasoned that Saradock's old bedroom would be an ideal staging area. It was highly unlikely that Caruthers would have any need to go in there upon returning home. So, the decision made, Keldirk moved to his old Vesper's bedroom and secreted himself in the closet. The room's door was open and Keldirk left it that way. He drew his daggers, just in case, and waited.
Keldirk didn't have to wait long.
The young assassin heard the front door open, listened as booted feet walked along the hall and entered a room, most likely the study. Several long minutes passed as Keldirk waited. Eventually he made out the sound of someone leave the study and proceed down the hallway towards the rear of the house.
Keldirk found he was holding his breath. Cursing his foolishness, Keldirk forced himself to breathe, a controlled slow breathing that he had mastered back in the Olman Islands.
Caruthers was whistling now, making noise in the kitchen. Keldirk dimly heard the sound of a breadknife cutting bread and, eventually, scraping along the chopping board. When he heard the kitchen chair slide back and forward moments later, Keldirk emerged silently from his hiding place. Carefully unhooking the hand-crossbow from his belt, Keldirk quietly pulled the string into position and loaded a bolt.
Continuing his breathing pattern, Keldirk crept out of the room, along the hall and into the formal dining room. Four, no, five quick steps was all it would take for him to reach the kitchen. It was now just a matter of time.
Keldirk waited several minutes, preparing his body for action as Caruthers continued to eat what Keldirk knew would be his last meal. He listened intently as Caruthers ate, drank and ate some more. Time seemed to drag, but Keldirk knew only seconds had passed. Just as Caruthers placed a glass on the table for the third time, Keldirk moved. He emerged from the dining room, took five quick steps along the hall and peered around the corner, into the kitchen. Keldirk didn't need to enter the room, only his head and the crossbow breached the threshold - the weapon aimed squarely where he knew Caruthers would be.
As soon as he verified his target, Keldirk loosed the bolt.
Caruthers barely had time to react. At first he was dumbfounded that there was someone else in the house. Then, a heart-beat later, he was relieved when he identified the intruder as Keldirk. Then, before he knew it, he was flung backwards off his chair, staring wide eyed at the ceiling.
The steel bolt flew straight and true, embedding itself deep into the stunned manservant's chest, inches above the heart. Caruthers was punched backward with the force, toppling off his chair. Without a moment's hesitation, Keldirk dropped the crossbow, drew his scimitar and closed the short distance to his target.
He needn't have bothered.
Caruthers lay flat on his back, his eyes wide and staring, locked in death's grimace.
Keldirk kneeled down to confirm that Caruthers was indeed dead. Satisfied, the young assassin sheathed his sword and drew a knife. Grimly, he set about cutting out the dead man's tongue, a necessary task to ensure that no divine magics could be used to extract information from the corpse. Keldirk wrapped the bloodied tongue in an oiled-cloth before tucking it into his pouch for later disposal.
Almost as an afterthought, Keldirk pried the bolt from the dead man's chest, wiped it on the table cloth and examined its length. The shaft was unbroken, straight and true - well suited for later use.
| Keldirk | Perfect. |
| The Assassins | Craven - Fighter / Rogue 3rd / 3rd LE (PC) |
| Locale | The Whistler - A tavern in the River Quarter of Del Mord. |
| Date | 9th Goodmonth 582 CY |
| Time | Midday. |
Business was booming.
Craven had never seen The Whistler so full at this hour of the day; the result of one of Mickey Moritz's promotions no doubt. Despite his feelings towards the annoying little man, Craven had to admit that Mickey certainly knew how to run a business.
The young swordsman was seated at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of fine Almorian brandy as he watched the crash of humanity before him. Drinks were flowing freely for this time of day with a dozen or more patrons well on the way to inebriation. Coins of all denominations were exchanging hands at a rapid rate as the townsfolk took advantage of the temporarily reduced liquor prices.
| Craven | (sips his drink and leans back) I could get used to this. |
Surveying the room, Craven studied his clientele. Many of the patrons were adventurer types evidenced by their weapons, armour and ready cash. It was difficult to gauge their experience simply by their appearance but there was a good representation of both young and old. Craven hoped that age equated with wisdom because the crowd was fast becoming quite rambunctious.
The serving wenches would have sore bodies by day's end judging by the number of slaps and pinches they received as they moved through the crowd. Still, the affectionate attention of patrons was a part of their role and Craven knew that his staff could take care of themselves. Besides, if things escalated beyond a barmaid's ability to handle, there was always the four large bouncers ready and more-than-willing to step in.
Craven took another sip of his drink and shook his head. There was an awful lot of steel in the bar and he hoped that his security staff had the skills to back up their physical appearance. Not for the first time today Craven wondered where Creighton had disappeared to.
| serving girl | (places her serving tray on the bar next to Craven and holds four fingers up to the overworked barman) It's good to see you here, Sir. |
| Craven | Oh, hello Jayne. (smiles) I have never seen this place so busy. |
| Jayne | (shakes her head) Nor I, Sir. (wipes her brow) Still, all these customers make the day just fly by. |
| Craven | I imagine so. Tell me, do you have something to look forward to later this evening? |
| Jayne | Sir? |
| Craven | Please, call me Craven. |
| Jayne | Aye, sir... um... Craven. (smiles coquettishly) Actually, I do have plans. Horse and I are going to the Pit tonight to watch the fights. |
| Craven | The fights! (laughs) He certainly knows how to treat a lady, eh? (chuckles) |
Jayne laughed and waved to the large, leather-clad bouncer standing by the door who waved back shamelessly.
| Jayne | Horse is a good man, Craven. |
| Craven | The last of the true romantics. |
Jayne smiled, collected her order and returned to the throng.
Craven tracked her progress for a few moments, enjoying the view of her shapely hips sway with each step. Suddenly his attention was drawn to a nearby table where Portia, another of the serving girls, struggled to pull her hand from the clearly unwelcome grip of one of the patrons. Craven watched the events unfold for several heartbeats. The patron was full of drink and overcome with desire; he wasn't going to take no for an answer. It was clear that Portia was not going to be able to deal with this situation on her own.
Craven gulped the remainder of his brandy and proceeded towards the disturbance. The table was occupied by five armed men, adventurer-types and full of drink. Craven felt an odd sense of de ja vu as he confronted the unruly patron.
| Craven | (assertively and calmly) Let the lady go. |
Portia continued to struggle, her thin wrist red with the effort. In the corner of his eye Craven noticed the altercation had attracted the attention of Horse and two other members of security.
| Craven | (louder) I said, let the lady go! |
The adventurer looked Craven up and down, sizing him up and, by his expression, finding the young warrior wanting.
| Adventurer #1 | Why don't you mind your own damned business, Fancy Boy! This don't concern you. (yanks on Portia's arm) Give daddy a kiss, darlin'. |
| Portia | (whimpers) |
Fancy boy? Why did that sound so familiar? Recognition struck Craven a moment later. This was the same group of adventurers who, months ago, had beaten him senseless outside the Silver Gauntlet.
| Craven | You're Muldok. |
| Adventurer #1 | (somewhat taken aback) That's right Fancy Boy. What's it to ya? |
| Adventurer #2 | Muldok, he's the same dang peacock we taught a lesson to a couple'o'months back. 'Member? |
| Muldok | (smiles) Hey yeah, I think you're right! (sneers) What's up Fancy Boy? You here lookin' for another lesson in keeping out of my way? |
| Craven | I'll be the one doing the teaching this time. Now, for the last time, let the lady go. |
Craven looked up and signalled to Horse as the big man made his way through the crowd. The patrons in the bar had started to pay attention to the confrontation, many standing up to get a better view. The situation was escalating and fast.
| Craven | (above the noise of the crowd) Horse, I'll take care of this. Send somebody to fetch the watch. |
| Muldok | (sensing action, releases the serving girl, twisting her arm savagely and shoving her roughly aside) Ugly bitch, anyway. |
| Craven | Portia, go to the kitchen. Now! |
Portia ran into the crowd, clutching her bruised arm.
Muldok's companions were more cautious now. They figured that Craven knew the bouncers and therefore was not such an easy target. Muldok, however, remained aggressively belligerent.
| Muldok | Get out of my face, peacock. |
| Craven | You'd be well served to get the hell out of my bar, while you still can. |
| Muldok | (raises his hands) Your bar? Hah! |
| Craven | Yes, my bar. |
| Muldok | (spits on the floor) This place stinks anyway. |
By now everyone was paying attention to the conflict between Craven and Muldok. A loosely formed ring of patrons had circled the table; Horse and two other bouncers maintaining some semblance crowd control. Some of the crowd were urging violence, others restraint. Craven heard none of it.
| Craven | If you're not out of my sight by the time I count to three, you'll be sorry - mighty sorry. |
| Muldok | You don't scare- |
| Craven | (quickly) One, two, three. |
Craven's fist snapped forward and connected with Muldok's face, knocking the man backward; the chair collapsing under him as he fell. Muldok's companions rose from the table and stepped back, not wanting to get involved with the bouncers in such close proximity.
| Craven | (over his shoulder, to Horse) Did you see that, Horse? Wanton property damage. (to Muldok) You'll have to pay for that chair. |
Muldok's face reddened and he rose to his feet, a wicked looking dagger held menacingly before him. The braggart lashed out with his blade, but it was a clumsy thrust that Craven easily knocked aside with the palm of his hand. Muldok was both angry and drunk, not a good combination for any combat and Craven knew that his opponent would not pose much of a threat. The question was how to deal with it.
It was obvious to Craven that Muldok was the type of man to hold a grudge. The adventurer and his friends would undoubtedly come for him when the circumstances were more in their favour. Craven would have to be on guard at all times, guarding against such an attack. It suddenly dawned on him that he could not allow Muldok to survive this encounter. But he could not simply draw his sword and kill the man - such an act would attract the attention of the law.
Muldok stepped in again and stabbed at Craven, his blow was poorly aimed but he did manage to slice a hole in Craven's clothing and score a shallow wound. The pain was trivial but blood flowed freely from the cut, staining Craven's clothes and making the wound seem more serious than it was.
Muldok had drawn first blood, as dozens of witness could attest. Enough was enough, it was time to end this.
Craven stepped toward his opponent, grabbing hold of Muldok's wrist and effectively immobilising the weapon. Then, while maintaining his grip on the arm, Craven continued around and behind the drunken man, wrapping his left arm about Muldok's chest. Held firm now, Muldok was unable to move freely and it took only a little effort for Craven to bring the two of them to the ground.
As they fell, Craven twisted Muldok's wrist violently, turning the dagger so that the blade pointed up. The combined weight of the two men drove the blade into Muldok's heart, killing him instantly.
| Craven | (whispers in Muldok's ear) Perfect. |
| The Assassins | Creighton - Fighter 5th Level LE (PC) |
| Locale | The maze of streets, deep in The Old City - Del Mord. |
| Date | 9th Goodmonth 582 CY |
| Time | Just before dawn. |
Creighton looked to where Howie Long was pointing.
| Creighton | Are you sure that's the place? |
| Howie | Mr Jones followed them here himself. |
| Creighton | What if they moved on after Mr Jones left? |
| Howie | Doubt it. The way he tells it, they were pretty wasted when they staggered inside. They'd be lucky to be going anywhere. |
| Creighton | Fine then. (drops two silver coins into Howie's outstretched hand) |
| Howie | You want me to hang around? Lead you out once you're done? |
| Creighton | No, you go. I'll find my own way out. |
| Howie | It's your funeral. |
| Creighton | And Howie, keep this to yourself. |
| Howie | Of course. (pockets the coins) |
Without any further ado, Howie Long turned and moved further into the alleyway, soon to be swallowed up by the pre-dawn darkness. Creighton watched him just long enough to be sure he had gone then removed his backpack, took out a several flasks of oil, then hid the pack behind a pile of rubbish. In addition to the oil the pack contained a spare set of clothes and a full water-skin.
House, thought Creighton wryly, that was a generous label to attach to the building he was approaching. Hovel was a more accurate description for the collection of wooden walls and thatched roof that contained the trio Creighton had spent the past few weeks tracking down.
Betrayal was not something that Creighton took particularly well, especially when that betrayal was perpetrated by people he had considered to be his friends. Something had to be done to atone for that betrayal and that was why he was here. Creighton looked up and down the small street and made sure there was nobody around, then approached the front door. Unstoppering the flasks, the young warrior began to pour the oil all over the wall and as much of the roof as he could easily reach.
Satisfied with his work he concentrated for a moment, called upon the magical power of his eye and set fire to the building. The magical fire easily ignited the oil and soon there was a substantial blaze, consuming the dry wooden walls and igniting the thatched roof.
Creighton waited for the flames to really take hold then drew his sword and kicked open the remains of the front door. Once inside the burning building he looked around to find his targets, which was made absurdly simple, despite the thick smoke, as the building only had one room.
Inside the room three men were stumbling around, obviously intoxicated and confused within the smoke. One of the men was scrambling on his knees for a backpack, the other two clutched together, terrified as the flames grew stronger. As soon as Creighton entered the building, the man on his knees called out.
| Shayne | (coughing) Creighton? Is that you? (turns to one of the other men) It's Creighton, thank the gods!. |
| Macca | (coughing) Creighton! Save me! |
| Callahan | (coughing) Help! Get us out of here! |
Creighton stood in the burning doorway, his sword in his hand. The flames raged about him and his tattered clothes started to catch flame. Creighton smiled, immune to the burning effects of the fire.
| Creighton | Hello boys. I hope you spent the money you made selling those maps wisely, 'cos now it's over for you three. |
With that, he stepped forward and cleaved into Shayne, Macca and Callahan. The entire battle - if you could call it that - was over in a matter of moments. The flames and smoke had disoriented the three helpless men while Creighton, immune, was determined and focussed only on his goal.
His bloody work complete, Creighton exited the burning building and fled into the alley. The sky had not yet begun to lighten with the approaching dawn and the street remained deserted, despite the rapidly growing fire. Creighton discarded his smouldering rags and then dressed in his spare set of clothes. The fire quickly spread, utterly consuming the hovel and spreading to the surrounding buildings. He heard shouts of alarm and saw people emerge from the adjoining homes, calling for water. It was clear that the fire was going to be difficult to contain.
Once dressed Creighton stepped out of the alley and, without a backward glance, began the long walk home.
| Creighton | Perfect. |
| The Assassins | Azareth - Wizard 5th Level LE (PC) |
| Locale | River Quarter - Del Mord. |
| Date | 9th Goodmonth 582 CY |
| Time | Mid-Afternoon. |
Azareth had spent the day enjoying a good meal and stimulating conversation at the Bookworm Café and was now returning to The Whistler, looking forward to a cool drink. The hot summer sun beat down on the bone dry streets of the city and the heat was oppressive. Little wonder a fire had broken out in the Old City, Azareth thought, recalling the subject of one of the day's many conversations.
Lost in thought, Azareth barely managed to avoid walking into a large funeral procession that was crossing the street in front of him. Azareth had no desire to try and muscle his way through the slowly moving crowd so he elected to wait in the shade offered by a nearby awning. He watched the procession with a passing interest, there was a large number of mourners so the deceased was either very popular or very wealthy.
The crowd was lead by a white-clad priest of Pelor; swinging a burning censer, the smell of incense permeating the air. The carriage containing the body came after the Pelorian priest and the crowd of mourners followed it. As the rear of the funeral procession passed by Azareth was taken aback. There, against all logic, walking behind the crowd was the Half Orc Undertaker, Selzcek Gobayuik.
How could it be? Azareth, Creighton and Keldirk had killed the Undertaker, murdered him in the street outside of his home. Azareth was stunned, something made no sense and this development did not bode well.
Thankfully, the Undertaker did not seem to notice Azareth, instead keeping his gaze fixed respectfully on the ground before him. Azareth decided he needed to get to the bottom of this mystery and followed the procession at a discrete distance. He could see that they were heading out of Del Mord en-route to the pauper's cemetery but he felt it was important to keep an eye on the Undertaker in case he slipped away.
The crowd entered the cemetery an hour later and Azareth watched as the body was interred, the Undertaker standing impassively by while the priest spoke the words from their holy texts. Something was not quite right here, thought Azareth, as the crowd dispersed and the gravediggers began to fill in the plot.
The Pauper's Cemetery was becoming something of a misnomer as it was increasingly being used by people of means as well as the unknown and unnamed. The cemetery within the walls of Del Mord was small, mostly reserved for the nobility and the extremely rich. The Pauper's Cemetery had changed a lot in the months since Azareth was last here and, while the bulk of the plots were simply adorned, if the current trend continued it would soon resemble the opulence of the official cemetery itself.
The Undertaker waited until the remaining mourners had left, then turned and walked deeper into the cemetery. Azareth had to suppress a shudder as he walked past the tree where he and Keldirk had been attacked by the skeletons all those months before. Azareth knew that he would not make it back inside the walls of the city before sundown and that realisation added to the sense of foreboding as he followed the Undertaker down the steep hill.
An owl flew overhead, a strange time of day to be seeing such a creature, thought Azareth. Something niggled at the back of the young mage's mind, a sixth-sense setting his nerves on edge. Azareth began to feel that he had done something incredibly foolish and stopped in his tracks.
| Azareth | (to himself) I should return and tell the others. |
His decision made, Azareth turned and began to walk back up the hill towards Del Mord. Suddenly, from his left, he saw a dark shape emerge from behind a nearby tree. Then a second figure appeared, approaching from his right, walking out from behind a large tombstone. Azareth stopped again and turned around, intent on retreat. His heart skipped a beat as he spied the Undertaker walking intently up the hill towards him.
Azareth was surrounded.
| Azareth | (his voice dripping with sarcasm) Perfect. |
| Normal Text | Character's words or descriptive text if part of a paragraph |
| Italic Text | Character's thoughts or actions if surrounded by parenthesis |
| Bold Text | Character is shouting. |