Ascher stumbled and hit his knees. A sudden, blinding pain in his mind exploded, blotting out all other sensations. The world, and reality itself seemed to melt away. All that was left was pain. Ascher reached out a hand and steadied himself on a rough wooden wall. His mind lurched suddenly as his perceptions all flooded back into his mind. a wall??.....what wall?.... Ascher opened his eyes slowly, and saw a rough-hewn plank wall before his face. It was dim, as if maybe it were night. Ascher blinked a few times and the tears and blurriness cleared from his eyes finally. He looked up and saw a sign with an anchor and rope on it swinging from a metal arm overhead. He was at a shipwright's shop. Ascher shook his head slightly, and instantly wished he hadn't. He hit his knees as a wave of blinding pain washed over him. Both hands went instantly to his temples, and his mouth stretched in a silent scream that refused to leave his lungs. After several long moments, Ascher was able to stand once more, and he lurched through the doorway into the shop. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright lanterns inside. A shocked cartographer, ink stains thick on his hands and his face, looked up from a writing desk in the back of the shop. Two carpenters grunted at Ascher as they walked through the shop to the warehouse in back. Both men had sawdust thick on their boots. A handsome middle-aged woman with short cut hair and a deeply tanned face came from around the counter, a broad smile on her face. Her hips moved with the subtle sway of a woman used to having rocking deck planks beneath her barefeet more often than solid land. "Welcome, stranger," The woman said, motioning toward a table holding several small model ships, "Can I interest ye in some o'tha finest ships in Jhelom? They're sleek, they're fast, and they're more than sea worthy, I can promise ye." Ascher blinked a few more times, trying to piece the woman's words together through her slanting broguish accent. Once he understood her, Ascher started to shake his head but thought better of it. Instead, he raised his hand, and cleared his throat enough to speak. "Where am I?" Ascher asked, his throat dry and cracked. The woman frowned a bit, "Why, yer in Jhelom, sir. Are ye well?" Ascher frowned, and tried to think. He definitely didn't remember being in Jhelom. The last memory he trusted was standing outside the dungeon Shame. He'd gone to check a rumor he'd heard... but what the rumor was, he couldn't remember. All he knew for certain was that it had been urgent. Ascher brought his hand up to his temple again, and stopped cold. He stared at his hand and the blood stains on it. There were more up both of his sleeves, and several spots on his boots. The blood was old, dried and crusted. But there was no mistaking that deep, rusted brown color for wine. Ascher inspected himself quickly, but found no marks... no wounds of any kind, and no new scars... Whoever's blood it was, it wasn't his....
The Morning Star ~The Reckoning~ Ascher sat in the common room of the Inn, staring into his ale without touching it. He had rented a room in the middle of the night, and the innkeeper had asked no questions. The portly man had charged triple his going rate, but he had asked no questions. His discretion was, at times, more expensive than indiscretion it seemed. The new clothes he was wearing were stiff, and itched in a few places, but they would do until better could be had. At least he knew that a witch wouldn't be able to track him by some thread or fragment of a garment he'd left behind. Ascher pulled at the open collar of his shirt absently, his ale still untouched. It was dark outside again, and the lamps along both walls were lit. His table, though, back in the far corner away from the door, was always in the shadows. This was the third day he'd been here, waiting. He was beginning to think he'd hit a brick wall. With a half-shrug, and a sigh, he picked up his warm ale and drained it in a single gulp. A dark-haired, tanned woman with an inviting smile and pretty ankles brought him another. She bent low over the table, even though it wasn't neccessary. Ascher winked at her and flipped another gold coin onto the tray. His drinks were always free here, but he never forgot to tip the staff. Their discretion was, after all, much cheaper and more valuable than their employer's. As the waitress swayed her way back to the kitchen, Ascher noticed a new comer sitting at a table in front of the fire place. He hadn't been there a moment before, and despite never losing sight of the front door or the stairway, Ascher hadn't seen him come in. He reached under the table and eased the stilletto strapped to his right calf in its sheath. He could pull the dagger in an instant and either throw it or use it in a close fight, and the tops of his boots kept it well hidden. If the stranger were hostile, it would be his best bet. As if reading his mind, the stranger turned and tipped his wide-brimmed hat at Ascher. Then, he rose, and started towards Ascher's table. Ascher slowly pulled his dagger, but kept it hidden under the table. So far, the man had done nothing overtly hostile, but better to be safe, just in case. Ascher's memory of the last few days was full of holes, and he couldn't be quite certain who he might have offended, or how seriously. When the stranger was about three paces away, he paused, and bowed slightly, "May I join you, Lord Kraw?" Ascher's eyes narrowed, and he snorted loudly, "Ain't a lord. Haven't been for a long time. They stripped me of that title." The man chuckled softly, "My father once told me," He replied, "That it isn't the title that makes a man a Lord, but rather the man that makes the title worth having." "A wise man," Ascher replied. He couldn't place it, but there was something about the man that seemed familiar. Even though he kept his head down so his face was hidden by his hat, there was something that nudged at Ascher's memory." The man cleared his throat softly, and Ascher jumped, "Please, sit," He said, motioning to the chair across from him. The man sat and removed his hat. His face wasn't known to Ascher, but there was somthing about his eyes that still made Ascher's mind roll over and over again, spinning in place. He was certain he'd never met the man before in his life, but he was just as sure that he knew the stranger well. "Thank you," The man said, "I wasn't sure if you'd still be here or not." "You seem to know me," Ascher said, keeping his right hand carefully out of sight, "But I have no idea who you are." The man smiled, "Of course," He said, "How rude of me." The man reached in a pouch, and Ascher's hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger. The man drew out a large silver coin, and slid it across the table. Ascher glanced down at it, and froze. One the side facing up was a tongue of flame. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet the other man's. "What is on the reverse?" Ascher asked. "SxC," The man replied. Ascher flipped the coin over, and saw that the man was correct. It was a Mark of the Keepers, and Ascher hadn't seen one since the fall of Silvervale. He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. "How did you get," Ascher began, but the stranger held up his hand. "He told me that he wished to remain anonymous for the moment," The stranger answered, "He also told me that this mark would vouch for my sincerity and that you would listen to what I have to say. You may keep the Mark, though the one who gave it to me said he may ask for it again at some time." Ascher nodded, lifting the heavy silver coin, and slipping it into an inside pocket in his doublet. He brought the stilletto out, and laid it casually on the table. The stranger's eyes widened a little. "I wasn't sure if I could trust you," Ascher said, then shrugged, "To be honest, I'm not sure I can trust myself. You still haven't told me your name." The man blinked, startled, "I'm sorry," He replied, "I thought the Mark was more important, since we have never met, but I suppose a name is still in order. I am Veyttin of Brae. I know who you are, Lord Kraw. And I know something of what has been happening to you." Ascher's eyes narrowed again, "What are you talking about?" "You have been cursed, m'Lord," Veyttin said, "And not some average, run or the mill gypsy incantation. This is a heavy curse, and one laid by a Master of the Dark Arts the likes of which this land has rarely known. When you sleep, he commands your body. You cannot stop it, and you cannot control it until you learn two things... The first is the nature of the curse. You must find a Wizard that can read its energy and translate that energy." "You said I need two things," Ascher said, when Veyttin didn't continue, "What's the second?" "Well, M'Lord," Veyttin said, fidgeting with his hands, "I don't know. The one who sent me is currently searching for that answer himself. I do know one thing.... You have a hound trailing you. The one you are waiting for tonight, the one you have seen following you since Minoc. His hand is not at the tiller, as it were, but he serves the one who is. And he is coming to this inn tonight." Ascher's hand went immediately to the stilletto, but Veyttin's reactions were swifter. He suddenly had the thin dagger in his hand, inspecting the blade and the point. Veyttin's expression never changed, but suddenly Ascher was certain that it was a deadly man sitting across from him. He wondered briefly how things might have turned out if one or the other of them had harbored ill intentions... "You have a choice to make M'Lord," Veyttin said, setting the dagger calmly down between them, "The man coming here, his name is Fiorn the Wanderer. He is the man you saved on the road to Trinsic. The one you lost at the Village of Paws. And he is the only connection we know of that leads directly back to the source of this curse. If anyone knows what the second element you need to cure you is, it will be this man. But he is also deep in the plots of the enemy and is sure to be a part of some worse evil that we haven't yet fathomed." Veyttin stood, leaving the dagger where it was. Without another word, he turned and walked away. Ascher glanced down at the stilletto, and when he looked back up the man was gone. "I'm not a Lord," Ascher muttered, sipping his ale, "I'm just a simple Watchman...."
The Tormentor's ire ~ Sapphire Saga~ Conditions had improved considerably since the visit of Sior Elis, but Catalin was still vexed that there was no news on his trial; nor any word about the attacks. He been given a liaison to communicate with the outside world, but the man provided little confidence that any of his messages were delivered - at least not to the intended recipients. When the man introduced himself as Merle Grimmrot, Catalin had silently decided it would be best that he exercise caution with any information he disclosed. He knew such a course of action wouldn't do much to improve his standings in the eyes of those who already passed edicts of guilt upon him. There was just something about Merle that didn't set right with Catalin. Through the prison windows Catalin could hear the constant sound of guards and alarms. He knew the forces were being constantly mobilized beyond the extent of routine drills and maneuvers for which Merle had tried to dismiss them. As the heavy steps again pounded past the prison, Catalin couldn't help but inquire, "Are you most certain this is normal?" Merle looked up from his pretended study of some text, "Oh yes, quite. It's been this way for quite some time. Even before your untimely appearance. I might add, that the city has never been safer than since Deramond took control of the Golden Guard." Finishing his ode his eyes fluttered around nervously as if expecting that his praises were heard by more than just they two. In frustration he gripped the bars of the small window to his cell door and bowed his head. Without any means to release this pent up anger, he could feel it tearing apart his insides. His moment of silent grief was shattered by the reverberations of a mighty horn. There were only two things certain to Catalin - these were not the ordinary state of affairs in Trinsic and Grimrott was no friend. ================================================================================================================================= Fiorn was a fool and a despot who didn't deserve in the least amount any attention from the dark lord. Where had Fiorn been after all these years while Master was recuperating? Who had been there to fulfill every foul command? Certainly not Oathebreaker! And yet this wretched returner had been given the honor to speak the curse for which Malik had toiled so long to prepare. He mused grimly over all the innocent essence he had extracted over the years; the way they had all pleaded to spare them, and in the end begged him to kill them. That was when they were truly ripe for torment. Malik brooded over his half empty mug. He would have Fiorn flayed upon his table, this he had sworn to himself. For now, he would have to wait for another chance to demonstrate Fiorn's incompetence. He had failed to intercept this Ascher Kraw before the curse was spoken, but Malik knew Fiorn would have no choice but to return. Once he learned that the only blood that Ascher had spilt was that of the local fauna, Fiorn would have to return find out why the curse was not sending souls by the dozens to their master. He relished the simplicity of his plan. While he tailed Ascher and disrupted the curse, the commotion that Mishka was stirring in Trinsic would serve as a valuable alibi. And what more, the essence of that fellow she followed would make an excellent addition to his collection. Surely the dark one would smile upon him. Yet Malik knew that when one split his hand it increased the potential for risk as well as reward - and he had to make sure that both he and Mishka were successful. Malik stared at his mug then closed his eyes. When they reopened any eerie green glow reflected from the surface of his mug. His lips divided slowly, revealing a wicked grin as the man watched Miskha tear a Paladin limb from limb. Suddenly he overheard what he had been waiting to hear "...the man is coming here, his name is Fiorn..." the rest of the conversation faded back into the background. Malik severed the connection as quickly as he could and flashed his gaze over to Ascher Kraw, but could not ascertain who had spoken the Oathebreaker's name. Not wishing to draw unwanted attention to himself, he returned his gaze back to his mug, and leaned back in his chair. All he had to do now was hurry up and wait...
