Chapter One: Secret Documents

The city of Westbell, 1470 DR, one bell to midnight, a decade after the Dragonmaw Rebellion

Atop a lofty castle of stone on the outskirts of Westbell, none would have thought it a residence of an intelligent being. Alone, yes. This castle would have proved conspicuous in the dulling night sky if it was not amidst a garden rumored to be haunted. He had went there. There was no ghost. It was just... him and his thoughts. The blue cloak perched on the age-ridden stone balcony fluttered in the cool wind, betraying the body underneath it of a few degrees of warmth. In its gloved hands it clutched an open heart-shaped golden locket. Its golden clasp contrasted the black tone of the gloves. Inside was a small but carefully engraved picture of a man and a woman, happy and smiling. The emotions of the picture dulled and faded in the ever-darkening night.
"Mother. Father...
"I hope you can hear me...
"I have done nothing to free Westbell of the malevolent claw that has eaten away at its integrity, safety, and happiness for the last ten years. I am sorry. But now. That is about to change.
"Please tell me, mama. Papa. In that other world, where Sev embraces you in his eternal light... that you can hear me.
"Please tell me you are a star in this very night. Please tell me you see me, from where the flowers grow, and where no mortal foot can tread upon...
"For I tell you, Mother and Father. That I will free this city, even if I must do it myself. Like you did, Father. Like you did, Mother."
The face underneath the hood was weeping. Salty tears ran down its obscured face. It struggled to speak.
"There is an organization I have discovered, father. They prove themselves to be worthy. But even if they turn their back on me, I tell you, my parents. That I will not falter!"
He would be discovered if he carried on like this. So he pulled his hood over his face ever so longer, and vanished into the tower's gray walls.

---

"Death to the Signet!"
Ah. Music to Aurel's ears. What a beautiful night. It was made all the better by the fires caused by the riot a few hours earlier. Aurel pushed and shoved his way through the throng of rioters to the center, where a sorry-looking man in golden and red robes was on his knees, restrained by a fresh lump of rope.
"In the name of the Grand Overlord Dragonmaw, I demand you free me from these restraints!"
"I'm ever so sorry, Signet Cassius." Aurel unsheathed what looked like a long, sturdy rod of intertwined wood with a magical-looking electric blue orb perched on its top. "Apparently, increasing the tax by fifty percent in Lower-Class District Four didn't pass well with its citizens." He gestured around to the torch-wielding, pitchfork-waving rioters. Aurel promptly gagged the Signet with a filthy rag and turned his attention to the crowd. "Now who here wants the pleasure of sending our beloved Signet to the depths of hell?"
"Me! Me! Me!" The crowd could not restrain themselves any longer. They closed in on the unfortunate Signet. The last thing Aurel heard from the center were muffled screams and the cringe-inducing sound of pitchfork tearing flesh.
"What's going on here? Arrest them!"
Even without his Arcane Eye spell, Aurel could recognize the familiar clank of steel and a black banner proudly displaying the insignia of a fiery red blade. He disappeared in the throng of commoners and into a dark alley. Not bad for the anniversary of the Dragonmaw Rebellion. When he was finally alone, Aurel put a leather-gloved hand to his lips and emitted something that sounded like a bluejay's song. Only the true Scarlet Masks would understand the real message - rally.

It was a cool night; pleasant to those on the surface. But down underneath the city's castle, in the dark and damp dungeons, it offered nothing but chill. A chill was creeped through a man's skin and got into his bones. The kind of cold that no amount of shivering and huddling could conquer. After two years, the poor man who found himself prisoner there had stopped trying.

He had once been a brave and noble knight. He had been a man with a happiness, love, friends, and family. Now he was nothing. He was barely more than the rats that scurried through the bars of his cell. As he propped himself up in the corner, the cold stone pressing against his flesh, the man could do nothing but think. Down here, his thoughts were all he had left. He thought about how he would escape, although his plans never worked. He though about revenge quite often; revisiting and replaying the scene inside his head in which Dragonmaw would die in a way only an evil man could deserve. He thought about his wife, and what she would be doing right now if she were still alive. He thought about his child, who hadn't even seen the light of day before having it's life ripped away. He remembered how Evelyn had thought so carefully about names: Madison if it was a girl, Andrew if it was a boy. But now he had stop, because he could feel tears forming in his eyes.

The man shifted onto the ground, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. After two years, he had yet to do so. The stone floor was hard and wet, caked with mud and dead insects. His armor and clothing had been stolen from him, leaving him nothing but his bare, raw skin to lay on. Every in of his dark colored flesh was covered in bruises or cuts. His body was battered and weak. He tried to keep his weight on by excising in what little space he had, but his mass had dwindled. His hair, once silky and well groomed, now matted itself in bloody knots, dirty with mud. The knight was a ghost of his former self.

He gingerly laid down on his side, using his arm as a pillow, and stared up the stairs at the dungeon door. Whenever it opened, it usually meant trouble for him. Sometimes it also meant moldy bread for dinner, but most of the time it meant trouble.

Daia Vandergult breathed in the night air, her hand tightening around her trident. Amongst the livid commoners with pitchforks, it blended in well except for the golden varnish around the durable steel. A pale hand caressed the weapon in admiration, letting the riot bevy around her. The citizens all cheered, heaving their fists into the heavens in merriment – Daia could almost taste their exhilaration in the wind and she inhaled deeply, a grin stretching her cheeks. Part of her wanted to join them in impaling the Signet, but the larger piece of her desired something more…gratifying.

Nimble fingers slipped into the pocket of a nearby man with a hairless head. The shabby quality of his rather light coin purse was euphoric in her palm. Licking her lips, Daia pocketed the coin purse and let out a sympathetic sigh as it was almost certainly all the funds he had. His loss, her gain, though, and that was most important – her gain. The blonde was about to make her way to the heart and stash the money on the Signet, but then she heard it. It was a reverberation that could only come from a human, but it sharply resembled that of a bluejay’s call. Groaning under her breath, she shortened the staff of her trident and strapped it onto her back before smoothing her luxurious tunic of any ruffles her anticipation caused. Stalking from the crowd, Daia just managed to pilfer another coin purse. She smiled sweetly, yet viciously.

Hector was disgusted. Not because of the deplorable state the city was in, or the fact that Fireblade Mercenaries waltzed through the streets like mini lords, doing whatever they wanted to whomever it pleased them to do it to. Those type of things he could deal with. After all, it was only a little worse than what the lords and ladies of the world tended to do with their own power, and their own guardsmen. His former comrades were just a little more blatant about it. What disgusted him was the fact that it was so easy to get into the castle that housed Dragonmaw. The headquarters of the entire mercenary group for crying out loud! The main camp for all intents and purposes. Even without his magical ability to become smoke and move, it would have been easy to sneak in, and sneak out. The guards had become complacent. Ten years of ruling with an iron fist, no one daring to challenge them, had made them lazy. Hector remembered a time when if he wanted to sneak in and out of camp, he had to use his smoke form liberally, often puking after he had slipped away. That sensation of being taken apart and put back together on the smallest level imaginable was one thing he would never get used to. Regardless, the castle’s defenses might be loosely guarded. Getting to Dragonmaw, on the other hand, was an entirely different beast.

Hector scowled from behind the helm he had stolen off of another mercenary’s corpse (a corpse that was currently residing in a closet. What? He hadn’t had much time to hide the body and switch the gear that was tight in all the wrong places.) at the sight of the men guarding Dragonmaw’s rooms. They were on their guard. Alert enough to notice smoke approaching and sliding unnaturally under the door, certainly. And he couldn’t very well just shoot the both of them with his bow and be done with it, as every other mercenary walking about his business in the castle would notice the commotion, and come running. Not to mention any other guards the traitorous bastard might have beyond that door would be alerted immediately. And Hector wanted to live after he gutted the tyrant like a fish and strangled him with his own intestines. So, a suicidal charge was out of the question. Now, the only other real question I suppose is, what now? Hector mused, walking away from the area before his staring became a cause for suspicion. He wasn’t going to leave without hurting Dragonmaw in some way. The armory was too large to actually consider damaging it. He didn’t know where gunpowder was kept to blow something important looking up. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Hector realized that there was pretty much nothing he could really do to hurt Dragonmaw. Or at least, tweak his nose really good.

The ex-mercenary was about to start killing important looking people at random, when he overheard a Fireblade thug calling to his friend. “Thanks for the keys. Now, I’ll just go take that turn at Sir Isam of the kingdom of filth and rats.” Hector paused as his friend called back. “If he hasn’t said anything about the prince for this long, it’s doubtful he’ll say anything to you. Still, break his nose again for me.” Hector smiled. So, the gods do actually give out good luck now and then.

Following the thug was easy. He was whistling merrily as he walked towards wherever this Isam was being kept. Hector shook his head in disgust once more. Over confident. Complacent. Soon to be dead. The thug opened the door to the dungeons with a set of keys, presumably given to him by his friend. Walking down the steps he began to call loudly to Isam. “Oh, Sir Knight! I’ve come to talk to you!” Hector closed the door behind them, ignoring the continued taunting of the thug. The door safely shut, muffling all noise, he drew his knife and caught up to his target. The man was cut of mid taunt by the blade entering the side of his throat. While he gurgled and clawed at Hector’s arm, his murderer said, amicably, “Do try not to make so much fucking noise. I don’t want all of your little bastard friends to come down here and turn this entire thing into one big fucking mess.” His only response was a gurgle. “Good.” Ripping his knife out of the soon-to-be corpse, Hector let the man fall to the ground, crashing down the stairs. He winced, “Okay, I didn’t mean to do that.”

Quickly, he picked the keys from the ground where they had been dropped, and practically skipped down the stairs, grabbing a torch from along the walls, glancing in every cell until he found Isam. “Seeing as you’re the only prisoner, and the only person here who looks the part, I’m assuming your Isam. I don’t know what you have that Dragonmaw wants bad enough not to just shove your head on a pike or a sword up your ass, but if Dragonmaw wants you locked up, I want you free.” He leaned closer with the torch, whistling as he saw the damage done to the former knight. “Damn. They sure beat the living hell out of you, didn’t they?” He unlocked the gate and went to help Isam up. “My name is Hector. Currently I’m your rescuer and your best friend in the world right now. All you need to know, right now, is that I want to kill Dragonmaw. Preferably slowly, with the dullest, rustiest, knife I can find, so I can hear the bastard scream for fucking days. And I know it hurts like hell. And I know you feel like shit. Believe me, I’ve been there. But, I really need you to come with me so we can strip the stupid bastard I just killed of his armor so I don’t have to do much fancy lying to get us out of here.”

Just then, in the distance, an alarm could be heard being raised. Hector looked over at the doorway out of the dungeons. “Fuck. Fuckety fucking fuck. I know the hiding place for the body was bad, but I didn’t expect them to find it this soon.” He looked back at Isam. “We really need to get you in that armor. Now. Like, a few minutes ago now.”

Pablo was busy moving his bowels when the blue-jay's whistle rang out.
"Well, shit."
Pablo was squatting and doing his business at the edge of a shaded arboreous park. The park which used to have nicely cut grass, beautiful aromatic flowers and yellow brick roads with children running and playing in it was now desolate of any human soul but Pablo. The grass had grown tall and wild, the flowers devoured by weeds and the roads barely noticeable under all the greenery.

Once he finished up, Pablo began running toward where the whistle had come from. It wasn't too far away, and he thought he could already hear a commotion from a nearby street. Getting a knife ready but hidden in his long sleeve, Pablo entered the street where all the loud excitement seemed to be coming from. He searched with his eyes for a fellow Scarlet Mask member, and then he noticed Aurel.

Pablo liked Aurel. He was sometimes a little snobbish, but Pablo could tell that Aurel was a good and honest man. Ruthless, yes, but he fought for what was right. Freedom. Pablo's most highly prized value. Pablo approached Aurel from behind and stood by his side. "I heard your call. What is the commotion all about?"

There were few things that could compare to a hot bath. A hot clean bath at that. It hardly seemed more than a few minutes before the knocking on the door started. Moira submerged her head one final time before stepping onto the cold stone floor, steam rising from her hair and skin. A muffled shout came from the hallway.
“Just give me a moment” She replied calmly, wrapping herself with a warm if not soft grey blanket. Moira was feeling particularly relaxed this evening, which was irrational, everything considered.

Her remark went unheard or ignored however as a girl, equally naked opened the door anyways. Outside where four others, all waiting their turn to use the bath. There was a twinge of guilt in Moira’s stomach, the water would be barely warm now, and cold for the last two girls. But it wasn’t enough to stop her from pushing past without a word of apology. There were more important things to worry about.
The note waiting on her desk for example. Amongst the other loose pieces of paper it could easily have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Moira had been expecting it. Still, it did lurch the first wave of anxiety. The sanctuary may not be guarded, but not just anyone was aloud in the living areas, especially so late. Forcing her hands to stay steady, she unfolded the paper: Two street names and two numbers.

She dressed in a very faded red dress that had seen its share of tears and mending and donned a grey scarf over her wet hair and face. Lastly she took a thin vial, no larger than her thumb filled with a deep red liquid. After one last look at the door, she stole out the window and into the night.

It wasn’t cold, and the streets where abnormally clear, even for night. Barely two streets away from her destination, a mock bird-call sounded. Back the way she came, it would have to wait. Pace quickened, Moira reached the corner of the two streets. The first number was the building, the second the number of bricks towards the center, then the same number upwards. Reaching just above her head, she dug her nails into the mortar to work it loose; then froze. There was screaming close by. Different than the nightly dark-alley cries that happened far too often: This was unison of voices, bordering on a chant. The brick felt to the ground with a sharp clamor, and yet another folded note fluttered after it. Moira snatched it before it could touch the ground and squinted to read the ink by moonlight.

-Unexpected change, update by dawn, leave payment-

It was written in a foreign tongue, as they had agreed, but there was no signature. Not that would have given and reassurance. She pulled the vial from under her scarf and fingered the glass carefully. This wasn’t the deal, yet all the other information had been good. Whether now or in the morning it was too good an opportunity to ignore, even with the ever growing chance it was all a ploy. Holding a breath she placed the vial on the ledge and pushed the brick back in place, careful not to break the glass. The hardest part was walking away, and trying not to think what that delivery was going to be used for.

Moira began to retrace her steps in hopes of reaching the meeting before it ended. At the time of the signal its origin had seemed obvious, but as she drew closer she became less sure. The shouting was louder here, and the sound of hooves on stone. That worried her more than screams. Was it urgency or chance that prompted a meeting so near a Fireblade patrol? There wasn’t much time to question as she came upon the crowd that they were punitively trying to disperse. Death stained the air, more than one commoner lay in his own blood. More where being marched or dragged, likely for display on the morrow. And, in the center; the reason for such show of force from both sides. The body was disfigured horribly, thick blood still oozing out of now pale cold flesh. Someone had even gouged out the man’s eyes; more had looted everything from the corpse, including his underclothes. Only his large stomach and thick limbs depicted him as anything different from the starving commoners. Moira turned away from the wretched scene and was careful not to look away from the ground until after turning the last corners.

Her eyes passed over each over her allies, only two where obviously armed.
“Who do we have to thank for the tactful display?” She didn’t bother with any form of greeting. These where potential allies at best, not friends.

"Two minutes late, Viper." Aurel didn't look up from a piece of parchment that he was poring over. "Time is essential." He finally looked up at his three comrades - Slip, Bullseye and Viper. It wasn't ideal, but it would be enough. He needed to maximize time so they could get their mission done quickly. "Alright, pass this around." He handed the parchment to Pablo. "Tactful is not a bad choice of words, Viper. Well, firstly, the commoners need to let out the anger they've pent up for a decade. Secondly, it's to distract the majority of the Fireblades in the vicinity away from our mission. What you see on that piece of parchment is a map of Fireblade Outpost Four. It is one of the more... fortified camps the Fireblades have overrun. Inside the main building, I have reason to believe that certain secret documents are sitting inside a jeweled, locked iron chest. Those secret documents contain a fair bit of practical intelligence about Dragonmaw's numbers. Amount of men, artillery, treasury, etc, etc. Inside another chest are records of court hearings, many of them unjust, unfair, and corrupt. We plan to snag both chests from their perches in Outpost Four and smuggle them out to foreign powers. The practical intelligence is vital to the generals to plan their invasion, and the court records will inspire outrage in the public. Most of the guards have left to deal with the 'tactful display', but that doesn't mean we won't meet any resistance. Any questions?"

Daia listened carefully, her lips twitching upwards in a satisfied smile. Stealing was just up her alley and she might even be able to pick up a few...other...desirable items she might want. Shrugging her shoulders, she waited carefully for the parchment to come to her and tried to hide her excitement for more wealth. She didn't want to startle anyone with her greed, many didn't trust those with her particular echelon of avariciousness. The golden necklace around her neck burned in reminder of the wealth that Dragonmaw had accumulated - soon, bangles will be around her wrists and coins in her pockets.

"Any questions?"

"None for me." Daia answered, flicking a strand of curly hair from her eyes.

Isam lifted his head as the dungeon door opened. His eyes squinted as light spilled in. He was so used to the darkness that the shine of daylight almost hurt. The man let out a soft groan and dropped his head once more when he saw a guard making his way down. He mentally prepared himself for another beating, maybe the one that would end his miserable life. But before the guard could reach his cell, he dropped to the floor.

Isam lifted his head again, his eyes meeting those of another man. He was smaller than the guard, dressed in Fireblade armor, but he claimed to want to help. He said he had some kind of beef with Dragonmaw. Isam didn't care; the man opened his cell and his first thought was sweet freedom. Isam slowly pulled himself up onto his hand and knees, and then just his knees. With the stranger's help, he was able to get onto his feet. Isam depended heavily on the man's support, however. His body was weak; it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

As the man half drug him over to the dead guard, Isam groaned at the thought of putting the heavy armor on. He wanted the dignity of clothing, yes, but not the weight of armor on his raw and beaten skin. Isam leaned himself up against the wall and concentrated on staying upright.
"You have to help me," He rasped, his throat dry and his voice under used. "I can't...I can barely stand." His whole body was screaming at him to just lay down and sleep. His muscles hurt and his bones ached. The poor knight was too weak to bend over without falling, let alone dress himself.

Hector snorted as Isam spoke. “Really? I was expecting you to leap out of that cell, draw this dead man’s sword, and fucking slay Dragonmaw and all of his soldiers with such a degree of skill that I would feel like an asshole for even trying to save you!”- He began stripping the dead man of his armor, still talking. “Of course I have to help you. After the asskicking you appear to have taken, I’m surprised you can barely stand.” He rapidly finished taking off the man’s armor, and then dragged the corpse into Isam’s vacant cell. “There. That should by us a minute if anyone glances into here.” He walked back over to the former prisoner. “ Let’s begin the process of getting you into this armor.” Process didn’t even describe it. With Isam so beaten and malnourished his help was limited. Hector suspected that the armor overall was just a tad too small.

Regardless, they eventually got him into the armor, though slowly. Taking Isam’s weight again, Hector said, somewhat jokingly, “Just let me do the talking if we’re stopped, and act like you’re in a hell of a lot of pain.” They made their way up the stairs, and out of the dungeons. Hector started heading towards the exit. Guards were on high alert, and one of them inevitably stopped them. Hector swore under his breath despite knowing that this was going to happen sooner or later. He just would have preferred sooner. “What happened to him?” The mercenary said, gesturing towards Isam. “Some bastard trying to free Isam got him good, but I heard the fight and managed to save him from getting killed. Isam is still in his cell, and the bastard ran out before I could kill him. What’s the alarm for?” Hector replied and hoped that it was over the body in the closet and not a false alarm. They definitely didn’t need to set off a real alarm.