(Current Date)-2, 0530 hours
As the last grain of sand fell from an hourglass in the corner of his desk, the Captain of the City guard shot to his feet, grabbing his sheathed, over-sized falchion sword from rest against the wall with one hand and fitting his helmet onto his head with his other hand. The man’s armor had been maintained and repaired well since his last encounter with ruffians in the city, a rather bloody riot which resulted from a group of nobles with hidden agendas for terrorism. Drake groaned at the pain in his right shoulder and stretched his arm quickly as he reminisced the dastardly rebels’ faces as a pillar of gunsmoke flew towards him.
Today is the day, Drake thought, briefly unsheathing his giant blade to witness its edge. The warrior received his blade as a gift from his father before he himself became a guard. Upon its hilt, under the extra wraps Drake needed to apply to fit his hands, was an inscription in a foreign language, roughly translating to, “a heavy enough sword for judgment requires a strong enough wielder to stay it.” The edge of the weapon was sharper than an axe, but dull enough so as to maintain its edge under the stresses of prolonged combat. The edge was irrelevant anyways, as Drake’s body size clearly showed.
The giant of a man clambered over to the door of his office, extinguishing a candle next to the door as he went. He was greeted by two semi-awake guards posted at the door to his office, but he hastened to the end of the garrison without a word. As he reached the exit to the garrison, he saluted the guards posted at the entrance and quickly commanded, “open the doors.”
The guards quickly obeyed his orders, reaching for the door handle before the captain even managed to open his mouth, and opened the door for him with a quick, “yes, sir!” They closed the door behind Drake as he left the garrison, then re-fitted the deadbolt so that they could relax for awhile. Drake attempted to soften his footsteps as he rushed through town, but the metal clamored against the cobbled road all the same, attracting the attention of night-time wanderers. Drake fitted the sheath of his falchion over one of his shoulders so that he did not need to carry it with his hands, then sped up his pace, the dark, starless skies above quickening his heart.
The guard Captain rushed to the jail and totally ignored the guards posted at the entrance, immediately rushing into the building without a second thought. He greeted the medic casually as the man passed him by, offering a mere, “mornin’,” as he opened the door to the inquisitor’s station. The Captain then floated over to the inquisitor, who slept at his desk quite lazily, and cleared his throat with a booming cough.
The inquisitor’s eyes flew open and instantly fell on the gargantuan knightly figure towering before him. The inquisitor managed to get to his feet after a struggle, then saluted and asked, “how may I help you at this time of night, sir?” Drake’s hand shot out before the man managed to finish his sentence, but he only spoke after the man had finished, “I would like to see the transfer and aid status of your prisoners.”
The inquisitor saluted and affirmed the captain’s request, then rummaged through the drawer of scrolls which he kept in his desk and pulled out an unsealed scroll. “Here you are sir, last written in an hour ago.” Drake cast a doubting glance at the inquisitor from under his helmet, then opened the scroll and gritted his teeth. To his extreme dismay, the words “deceased from arson,” were inscribed under the status of the two prisoners whom Drake was concerned with. Drake returned the scroll to the inquisitor and declared, “dismissed,” as he speedily walked out of the room.
Immediately after leaving the dungeon, finally dismissing the soldiers stationed at the front, who had been saluting since he entered the dungeon, having not been dismissed or re-saluted, and raced over to the mercenary hall. Drake flung open the large doors with a soft grunt, doing so unusually quickly, and raced over to the bounty boards. After checking the boards, he left the hall, leaving the doors open behind him, and raced over to the High Church of the Nobleman district.
At the church, he was cheerfully greeted by a great multitude of clergymen, enough that he had to carefully weave his way through them in order to get to the priest at the back, who was praying fervently. Drake approached the priest and silently knelt in the middle of the aisle leading up to the altar, bowing his head in prayer as well.
The priest soon recognized the man’s presence and, signing as he ended his prayer, the elderly priest rose from the altar and walked over to the guard. “Rise, ye defender of the faith,” the priest declared, gently tapping Drake’s shoulder to get his attention. Drake rose quickly upon being beckoned, and responded, “Father Simon, I have urgent matters to ask of you regarding the death of two notorious figures in our society,” the man began, looking the priest in the eye as he spoke, his gaze unperceptible behind his helmet.
The priest nodded at his request, once again beckoning for the man to move, this time to follow him. The man of God then sat on one of the pews and gestured for Drake to do the same, which the armored man did, careful not to scratch the wooden pew with his heavy armor. “I understand that these are the same two whom you have referred to when last we met?” the Priest commented, his tone more sharp than curious, with a serious undertone.
Drake nodded and responded with an affirmative statement, to which the Priest sighed and rose, walking over to the altar. He knelt, bowed his head, and prayed briefly, then rose and walked back over to Drake, his face grim. “I was told by the medic of the Gawain cells that two of similar description were buried in a mass grave south of the city. They were poisoned, from what he said, as a result of the acrimony they stirred for themselves. The king, no doubt, will hold a feast day in celebration of their deaths.”
The captain stood up, bowed to the priest, and retorted, “the man and lady of whom I spoke are not so easily killed. They may appear dead and buried, but do not be tricked: their strength lay in deception and falsity. Such are the enemies of the state.” The pastor agreed and blessed Drake before setting him off and returning to his prayer.
The captain shot out of the chapel at an alarming speed, heading for the thieves’ guild. The alleyways to the guild were wrought with foul-smelling torches and piles of waste as he made his way deeper into the impoverished section of the city. The guard stopped at the hidden entrance of the guild to look around, ensuring that none of the dastardly bandits pointed weapons at him as he entered, then he pulled a switch hidden in a wooden barrel against a seemingly purposeless cobbled wall, and a loud click sounded within the wall.
Drake then pushed the wall back, and walked into a large room filled with odds and ends. The entrance to the thieves’ guild always held vast quantities of stolen goods, but Drake’s interest in the area was not in the seizure of the goods, but in the cleverness of the guild hall’s location. The Captain of the guard shot through the building’s hallway, moving towards the wall of the city which happened to be set up against the building, and casually hopped down into the tunnel out of the city.
The stone tunnel was covered in dirt and blood, from past failures to successfully leave or enter the city. The tunnel was usually guarded by armed bandits or thieves, those of which wanted to outsmart other bandits or thieves in a futile attempt to become rich and leave the cycle of crime they were stuck within. Drake took a moment to pity the previous owner of the blood on the walls, then ascended the ladder, fought his way through a few bushes, and quickly ran across the open plain, over to the nearby forest.
Once he had reached the cover of the trees, Drake hastily made his way around the castle, going from the South-West side to the South side, searching for large holes full of dead bodies all the while. Drake desired to wipe the sweat off of his brow from underneath his helmet, as he always did, but such an option was not available to him. Drake carried on, out of the sight of the archers posted in the turrets of the castle wall.
When at last he reached the burial site, he began to visually search the different holes, searching for the two familiar faces. After analyzing hundreds of people, Drake finally noticed a familiar patch of hair and jumped down into a pit to find the two slumbering figures lying together with expressions of peace covering their faces. They can’t stay here, or they’ll rot, Drake said, frowning. It took him a few efforts, but he eventually managed to climb out of the pit with both of his comrades on his shoulders.
He then retreated deeper into the forest and searched around, looking for a building. It’s around here somewhere, the Captain of the guard thought, re-adjusting Flake over his right shoulder so as to not catch the man’s gut on the edge of the pauldron on his suit of armor. He finally noticed the log cabin after an hour of searching, and noticed the glint of the first rays of sunlight barely weaving through the vast collection of trees. The officer walked closer to the cabin, and was pleasantly surprised to see it in the same condition as he had left it.
Drake unlocked the padlock on the door and made his way into the cabin, then re-locked the door behind himself. He took the two to a downstairs section, so that the possibility of being burned alive was not optional, and set them down on straw mats in the corner. Drake then washed both of them off by disrobing them as much as his shame permitted him and using a pale of warm water and a clean rag to anoint their skin. He then clothed the two with fresh linens from a wardrobe which was located upstairs, but noticed a slip of paper as it fell out of the assassin’s shoe.
The guard noticed that it was a map which had directions from the mass graves to the dungeon holding area, where the prisoner’s gear was kept. Drake frowned at the map, then searched the cabin for a writing utensil and, luckily, found a plume and ink well. He edited the map to present the current location of the two by drawing a correctly-oriented cabin, and wrote on the map the words, “honor fulfilled.”
Drake then left the cabin by locking the padlock from the inside, leaving the key next to Flake, and climbing out of the building through the chimney. It was tough, but the chimney hadn’t been used yet, so Drake was able to carry his massive bulk up the chimney without worrying about being blinded by dust. Upon leaving the cottage, Drake scanned the foliage for any signs of foul-minded men and, finding nothing, continued on his way back to the city, where he would remain, care-free, for the next two days.
Present Day, 0900 hours
With a loud yawn, Flake rose from his bedding, feeling as if he had not eaten in days. He had an odd sensation across his body, as if he had gotten beaten up, but had not sustained any wounds. After opening his eyes, shock covered his complexion, and he realized that the room was rather cold. He looked around to see a fanciful, stone enclosure without windows. He shot to his feet and looked around to see Raine sleeping peacefully in a surprisingly expensive red sleeping gown, and looked down to see himself in a similar red robe.
He also noticed a rack of weapons against a wall near a ladder in the corner of the room far away from him, and an array of snacks presented beside his bedding. He was able to remain standing for only a few more seconds before his vision faded out, so he lay down on his hay bedding once more, waiting for his vision to return. The bounty hunter pieced together a group of possibilities as to his whereabouts, but chose to leave his guesses in the back of his mind to avoid careless mistakes.
After a minute, his light-headedness was gone, and he sat up, looking around once more. He noticed the wall texture this time, a dusty cobbled stone, and he also managed to make out a clean area around his bedding, as if the dust had been washed away. The food was cold, but still good enough to eat, and the light in the room came from a dull source of light from above the ladder in the corner of the room. There were no torches or pieces of furniture in the room beside the arms rack, the two trays of food, and the two beds, the other of which housed the assassin.
Flake could tell by his light-headedness that he needed to eat food, even though he could not feel the hunger which secretly ailed him. Using his better judgment, he silently began to eat his food, keeping himself quiet more as a precaution against intruders than as a courtesy for his companion, whom of which breathed softly enough that an ant would remain unperturbed by it. Flake finished the vast quantity of food over the course of a few minutes, each experience steadily sharpening his consciousness and awakening his senses.
Upon swallowing his last bite of food, he examined his clothing. The red robe he wore was of a noble origin, one of the types an officer or a wealthy merchant would wear to bed. It was a thick material, but remained quite comfortable to touch, unlike the scratchy, woolen undergarments he was used to. Nonetheless, it was warm, and covered his entire body, albeit loosely. Flake despised the garb, picturing himself as a target as opposed to a hunter, so he steadily rose from his bedding to take a look around.
Upon rising, he realized precisely how loose his garment was. He adjusted the annoyingly unusual garment as best he could, so as to prevent it from slipping off, and tightened the luxurious waistband, made of the same material, so that he would not need to worry about looking modest as considerably whilst walking around. As he started walking to the weapon rack, his foot softly landed on an odd surface, causing him to hesitate. He looked down and, after moving back, noticed that a key and a map lay on the ground.
After reading the words on the map, Flake understood precisely where he was and how he got there. He stored the key and the map in one of the pockets of the robe, and thought briefly. It was not long before he deduced why his garment was so loose, and why the assassin was with him. Did that idiot really give us his own garments? Flake wondered, looking over to Raine briefly. After a moment, his train of thought led to, I wonder how he did it, but he turned back to the weapons rack with a slight blush, leaving the topic at that.
He quickly turned his attention to the selection of guardsman weapons at his disposal, analyzing the array of weapons. His selection was limited to heavy or light swords, none of the medium weaponry he was proficient with. Among the weapons were axes, throwing knives, short swords, polearms, spears of two lengths, rapiers, bastard swords, axes, hammers, maces, crossbows, a single shortbow, a bunch of oddly-shaped shields, and a quiver with both bolts and arrows. The weapons rack itself extended up to the ceiling and across the entire wall, but some of the weapons, especially the shields, rested against the wall instead of being hung in order to save space.
Raine would enjoy the short swords, but my best bet would be the pole, Flake determined, grabbing a rather short polearm with a cross-shaped head, bladed towards the front, with metal bands and a long, double-pronged tang reinforcing the end of the weapon. It was quite bulky in comparison to Flake’s favorite sword. Nonetheless, it was much more wieldy than he had imagined. The pole itself was thin, but well balanced towards the back as the result of a metal core below the well-sanded wood. It was a quality weapon as Flake had never before touched, and he was eager to test it out.
As he held the weapon with one arm and attempted a thrust, he frowned at the exertion. He managed to thrust quickly, but it required much more energy than he expected. I will not be able to prolong fights with this, especially not without armor, he thought, resting the weapon against the ground as he looked to the stairs.
After a few seconds of patient waiting, Flake ascended the stairs and looked around the ground floor. He noticed a few pieces of furniture, including a mattress, a table with four chairs, a water basin filled with clean water, an overhead drying rack for spices and meats, a few cabinets holding medical and edible supplies, and a fireplace with dry wood, ready to be lit. The room had a musky smell to it, which Flake only now noticed, despite its possible presence in the basement. As he attempted to locate the source of the smell, he noticed the padlocked door on the other side of the room.
The bounty hunter walked around and explored the room for a minute, opened the wardrobe which hid in plain sight next to the mattress, and frowned in misery. The only armor in the drawer was sized for Drake, and would only restrict his movement by a thousandfold. On the other hand, Flake did manage to find three pairs of trousers and a few belts, one of which fit him to a moderate degree, and dressed himself with them under his robe for an extra degree of modesty. He then took the smallest of the other two pairs of pants and a belt, and carried them with him as he climbed back down the ladder.
He greeted Raine with a lengthy explanation as he walked over to her, a half-smile across his face, “it’s a pleasant morning to not be dead. We were taken to a cottage in the woods by a friend of mine a few days ago, probably because the guards thought we died. In any case, you might want to wear these under your gown.” As he paused momentarily in his monologue, he tossed the trousers and belt beside her, then pointed to the weapon rack with his polearm and continued, “I suppose we should stay here until we get our energy back, or until we need to leave. In case we are ambushed, on the other hand, I suggest you arm yourself.”
He then dropped his weapon and, after allowing her to speak for a brief moment, commented, “there is more food upstairs, from what I saw. You can meet me up there. I will be starting a fire.” With this said, Flake hastily left the basement by climbing up the ladder and made his way over to the fireplace. He was annoyed to see that the coals had all chilled, and no tinder was in sight. With a groan, he reached into his pocket and called out, “on second thought, I’ll be looking for tinder outside.”
He then walked over to the door and unlocked it with the key, throwing the lock towards the fireplace soon afterwards. The door opened quietly, and Flake closed it firmly behind himself. He looked around and was happy to note that the cabin was located under the canopy of the forest instead of in a clearing, thus the smoke from a fire would not rise high enough to signal bandits or guards. Flake was also happy to note that the cabin had no windows, so he would not need to worry about broken glass or quiet invasions in the night.
The bounty hunter wandered around in the forest for a few minutes, collecting dry twigs and tinder as he went, and was surprised to note that not even a single animal was within sight nor hearing distance. Flake returned with a satisfied expression and an armload of tinder, opening the door and quickly shutting it behind himself with a single arm. He then dropped the tinder next to the pile of chopped firewood next to the fireplace and sat in front of the burning area with a handful of tinder. He placed his polearm down and formed a small grouping of twigs and leaves below the logs.
Then, Flake began the painstaking process of forming an ember by taking a straight twig and spinning it around in a notch of a flat piece of wood. He continued to do so, silently, and watched his progress as he went along, focusing on it as a hunter would a deer.
