[b]Kreznik
Spymaster for the White Wyvern
Trefgodwig[/b]

[i]' Why am I doing this?' [/i] 

The thought came often to Kreznik in the last few months. As he crept through army camps. While sounding out contacts in roadside inns or raucous taverns. More often they came as he struggled to piece together the fledgling network of agents, informants and scouts into a cohesive picture of their situation. Not helped by the chaos of the multi-sided civil war/revolution or the disestablishment of his order. 

Kreznik could admit there was a slight bite of loss when he thought of the Shrouded Blade being dissolved. He never asked to be an assassin but they had at least given him some kind of life given in exchange for the one they stole. But they were gone now. Their fortress and training ground razed to the ground; the knowledge, traditions and masters lost in the flames set by at least one side of this war. The problem with the death of the masters was that now there was no one to hold the reigns of the Blades that were scattered across the realm. Skilled, but now masterless. They had started turning to sides and offering their services for coin or country. The ones that had survived at least.  

Whatever their reason, Kreznik found his former brothers and sisters to be effective spy hunters. Information had slowed to a crawl at the moment. His reports and communiques were out of date. The only ones who were reliable were the Hounds, the ones he and Fiona had trained personally from former Blade apprentices and promising militiamen and women. But they were too few to risk. Especially as the last one sent had been found swinging from a tree outside of Alveby. 

She had been the youngest of the Hounds. The newest but she had so much promise. There had been no hesitation before she set out; anticipation in her shoulder's before she kicked her horse into a trot. 

Kreznik wondered if this was how Vassos and Loan felt when they sent their men out. Simple missions that should have been a jaunt back. Guilt and hindsight plucked at his mind when he thought of her. Another face to add to his list. The one's he saw when he blew out the lamps. 

His door open with the customary knock; his assistant appearing. Like Kreznik he wore a calvary uniform of the White Wyvern's; simply because it was easier to disguise the coming and goings of the Hounds with military dispatches and scouting then it would have been to explain away civilians. Same for his meetings with the varied leadership of the Whites. 

"Sir, She's requested a meeting." Seamus, a Hound more skilled with balancing figures then a blade, had no need to elaborate. Only one person requested anything of him these days; the rest just demanded. 

"Thank you Seamus." Kreznik waited for the man to close his door before the assassin stood and gave a groaning stretch. Then a look in the mirror. The man before him looked to have aged years in these months; bags pulled at his eyes and stubble grew unruly across his jaw. His green eyes looked dull; their previous gleam having died around two Hounds prior. Nonetheless, he fixed his "uniform" and pulled on the trappings of his cover. He took a precious second to adjust the pistol; he had gotten better with the thing but he hated how impersonal the weapon was. 

His uniform at least looked in order as he departed his "command post" in the commandeered home he had first used. The previous owners had perished in the fighting and no one had questioned the shift of ownership from mysterious men and women to a rotation of militia scouts. 

It was a short trip to Andronika's preferred place of council; Kreznik having passed the bodyguard's in decent time by the time he strode in to the meeting place. 

"Good day." Kreznik took off his hat as he took his usual position; the most shadowed spot with his back to a wall.