One Night, in Divinity's Reach
Zephyrs of cool night air churned through the city, candles flickered, flags fluttered, people shivered or they turned in their beds. Delighted laughter echoed down a particularly windswept side-street; two asura walked hand in hand. The moon gleamed elegantly overhead, flanked by its court of gently shining stars. Silence, then more laughter, the gentle jingling of frost dusted bells. The breeze carried the aroma of juniper. The taller of the two asura ruffled the shorter one's pinkish hair affectionately, chiding him about its length. They wandered the deserted streets by predawn light, aimless, blissful.
The couple took a right turn into an alleyway, on the pretense of getting out of the wind.
“I'm cold,” the shorter one complained, only half serious.
“You're always cold, Lenn,” said the taller one, smirking. “Let met help you with that.” He leaned down and playfully kissed him. “Better?”
“Better.” After a brief moment of silence, they both started giggling again. Multicolored Canthan paper lanterns were strung from window to window above them, flooding the alley with a soft, otherworldly light. “I don't want to go back to Rata Sum tomorrow,” said Lenn, tightening his grip on Fizzek's hand. “Can't we just stay here?” He asked, knowing perfectly well why they could not. He received a reciprocal hand-squeeze and a chuckle for his trouble.
“And what of your education? Your career after that?” Fizzek offered a sympathetic smile. “You'll only be at the college for one more year, anyway. Just power through, you'll be a krewe leader in no time with that big brain of yours, you'll see.”
Lenn sighed deeply, breaking his hand away. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, dejectedly. He did not need to be reminded of the life he had waiting for him back in Rata Sum: the exceedingly redundant and elaborately tedious schoolwork, the disdain for his own ideas, the constant pressure to succeed at every turn. Sometimes Lenn felt like an outsider among his own people, somehow more at home in a foreign city than in an entire college of supposedly like-minded people. “I just meant...”
“I know what you meant. I wish we could stay, too.” Fizzek grabbed Lenn's hand and this time there would be no escape.
The alleyway eventually gave way to another winding and seemingly deserted street. Deserted, except for a man lying face down in the gutter. Fizzek ran over to make sure he was still breathing, but Lenn argued against doing anything more. It wasn't their business, after all. Not even their city. After a short debate the two turned right and walked away. The farther they went, the more houses were replaced by storefronts, residential to business. One or two enterprising entrepreneurs were already up and about, checking their stock and preparing to open for business. They passed a florist's stand; displaying proud arrangements of local flora, a butcher shop; advertising meat so fresh that you could still hear it squeal (Lenn did not like that very much and he made it known), a blacksmith's shop; the man in question coaxing his forge to life, several eateries and grocers, and finally, a quiet little tailor’s booth, selling hats and scarves and various other accessories.
A tall woman with slender fingers and dark skin was busying herself by tidying the stall, putting everything it its right place and making sure the price was right. She looked a little surprised by the presence of the two asura, evidently not used to company so early in the morning. They had stopped walking and were looking over her wares from a distance, despite the fact that there was a very prominent sign declaring the stall closed. She shot the pair an odd glance here and there, but tried to ignore them over all.
It was the hats that had captured their attention, the cutesy creations adorning mannequin heads. One was made to look like a frog, another, a cat, a bear, a quaggan, and so on. Lenn had his eye caught on a pink quaggan hat, garnished with a bow. Fizzek had not failed to notice. “Alchemy, you would look cute in that!” he said, quite a bit louder than Lenn would have liked. Lenn hushed him, wary of any attention his outburst might have attracted. He was blushing, exactly the reaction Fizzek had been hoping to provoke.
“Shh! They're not even open yet and... You really think so?” Lenn said, meekly.
“I
know so. In fact, consider it a Wintersday present!” Fizzek marched over to the woman running the booth, full of confidence.
“No, no! Gah!” Lenn hid his face with his hands, shifting around in embarrassment. What if they really weren't open? What if it was really expensive? What if they attracted too much attention? What if a million other things?
“Hello there!” Fizzek announced, sounding peppy as ever. “I think that hat there,” he gestured towards the pink one with the bow, “would look really cute on that guy over there,” he pointed at Lenn, delighting at how much he'd made him squirm. “So if you'd like to turn away a sale, because it's early and perhaps you're not technically open yet, be my guest. But that doesn't sound like a very smart thing to do, now does it? I'll even pay twenty-five percent extra for your trouble!”Fizzek beamed at her. The woman hesitated, sighed, shrugged, and accepted his money.
Fizzek strutted back to Lenn, victorious, and with his trophy in hand. Lenn stared at him with something resembling contempt. “You really shouldn't ha--” He was interrupted by a hat being unexpectedly shoved down onto his head. It was a little bit too big for him, the ear flaps drooping onto his shoulders and the front slouching in front of his eyes. “Hey!” Lenn said, adjusting it so he could see. Fizzek was grinning at him, obviously pleased with himself. He loved it when Lenn got angry, because when he got angry he got flustered and he was so cute when he was flustered.
“You are so fucking adorable in that thing it's unreal-- C'mere.” Fizzek pulled Lenn in close. Lenn, begrudgingly smiled, he had never truly been angry, but even if he had, it would have been impossible to hold on to now. They kissed for what felt like several minutes before walking onwards.
Vicwyn felt like he'd been trampled by centaurs and he looked even worse. He woke up in the gutter, frost clinging to his swiftly tattering long coat. He rolled over onto his stomach, to get the light out of his eyes. It looked to be around noon, the sun high in the sky and blinding as ever. Vicwyn groaned and cursed himself and the six for getting into this situation. He checked himself for any outstanding injuries, any gaping wounds, missing limbs or broken bones. He found nothing but heaps of bruises, a few shallow gashes, and empty pockets. With another pained groan, Vicwyn pulled himself up off the ground, leaning on the stone wall behind him for support.
That was it, then. Stuck in that stinking city with nothing. No leads, no coin, and no equipment. They'd taken everything, even the pieces of armor he had had hidden under his jacket. He wondered why they had let him keep the coat at all, in fact. Probably because it was worthless, threadbare as it was. He was glad for it, though, it provided some barrier against the relentless cold, however slim. He had to get somewhere warm, that was his first priority. Then and only then could he think about finishing the job.
The only bars that were open at this time of day were the ones that never closed; perpetually open dens of drunken debauchery. The kind of place by alcoholics, for alcoholics.
“Get me coffee,” Vicwyn blurted out to the man behind to counter, “and spike the shit out of it with whatever's cheap.” He didn't have any money, of course, but he didn't have to let the bartender know that.
Vicwyn received his drink and he almost threw up in his mouth at the stench of it, but he managed to choke it down. Lifeblood, he called it. The strongest coffee you can find mixed fifty-fifty with the cheapest liquor available, with a dash of desperation and in all likelihood, rat piss.
Lifeblood. Vicwyn was starting to warm up, the abuse his body had taken moving away from the forefront of his mind. He felt himself starting to relax, but it wouldn't last. It never did.
A meaty hand gripped Vicwyn's neck from behind without warning. It wasn't quite big enough to wrap around entirely, but it could hold him firmly in place.
“You weren't supposed to wake up,” announced an equally meaty voice.
Fuck. “Why couldn't you just stay down?”
Fuck fuck. “Would’ve been so much easier for ya if you had just stayed down.”
Fuck fuck fuck. Vicwyn smashed the coffee mug into the man's face. The grip on his neck faltered and he spun around in an instant, seeing exactly the sort of person he had been expecting: big, ugly, balding, brute. But now the man was stumbling backwards, trying to pull bits of ceramic out of his face. Vicwyn made for the door without hesitation, ignoring the man's screams. He was home free, assuming the bastard hadn't brought backup. But of course, because nothing is ever so simple, he had.
Two men burst through the door when they heard the commotion. Two men with mean faces and meaner clubs.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.“And just what in Dwayna's good name is going on in here?” one said. The other just grunted and hefted his club, trying to look threatening. How much longer would the big brute be out of the action? How much longer before two-against-one became three-against-one? Vicwyn was already calculating, trying to think of an easy way out. There weren't any, of course. He would have to improvise.
There had been very few patrons in the establishment to begin with, but all of them had cleared out by this point. Just four men and a room full of cheap, easily breakable furniture. Vicwyn ran back and scooped up a bar stool, sending it flying towards the brute with the bleeding face. That would keep him out of the action for a few more moments. By the time Vicwyn had his attention back on the bruisers with clubs, they were upon him. They had the brilliant idea to both swing for his head at the same time. Vicwyn ducked and slammed his fist into the left one's gut as hard as he could. The man crumpled, loosing his grip on his club. The other one simply adjusted his swing and brought his club into hard contact with Vicwyn's back. Vicwyn was knocked onto his stomach from the impact and he could not suppress a grunt of intense pain.
Vicwyn tried to roll away, to catch his breath, but one of them had grabbed a fistful of his coat. He tried to scramble away, but he was pulled to his feet. The man was trying to put him into a choke-hold while the other recovered his weapon. Vicwyn relentlessly elbowed the man's groin until he was released. Released, of course, into a blunt weapon moving swiftly towards him. There was no time to think, just reflex. He snatched the club of the man behind him, the one who had tried to choke him and was now clutching at his balls in agony. It was easy to coerce it out of his hand and into the path of the awaiting blunt trauma.
With two of them out of commission for the moment, Vicwyn didn't need to split his attention. He could focus. And, with a focused mind, it was easy to dismantle the defense of an untrained street-rat. A few quick moves and he had the man on the ground. Vicwyn pressed his foot down onto the man's chest. He was young, hardly a man at all. Vicwyn hadn't noticed that before. Probably from a local gang. Vicwyn hesitated, gritting his teeth. Then the moment passed and he brought the club down hard on that poor, pleading face.
Vicwyn turned back to face the other two, but they had recovered faster than he had anticipated and he was met with a fist. And then another and another and another. It was the first man, the one with big, meaty hands. Vicwyn suspected they had broken one of his ribs, but that concern could wait. Right now, he was being hoisted upward, then outward. Thrown across the room. Vicwyn couldn't manage more than a harsh groan, then, a few seconds later, a boot connected with his head and he blacked out.
Braxton smiled, deadly and infectious, from the head of the table. Servants circled the table, platters in hand, dishing out goose and turkey and ham, potatoes and rolls and green beans, and countless other plates, each more decadent and exotic than the last. Salad, soup, and fish had already come and gone. White wine became red, poured out of baroque golden pitchers. Braxton made sure there were no creases on his suit and that every little blond hair on his head was in its place, before standing to address his guests. His hall was not the largest or most magnificent in the city, not by a long shot, but it had a reputation, he had a reputation, for parties not quite like anything else. Ministers, lords and ladies, the entourages of those lords and ladies, those with wealth or influence or both had received an invitation, and none of them could resist their curiosity.
“Ladies,” he began, licking his lips as the room gradually gave him the attention he craved, “and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I hope you're enjoying your dinner so far, please, keep eating...” He narrowed his eyes and spread a smirk across his lips. “You're going to need the energy.” He chuckled and the room chuckled with him. “But before we get to all that, as you all know, my father is quite sick and cannot be with us tonight. He has asked me to say a few words, in his stead. So, to you all, I say: congratulations. You here tonight are the elite of the elite, the highest of the high, the stewards of this city's future, and again, we thank you for your attendance. In my house we have a saying, and I invite you all to memorize it. 'Peace and love, or else'. A simple phrase with many possible meanings.
“I ask you, peace and love, or else what? Chaos. Ruin. Desolation. All viable answers. But it is not a warning to
you, it is a warning to
them. All those that would cause harm to this, our city. All threats, foreign or domestic. Even some of your fellow nobles plot our downfall, I've seen it. So I offer you a blunt translation: play nice, or we will destroy you. Ponder these words as you will, but I implore you to live by them, as this house has, as I have. You are the old guard and the new blood, you hold the very fate of this great city in your hands. Now more than ever, in this time of strife, we need a unified Divinity's Reach. A unified elite to oust these traitors that would take from us what is ours. So please, talk to each other, the old and the new, make friends, make
allies. Let us say unto the world: bring us peace, prosperity, and treat us with the love and respect we deserve, or you will make an enemy to be reckoned with! To Divinity's Reach!”
Braxton toasted his glass. It was all bullshit, of course. Feed the masses enough buzzwords and they will look where you point and do as you command. He gave a new speech at each gathering, but the general message was always the same:
you are special,
they want to destroy your city,
you are the only ones who can stop them,
they hate you and so on. Pretty soon there would be half a dozen different little groups, each thinking the others were plotting the demise of the city, each thinking it was their responsibility to stop them, and every last one of them thinking Braxton their friend. How wrong they were. Their eyes would be off him, too busy watching each other. The perfect time to stage a power play.
