[OOC]Please visit this site before joining this thread and have a look at the characters still required for this first part of the storyline.

[IC]
Islia stood in the shadow made by the bole of a huge tree. He was somewhere nearby, hiding somewhere in the dark recesses of the forest. And he knew she was coming. Sweat glistened from her forehead, and her muscles were begining to ache from standing still. She slowly flexed and released individual muscles like she had been taught, holding the cramps that threatened to impede her, at bay once more. Silent and unmoving she waited, eyes and ears attuned to the forest searching for something small. Something out of place.

A flash of sunlight glistened of an open blade to her north, gave away the position of her prey. Leaving her position she silently moved in an arc heading away from and then towards the place where Rory was hiding. It was strange, her mentor giving himself away like that, very unlike him. But he had also taught her to make use of any advantage you hold, be it large or small, and knowing his location was always an advantage.

She always enjoyed these little tests that her set her. Especially in environments as challenging as the forest. She disliked being in so open a place, memories of her homeland leaving her feeling vulnerable in the one place where she should feel most at home. She was once elven, until Fernabergia had been raided by a goblin party, leaving her as sole survivor of a settelment that had vowed to protect the very dagger she now held. The dagger of darklight, a silver dagger carved into the shape of a dragon holding a black crystal. A black crystal that, because of its very nature, had allowed her to walk in the daylight since she had been changed.

The vampire assassin approached the point where she knew Rory was hiding, and swore. The near silent rustle of foliage behind her, immediatly following the dull thunk of a crossbow releaseing its bolt, teaching her of her mistake as soon as she heard it. A trap. So very basic and obvious that she really should not have fallen for it. Rory would have words with her after this. Wind rushed out of her lungs in an explosion as the iron balled and blunted bolt slammed into her chest, sending her to the floor gasping for breath. The harmless practise bolt immediatley bruising the skin with a large purple welt, and then bounching off to land on the floor beside her.

She looked over as Rory appeared from the shadows, empty crossbow in hand.

G'rezshda had already been traveling for many months deep within the swamplands of Mir. The quarmire of mud and decay threatened to swallow his stead with him along with it, and so he pushed on through the night and next day till they were both on solid ground.

The horse was now in terrible shape, breathing heavily with frothy white saliva dripping from its mouth. At the next village, he would have to purchase another. There was much gound to cover before he could sit to relax.

Distance. He needed much more distance from where he was before he could stop for a moments rest.

Off the third day out of the swamp, his faithful stead fell straight down. The beast seemed to collapse under its own weight, uselessly sprawling out upon the ground. He then loaded his gear upon his back, strapped his equipment down, and continued the march that his stead could not.

He would only catch moments of sleep in hidden caches or formidable positions, or deep set caves to cover and hide the smoke and flames of any campsite he would make. Often times there would be no fire to warm him. He knew he was still too close, not yet far enough away from the scrying eyes of whatever beast or mage they had sent searching for him.

G'rezshda Vret had this one mission to complete, deliver the head of Dev'da-lore, the Witchking of Saldimai de Mir.

Carefully cleaning the crossbow and returning it to its normal resting place, the large centaur chuckled as he shook his head. "Now, Lass.. I have been tellin' ya that ya' can't be trustin' what you think you be seein' or hearin'. You do be a bright lass, and ye be havin' physical prowess that do be extraordinary.." Pausing, his nimble yet chubby fingers pulled out a pipe and pouch of tabacco.

"But ye be relying on those gifts," he continued. "Relax your body, let the mind be part o' your sorroundings. Don't be consciously thinking.. realize, instead and be two steps ahead of the actual thoughts"

Having felt he made his point clearly enough, his round cheeks found their way to forming his customary smile. Three color juggling balls appeared in his left hand, while he tamped out the pipe with his right. "If e be thinkin' that you'll be able to breathe sometime in the near future, we should be getting back t'clean ourselves up. I do be havin' an invitation to a feast in the honor of Duke Boorland's son this eve. It do appear the the young lad has been on his first hunt... and might even have come close t'findin' something t'kill" Rory added the last with a wink. "But it would be good t'make an appearance.. you can be using a little practice at pickin up a trinket or two in a public place (you never know when it'll come in handy to be able to pickpocket a key or the like)"

Trotting in the direction of home with a bounce to his step he thew one last comment over his shoulder, "Besides, I do know how ye be loving to watch me distract the ladies and keep the cooks well ocupied at these affairs!"

With his horse long since dead and eatin, G'rezshda was his only companion on this long trek back tot he dukes manner. His whole body strained to keep moving beyond the marshes, past the craggy mountains and even further along the barren plains. There were no towns to provide him shelter against the elements of the weather.

He had not even noticed he had even collapsed into sleep, until he had awake with a terrible start.

A hideous mucous eye blinked at him curiously. On his hands, legs and buttocks, he scampered backwards to avoid the sight as his vision slowly focused in on what he was looking at. It was a spherical mass of musous and puss about the size of three fists with a single eye inthe center. There was no doubt this thing was sent to scout out his location.

Drawing his blade, he tumbled forward and attempted to slice at the eye. It bobbed and weaved away. He realized that he was just too tired to do anything to true effectiveness. Leaping and lunging, he attempted again, but the eye just moved slightly out of the way as if to mock him and his failed attempts.

He didn't have time to play around, whatever creature summoned this abomination would soon be on its way. Fisting his had into his porvision pack, he lunged a third time as this eye with all his might, flinging a handfull of salt in the direction of where it dodge. It wreathed and twisted, shrieking in misery and angst. Stabbing it didn't kill it either, just merely opening up a fresh wound to pour blood out upon the ground from.

Quickly, he picked up his gear and retraced his steps. He would now have to take an even longer way home.

The howl was something awful to the mortal ears- and even worse to those that could appreciate the depths of a scream born deep within the soul of a Liche. Even a banshee’s wail paled in comparison. Years of patient planning and careful manipulation, decades of daily interaction with the simple-minded mortals and their stupid affairs, lifetimes erased in the blink of an eye. Anger transmuted to power as fire rose up from the ground to engulf the swamp. Laughter emerged from the dark creatures mouth even as its robes burned off its skeletal from, while the dark eye sockets stared to the heavens. Twin pinpoint beacons of intense light shone from those bleak orbless eyes. Brighter even than the flames surrounding him, this creature was not afraid to let his prey know that he was hunting.

His mind searched in the swamp for dead bodies-human, elf, or other meant little difference to the liche. Ripping the eyes from what he needed, they grew large and grotesque and set off in every direction seeking his prey. “Show me that which I seek my visionary friends. I’m certain that we have a long road to travel, and I am impatient to set upon it. The head of my homunculus travels away from me and I must recover its eyes before they decay, and my mind with it.”

No matter how far or fast he ran, he swore he could still feel the hidiously grotesque eye staring at him, unblinkingly. Its form had startled him, but it had not shaken his resolve. G'rezshda was determined to finish this operation and get his well deserved rewards. There was more at stake than just the money, his reputation was on the line. Now, this incident had cost him much valuable time.

Being without horse or stead, alternate modes of transportation would have to be found. traveling by foot would not get him anywhere fast. His first horse had since been long exhausted, its throat cut to ease its suffering. Whatever sent this thing after him would soon know who he was, he was sure. As much as he dispised what he was about to do, there was little choice otherwise.

Within a glen of trees he spied a quaint farm village. With determination, he walked straight up to the household, knocked on the door heavily, and waited for it to open. Candlelight spilled out into the darkness of night, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. "Your horse or stead. A purchase I am in need to make. Eight hundred gold peices." He said to the partially clothed man.

From within, he could hear, "Who is it, dear?"
The man replied, "A man, wanting to buy our horse."
"At this time of night?"
"If you can wait till mor..."

Without even hesitating, G'rezshda drew his long dagger and stabbed it through the mans shoulder, then forced the point of the blade through the man and into the heavy oaken door. As the man yelle,d the woman screamed. Tearing down a curtain, he used it to grapple and then tie the woman down upon a kitchen chair. He hated this, but he didn't have time to wait till morning.

He geared up the fresh horse, packed its saddle bags full of food supplies and water, and then went back to the house. The man uselessly tried to grab at him as he walked past, but all G'razshda did was just remove the long dagger to allow him to collapse to the floor. Cutting the woman partially free, he then laid the lump bag of gold onto the table, then headed straight out the door.

All this would matter little if he did not get this head back to the Duke. It was more valuable than any amount of gold. He patted his bag for reassurance, the prize he held was beginning to stink of rot and decay, but little did he notice as he traveled along on his newly aquired stead.

Slipping into the private courtyard, the Duke sighed at the precious minutes of solitary reflection provided to him in the serene location. He lived for these happy occasions—his job offered precious few chances to use his political power to do nice things for friends, family, and all around good people; too much of his time was spent attempting to make fair and just decisions in lose-lose situations. Yet there seemed to be more pressure on him during these happy occasions, or maybe it was just that he was somewhat unsure of how to just be happy.

Breathing in the cool, crisp, clean air, Boorland smoothed his dark green dress tunic, let the corners of his mouth turn his goatee into a smile as he thought of the day’s events so far. Waking early, he knew the servants were up even earlier preparing the feast, and even before daybreak his son was awake and ready for a hunt. Amazing that he was already old enough; a dozen years seemed to go by without waiting for time. But the lad was already taller than the duke, and considerably broader at the shoulders. Eager and quick with his hands and mind, he would make a good huntsman, although only time would tell if his heart would make him fair ruler. Today, however, was not about burdening the lad with commanding troops, settling squabbles, or dealing with politicians.. it was about a boy being young and blissfully enjoying life. Three boars brought back on the first hunt—and the largest being enough to feed a small family for several weeks! Then again, it will be a fair contest to see if the lad can hunt more in the forest than Rorshach can in the kitchens…

“Boorland?” a gruff voice rang out from the hallway, and the duke was pulled from his reminiscing by the appearance of Chancellor Iarlo. “Boorland? Are you in the garden? Do you have a few minutes to go over the funding of that new wing to the Library? The one for those experiments?” The owner of the voice entered the gardens without the customary air of a chancellor—he was a massive figure, barrel-chested and heavily muscled with thick reddish brown hair and full beard, both trimmed neatly. He was never seen with books or journals, but had a mind capable of remembering exact details and conversations. A hearty laugh preceded the chancellor’s continued comments, “Of course, you know I am only jesting.. here is a glass of wine, and I was sent to fetch you back to be pawed at by the guests!”

Islia had ignored Rorys jibe at her pickpocketing skills, it was, as far as she knew the only skill of her trade that she was actually better at than her master. She remembered back to the first time she had seen Rory, wondering through the dusty streets of some town that she could not remember the name. It was nightime and she had successfully stolen a small pouch from his belt buckle, only to later discover that it contained a severed finger complete with ring. She had intended to pocket the ring and discard the finger, but for some reason she sought him out and returned it to him. After making out that he knew she'd stolen it all along, the master assassin had invited her to come train with him as apprentice. Training and flashback over, Islia and Rory had returned to Rory's cabin to prepaire for the evenings festivities at the Dukes Palace. Which is why she found herself climbing up the outerwall of the keep with a bag containing a pair of daggers, a black catsuit, a crossbow and bolt and a lockpick, slung over her shoulder.

This section of the Keep was deserted, everyone prepairing for the feast and dancing in the great hall on the other side of the compound. Hugging the shadows, Islia searched for a good place to hide her little bag of tricks. Eventually deciding on an old unused grain silo, she repeated her steps back to the outer wall. The climb back over was slightly harder than on the way in. In the time she had taken to get in and hide her stash a guard had been posted over the northern wall. Silently she inched her way close to where she had conceiled her grapnel and rope. The guard had stopped right next to it and was busy rolling up some tabacc from a pouch to place into a small wooden pipe. Swearing under her breath, Islia reached down to her side where she kept her crossbow, only to remember that she had left it hidden with her other tools inside the keep. Rory was expecting her soon, and judging by the position of the moon she didnt have a lot of time to return to him, change for the party and then 'arrive'. Again she swore under her breath.

Going down onto hands and knees Islia searched the floor around her for something she could use to distract the guard. A medium sized rock, once a part of the wall lay loose on the floor a few feet away, but outside of the conceiling shadows. The guard was looking down towards the stone, she would be seen if she left the shadows. She decided that she would have to hope that Rory was nearby.

From the shadows, the call of a Northern Tri-tufted owl hooted, echoing through the keep. Startled the guard looked down directly at her with his blue unseeing eyes, before starting to scan the compound looking for the bird, which he most likely did not know was not local to this area. Islia waited hoping that Rory was nearby and was in a fit state of mind to recognise her bird call for the message it was, and aid her escape. All he needed to do was get the guard away from the Northern wall for a few minutes. She waited.

After what seemed hours, although was actually more like seconds another owl hooted from the forest, shortly followed by a commotion over by the eastern gate. Swearing the guard dropped his pipe and ran along the top of the gangway beside the crenations that topped the wall to join his collegue over by the west gate. Seeing her chance Islia swifty made her way to the parapet, removed her conceiled grapnel and swung out over and down the wall, to retreat to the saftey of the forest. Had she been over near the eastern gate she would have heard the guard chuckle to his friend "What is this, market day? Just shoot the damn boar and be done with it. We'll be attacked by an armie of squirrels next week"

Well that was more exciting than expected Islia thought to herself as she made her way through the forest towards the place she was supposed to meet Rory. Arriving at the designated place she found the Horses and the bag containing her Dress for the evening, but Rory was nowhere to be seen. He must be still returning from the east gate She thought, and smiled as she imagined what he had done to make the boar attack a guarded castle. Slipping out of her black leggings and hooded top, Islia removed the dress from its place in the horses sidebag. The moonlight streamed in through the tops of the canopy above, causing her white flesh to seem to glow. As the blood red dress sliped over her naked body, Islia turned towards the bush behind her, and looked at Rory. She smiled. "Get a good look?" she asked her mentor, as the dress dropped down to cover her legs.

Chuckling, the big centaur smiled at the vampire and replied, “Indeed, lass! I have a’seen better, methinks. You do be awful pale, an’ I do prefer me ladies to be havin’ a bit more “life” to them… Now let me be helpin’ you with them laces.. you be havin’ ‘em going through the wrong holes…”

As the pair strolled to the entrance of the keep, Rory hummed a happy tune under his breath. He waved at the guards and made a gesture to wave off the servant who was about to announce his arrival, “There be no need to alarm the cook earlier than truly be necessary, lad.” Turning to his guest, he continued, “Come, darlin’, let’s be seein’ what delicacies they did be spendin’ the afternoon makin’.” And in a voice so soft that even Islia could barely here, “See if you can be slidin’ away while I do be grabbin’me some food. It might be takin’ some time to get all the items that be on the list for this test…
And do be careful with the Duchess, I no want to hafta offer a reason me guest do be seen suttin off a lock o’her hair!”

Puffing himself up as he smiled to all the ladies, offering some a promising grin, and others a conspiratorial win. The murmur of his name went around the hall like lightning, and whispers could be heard of wagers being made as to how long before a fight between the centaur and the Mistress of the Kitchens.. as well as on who would be the victor. More yet wonders if he would tell a story,, or join the musicians on his flute, a youth asked his friend if e had ever seen the big centaur juggle, and a mother kept a her daughter held close to her skirts. Rory just smiled and headed calmly to get some wine and begin to whet his appetite; the fires blazed, and Rory loved these little opportunities to enjoy a public event.

She stood in the centre of the room, one finger placed on her pursed lips, a slight frown creasing her otherwise flawless brow. The woman regarded her reflection in her full length mirror before her, her deep green eyes with their flecks of gold sweeping over the glassy image. She wore a simple black dress, one that suited her figure and drew the eye. A beaded choker held tightly about her throat, excentuating its delicate length as it pressed close to the blood vessels that beat underneath.

Esharee angled her head back slightly, watching how the light fell upon the tattoos about her eyes and brow. Tiny little dots of black, they matched the unseen ones that were traced down her spine. They tended to make people look at her a second time, confused about her origins from her almost exotic appearance.

Whirling away from the reflection Esharee gathered up her cloak, so deep a blue that it almost seemed the colour of the night sky. She ran her fingers through her hair before allowing her fingers to dance their way down to her neck. Her lips twisted themselves into a smirk as memories of the last few hours surfaced in her memory. Another had touched her neck not so long ago, his lips brushing the soft skin. Her own fingers dropped to her collar-bone, remembering gentle caresses. seeing agin the look of passion in the other's eyes.

Of course what had come later had been so much more satisfying, looks of lust replaced by pain, agony rippling down the other's body. She spared a glance back to the bed where a pale motionless arm was just visible from under the covers. It would be a while before anyone discovered the corpse and even then she doubted that anyone would make too much of a fuss about his untimely death. People in positions of authority rarely encouaged scandel when it concerned members of their close family.

Esharee walked back to the bed, sitting beside the strange lump that concealed the body within. She sighed heavily, trailing her nails across the surface, watching a bright specks of blood soaked through the covers. You'll forgive me if I have to run my delicious one, but I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. But I don't need to worry about you do I? You'll not get lonely without me, no people will find you soon enough and they'll lavish all sorts of attention on you. People always do like a corpse to look nice for its funeral, though I think it'll take them a fair bit of work to make you look as pretty as you did before.

It wasn't difficult to leave the rooms above the tavern without anyone seeing her. The innkeeper had provided a way out that didn't involve going through the main bar, he had obviously had to deal with 'delicate' situations before. Though no doubt those had had more to do with forbidden lover's trysts and not bloody, violent murder. Personally Esharee had never had an real qualms about either experience, both had their uses. Pleasure could be easily used to twist another to your will, but to inflict pain upon another was so much more satisfying.

She sensed the man coming up behind her long before he had a chance to fall into step with the woman. It is done?, he whispered hoarsely, looking about as they walked down the road. This one was not used to dealing with matters of this sort, he had only stooped to murder as a last desparate resort. Esharee could smell the stink of fear upon him as he expected to catch sight of guards chasing them down at any moment. He should trust her work better, she never got caught, not unless she wanted to of course.

It's done, she handed him a small pouch containing the proof of her actions. He held it as if it might bit him before quickly secreting it away in the folds of his clothing and then placing another pouch in her waiting hand. I think I shall have to leave this place soon, as pleaseant as it is I think I see some revolt on the horizon.

Yes, yes of course.

She quickened her pace and soon left the man, a petty burocrat, far behind. Esharee wondered idly if the man truly understood what he had begun by hiring her. Somehow she doubted it, but that never stopped another such fool from hiring her.

Islia watched as the centaur made his way through the crowd of people within the great hall on a direct course to the kitchens. 'A lock of the Duchessess' hair?' Islia thought to herself. 'What has he gotten me into this time?' She wondered.

The great hall was well named, the vastness of the room easily emcompassing the public space of several large taverns. Dotted at regular intervals around the stark grey walls were several ornately carved granite and marble fireplaces, flames leaping up from within them. The grey walls themselves were covered in many places by a small collection of old and faded and new colourful tapestries, depicting scenes of war and the hunt. Golden and Ebony statues depicting the Dukes more erotic tastes, were also placed in various locations around the wall, standing like religious icons on gold-veined marble pedestals.

Islia reached into the hidden pocket inside her dress and removed the sealed message Rory had given her prior to leaving the cottage for the keep. He had handed her the note telling her to pack a few 'essentials' into a bag and hide it within the keep, but had made it clear that she was not to break the seal on the message until she was alone and inside. She ran her finger over the red wax seal, fealing the outline of the silent flute that was, both Rorys calling card, and the name of a small band of 'problem solvers' of which she was an apprentice. She broke the seal and opened out the folded parchment.



Screwing up the parchment, Islia walked over towards one of the fireplaces and threw the message into the dancing flames. For a few moments she stood there and watched as the paper darkened and then burst into flames. As the ashes started to rise up towards the chimney she turned and made her way towards the grain silo where she had left her bag of tricks.

The stench from the rotting head was truly beginning to irritate G'rezshda beyond any comprehensible level of tolerance. He had tried to air it out, but all that did was attract more bugs. Binding it tighter within the folds of cloth did even less to staunch the horrid smell. His only saving grace was that it had been cold along the hard march back to the Dukes manor. The head had preserved fairly well, considering.

If it wasn't for that damn floating eye, he would of been back already. He would not of had to side-track back around and go the long way back. It infurriated him that he hadn't been more careful, to anticipated the eye before it had found him. In such matters, his intuition had always been a superior asset that had pulled him out of more than one catastrophie. There was little he coudl do about it now, so dark thoughts mulled over what he would do as he prepared his bland breakfast meal. He didn't feel the cold even as it froze against his breath, nor did he stir within the first light of morning shone upon his steady face. Silently still he remained, pondering as he sat and stared at the head.

And then as if a candle lit in his head, he had an idea. What if he were to cure it like beef jerky? Sure, the head would be sorched and the hair would burn, unless he boiled it first and wrapped the hair to keep it from getting burnt.

Taking out the head, he opened up the package and set it atop a rock infront of him, saying to the horror stricken face, "So, what shall it be, fried... or broiled?"

He then blinked and nodded to himself, as if the head had actually spoken. The eyes gleamed at with him in a knowing, as if they recognized him, recognized who he was. It bothered him, those eyes. Unwaivering and unblinking, they shone at him like mirrors that pierced into his soul. It had a sobering effect that he liked.

"Okay, then. You are right! Broiled, then fried." He had said as he picked out a pot from his pack and filled it with water, collected twigs and wood, and had started a fire. "But save your eyes..." Somehow, he felt as though he needed them. They reminded him of the emptiness that haunted him within his dreams, the emptiness that surrounded him in this wakeful sleep called life. They were a torment and a pleasure, a disease and a cure. They held no truth, but yet he was sure that he could learn something from them.

Taking out his dagger, he carefully dug out the eyes and placed them into a small glass vial, filling the bottle with cranium liquid and then corked it. The eyes swirled like tadpoles within the vile as he held it up to the campfire light. The head of the witchking now bobbed with the bubbles of the kettle, but he paid it little mind. Soon he would be off again. He several more days before he would get back.

He took one last look at the tadpole-like eyes before slidding the vial into one of the pockets in his heavy coat.

Islia slipped out of the darkness and into the unused grain silo where she had left her bag of tools, slipping her red dress over her head she removed the black catsuit from the inside of the bag and pulled it on over her body, the warm leather clinging to her like a new skin. Fastening the buckle of her belt around her waist she reached in to the bag to remove the other items she had packed. Of the two daggers she placed one in an ankle sheath and the other in the sheaths twin attached to her left wrist. She swore when she realised that she had only packed one bolt for the crossbow, it could be used to kill only with a shot to the throat, due to it having blunted tip, but it was designed more to remove an enemy from a fight quietly and without death, at least it was reusable unlike a standard armour peircing point. This she loaded into the crossbow which she placed on safetey before suspending it from the crossbow harness on her belt. The lockpick set went into a small pouch on the breast of her black leather catsuit. She wished Rory had allowed her to see the letter before they left. Had she known why she was packing six items maximum into a bag before hand, she may well have chosen different items.

She thought over the list of five items for the 'test', wondering how she would find each one. The flag from atop the keep would possibly be the easiest to acheive possetion of, the guards were looking outwards not inwards, and she already had practise of scaling the old walls of the Dukal abode. The vintage bottle of wine was a more interesting prospect to acheive. Fernabergia had been destroyed years ago, a fact for which she was most qualified to varify being that she was the sole survivor of the elven settlement. It would be nice to again taste a good bottle of Fernabergian red. The keys to the dungeons would be easy to acheive, but she was unsure whether use of death, was an acceptable means of collecting the items, somehow she doubted that it would be. The final two items were the most difficult to gain possession of. Islia was at worse a vampire, at best an assassin, she knew nothing about magic scrolls and where one would be found, and how to remove a lock of the Duchess' hair without be seen was a quandry she wished not to have to face.

She looked around the courtyard, the entrance to the dungeons was guarded currently by just the two guards, and they were sat with their backs to the entrance in a small wooden gaurdhouse playing a game of dice. She looked up towards the top of the tower where the flag would hang trying to decide whether to take the keys or the flag first. Finally after a few seconds of deliberation she clung to the shadows and started towards the guarded entrance to the dungeons. She used the night like a cloak, moving from shadow to shadow until she was sat with her back to the guardhouse directly under a small, open windowlike opening. Carefully she rotated her body and lifted her head to allow her eyes to gain a quick peak at the position of the two guards within. One sat at the far side looking almost directly at her, the other sat next to the window, his head facing away from her, but towards his companion. She would have to take both at once, without sound. It was not going to be as easy as she had initially imagined.

It wasn't until she reached the next town across that the first news of the revolt reached her. Someone had murdered the son of one of the city's leaders it seemed, murdered him in most scandelous circumstances...or so the rumours went. Esharee drew her cloak tightly about her, smiling at the gossip of the fish-wives as they muttered to one another in hushed tones about what had happened. It was always so delightful to listen in on such conversations, hearing how others reviewed her work even if the common man or woman rarely heard the full details of her deeds. The looks of hoorr and disgust on their faces, the terrible descriptions passed between one and another, yes it was wonderful indeed. She had often noticed though that with each telling the tales of her actions got twisted further and further from the truth. Esharee had often thought that she could simply slit another's throat and as the story was passed on it would grow to such proportions that it would seem that she had performed the most awful actions to those that heard the final telling.

She smiled to herself and stepped away from the shadows that she had been evesdropping from. The city that she had left was now suffering the consequences of her actions, a full two-fifths of it already up in flames if rumour alone was to be believed, More likely to be no more than a building or two, she smirked. Still it didn't matter to her, she had not been hired to cause a rebellion in the city, only to end the life of the only adult offspring of one of the city's leaders. And not only that but to end it in such a way that it would bring suspiscion and scandel down upon the heads of his entire family. That she had done well enough, the heavy pouch in her pocket was her payment for the deed.

And in time there would more pouches that would follow, there always had been and always would. There were far too many in the world who would pay to see their enemy meet an untimely end.

Strangely though Esharee rarely advertised herself or her skills, few outside her sphere had even heard of the shape-shifter assassin. And that was just how she preferred it, she often liked to think of her clients as being the elite, not necessarily the cream of society but rather those with their fingers in enough pies to have heard rumours of her. And of course those who could afford her services, she was no cheap thug for hire. Those who hired Esharee knew that she was far more than those mindless ones who thought the life of an assassin as glamourous or romanic, and more than well-equipped to carry out the tasks they set before her. Any who questioned her abilities more often than not found someone that they were close to dead or crippled, a sign of her displeasure at being doubted.

But still there were a few who knew of her and how to contact her, it was through them that her infamy grew and new potential clients contacted her. Oh there were rumours of course among the common folk, dark tales of a creature that appeared from the inky shadows to slash and kill with razor-sharp claws. She had even once overheard a mother threatening her child with the words "Esharee the cat will come and get you". She had smiled at that when she had heard it, indeed the pleasure had been such that she had been sorely tempted to make the mother's words come true. How utterly delightful it would have been to watch the faces of the parents as they found the slaughtered corpse of their mis-behaving child, his body scored and marked with a cat's claws. Unfortunately time had been against her then, there had been other matters to deal with, ones that paid in coin rather than the simple pleasures of watching another's anguish.

It was terrible, just terrible, the voice shrieked from nearby, its tone that of someone who had seen too much and pushed themselves too far. Esharee peered in the direction that the words came from as she pulled the hood of her cloak up to hide her features. A bedraggled man was talking to a group of concerned citizens, his clothing was ripped and bloody, a large gash in his brow was refusing to dry up no matter how much one of the group tried to stop it. He leaned heavily on a large man, his eyes red and puffy, his lips swollen and cracked, all in all he was a pitiful excuse for a member of humanity. I tell you it was awful, the soldiers just charged at us, didn't care tht there were women and children in the crowd. I saw..., his voice cracked and the group huddled closer to give him comfort. The sight merely brought a smile to the shapeshifter's lips, the sorrow and pain in the air was almost palatable to her, each new scent sparking off thoughts of dark pleasures within her. I saw a woman trampled underfoot, her screams tearing through my soul as I couldn't help her.

There, there, don't you be fretting yourself, the burly man that he leaned on said, a serious look clouding his eyes. This can't be allowed to happen, damn nobles thinking they can do what they like. If you ask me it was justice that that young noble was killed, got what was coming to him I say. His fellows nodded in agreed, the first flushes of anger turning their flesh red and blotchy.

And so the rebellion reached the first of the city's outlying villages, Oh so delicious, she said under her breath, her heart thudding ever-so slightly faster.

For a few more minutes she stood there, head hiden in the shadows looking over towards the two guards, trying to think of a way to take them both without causing death or sound, a task that was not going to be very easy at all. She ducked back down and sat there searching for other guards or hidden watchers. She suspected that Rory was hidden nearby somewhere watching. He had made it clear in the letter that he wanted no mistakes. Several places were dark enough to hide the centaur, one over by the east gate another near to the entrance to the great hall. She suspected that if he was watching her though he would be in the warm, looking out of a window, surrounded by women, food and strong liquor.

Deciding that there was either no watchers or nothing she could do about them she removed a dagger and her crossbow removing the safety strap from the black steel montrosity. Placing the blade on her left hand and the loaded crossbow in her right she stood up, a shadow accross the window. The guard on the far side looked up started as her white face appeared at the window crossbow in hand, startlement fading into a look of unconsciousness as the blunt bolt took him in the forehead removing him from the waking the world. The second guard, seeing his collegue slump to the floor turned towards the window but was also too late as the hilt of Islia's dagger slammed against the side of his face in an explosion of blood as his nose crumbled. Quickly she made through the window into the guardhouse and searched the two bodies for the keys to the cells.

Finding nothing, she realised that there must be other guards inside the dungeons themselves. Placing hand onto the large brass doorhandle she opened the large oaken portal that led through to the dark winding staircase and into the dungeon propper. Slowly and silently she hugged the banaster as she followed the twisting stairwell downwards into the depths of the keep. The foot of the stairway opened out into a large chamber, stretching out into the darkness. Either side of the chamber were small cubicles encased with strong metal bars and a large lock on each of the cell doors. At regular intervals torches burned brightly from within their sconces, the flames causing shadows to dance around the murky interior of the dungeons. Reloading the bolt into her crossbow and holding her recovered dagger in the opposite hand, Islia made her way silently into the darkness.

The cells to either side were empty as she made her way along the corridor like room into the unseen depths of black at the far end. Somewhere was another guard with the keys to the cells, waiting in the darkness. A sound behind her caused Islia to turn sharply, a small room that had not been visable from the direction Islia had walked contained a small table and a flickering log fire. She walked over to the entrance and smiled as she saw the bunch of keys sat apon the table. Of the guard there was no sign, but she kept her crossbow raised as she slowly walked over to the table. As she reached the table she discovered where the other guard was. Standing with his back to Islia, a cloud of steam rising in the cold air, the guard was emptying his bladder into a latrine. She raised her crossbow and coughed to get his attention. Surprisingly quickly the guard span around to face her, manhood still hanging out in front of him as his hand sought his blade. A blade he didnt have the time to draw, as like his friend upstairs he took a blunt crossbow bolt between the eyes, and crumpled on the floor atop the latrine. Retreiving her bolt, Islia turned back to the table, picked up the keys and turned back towards the darkness, and the stairway ascending to the ground above.

The tender glow of the city seemed almost angelic in its odd sort of way. G'rezshda strolled his horse afoot clear down from the mounds crest to the gate. The horse he had stolen was more than worse for wear, and was of little use to him anymore.

Walking up to the gate, the guards paid him little attention as he strolled on by. The warmth of the city was far greater than that of the wild and swamp. He could feel his muslces and joints ache from the moisture and cold, making him long for a warm bath and fresh clothes, but first he had to take care of some buisness.

Walking through the seedier part of town, he stopped and tied the reigns of his stolen horse to the wooden beam and then promptly walked away. He was sure that the farmhouse incident would be reported to the local authorities. A horse was identifiable, and in some places a hanging offense. If a man was willing to steal a horse, it would be at a place like this. After removing the saddle bags and packaged head, he slipped through an alley, away from the mainstream traffic of bustling people.

For almost a month he had been without a proper bathe, in addition to the stench that lingered from the broiled head he carried in his bundle. Stepping up to a quant establishment, he entered the inn, determined to get himself clean again. "Sir, I request a room and bath, without a moment to spare."

"That shall not be a problem, with proper coin, m'lord." the innkeeper said hesitantly. G'rszhda could see that the man doubted his ability to pay, but who woudl blame him? His appearance must be dreadful! Pulling out his sachel, he placed a slack of gold coins infront of the innkeeper. "A room, a bath, and a currier. At once."

Gleefully, the innkeeper showed him to his room, ordered his servants to draw his bath. G'rezshda repackaged the head within a lockable box, wrapped it in clothe, then sealed it with the crest of the withcking that he had taken off the dead kings fingers. The currier had nocked, entered, and he handed him the package. All had gone accordingly to plan.

Exiting the dungeon into the guardhouse above Islia breathed a sigh of relief, luck had been with her just now, but she could not rely apon it, for that was the easiest way to get yourself killed it this trade. At best luck was just a fickle ally, and never one to be overly called apon. Where before she had searched the bodies looking for the key Islia realised that it may be worth searching the unconscious bodies of the guards and the guardhouse itself for things of use. Picking up a sword she contemplated bringing it along, and then realised that it would be more of a hinderence when time came to scale the tower to steal the flag. The rest of the items strewn aroun the bodies were equally useless for her current mission. The small pouch of coppers and the odd silver would have come in handy, but she had not been sent to rob the castle guards. Dropping the pouch onto the lap of the comatose guard she turned and slowly walked out of the guardhouse.

"One down" She thought to herself, contemplating which item on the list to go for next. The flag was certainly the most obvious choice as she was already outside. Looking around to make sure she was still unseen, she made her way accross the courtyard to the great tower atop which flew the ducal flag. The tower itself was a monstrosity, for almost a hundred yards it climbed straight as an arrow upwards into the blackness of the night, sloping outwards to form a larger turret than the base. It continued for another 20 feet before the cylindrical shape bacame a cone. The flag was at the apex of the cone.

Circumnavigating the tower until she found a side that was almost completley shadowed Islia felt the rough surface of the wall for a handhold. After not much time at all Islia had found several good places to grip onto the wall and she slowly but surley ascended towards the towers peak, a shadow among shadows. As she scaled the tower the hand and footholds became smaller and more precarious, the wall in much batter condition the higher she climbed. Eventually she reached the base of the turret 100 yards straight upwards. The angle from here looked much steeper than from the floor the top of the slope hanging over the foot by almost 2 meters, the surface polished as smooth as marble.

Hanging one handed Islia reached into the sleave of her left wrist to remove the dagger stowed there, placeing it between her teeth she swang accross the face of the wall to get to a better position to attempt the slope. Releaseing her other hand she reached down to her ankle to remove the other blade. Silently she hang there perfectly still all muscles relaxed. Suddenly the muscle in the one arm she was hanging by tensed and she pulled herself up, other arm stretching out, dagger digging into the old motar in a showing of old rubble. As she swang back towards the wall, the muscles in her arm spasmed and blue viens latticed her white skin. The other arm had removed the dagger from between her lips and hung down at her side. As her feet touched the base of the wall she kicked off and reached with the other arm.

She hang there swinging back and forth slowly, feet dangling in mid air each arm straining to hold her. Taking a deep breath she focused her mind, a drop of sweat traced a line down her forehead and trickled over her right eye. She ignored it. With an emmense amount of effort she expelled the breath she had held and started to pull herself up over the lip. as her head passed over the top Islia could see that there was not going to be an easy place to swing her legs over. Immediatly after the slope the wall continued up vertically. Pain searing through her shoulder she released the grip of one arm and dug the blade into the wall a metre higher than previously, an inhuman shriek of agony echoed throughout the courtyard as she swang the second arm to meet it and pulled herself finally up onto the coned roof of the Keep.

"Don't even think about taking another crumb from that table...." The woman's stern tone froze Rorshach with knife poised over the banquet feast. "...until I have had one dance and heard at least one story."

Replacing the knkife on the table and turning, the big centaur's face lit iin a boyish smile. "Duchess! Be it possible that ye be lookin' younger and more beautiful than the last time I did see you? And what be that you've done with you hair? I can no remember you ever be wearin' it up like that! It do be most lovely and inticing, the way the neck be revealed like that... almost as if ye be teasin' the vampire in all of us!" Giving her a warm hug, he inhaled deeply, breathing in the flowery scent she was wearing and escorted her onto the dance floor. The musicians were playing a light tune, and the duchess was an accomplished dancer; in fact, one of the better partners Rory could remember having. "Some day, duchess, you will have to be tellin' me how you managed to find out what I would be wearing this eve.. so that you could be dressin' to match. Dark green do no be en vogue, an not even the duke be wearin' a matchin' outfit" With a sly wink, he watched as the duchess blushed.

The dancing area had become noticeably more crowded since they had started, and Rorshach noticed that the Duke, who had been talking to several wealthy merchants, was finally concluding his business. Taking his leave from the duchess, rory made polite conversation with a dozen different guests as he made his way to the duke. "Boorland, me ol' friend! This do be quite a splendid affair! I do be hearin' that your lad did be havin' a most successful hunt." The centaur made certain to catch the Dukes eye with a knowing look and continued, "Can I be offerin' ya some tabac from me private stock? But a crowded room like this be no place to enjoy it.. maybe the Duchess will no be noticing a few minutes away in the private study?"

G'rezshda took his time cleaning every inch of his body. Fresh clothes were then donned while his old ones burned, them not even fit for a begger to wear. He smiled approvingly at his appearance within the standing mirror and rubbed his now clean-shaven face to feal the smoothness of it. The washing ladies and barber we all paid well enough to suit him as he tucked the vial that contained the eyes within the folds of his pockets and headed out the door.

There were very few places that he would go for a fast or slow acting poisen or a potion. He had traveled to these places on more than one instance, but that was not his intention this day. He clenched the vial from within his clothes tightly, it felt slipper from his sweat. Blending in with the crowd, he weaved through the maze and mayham of people and animals. The countless alleyways and sideroads criss-crossed the city as he criss-crossed along with them. By avoiding looking at those passing by, he can avoid direct attention to be called his way, but this avoidance was by no means meant that he was ignorant to his surroundings.

Stepping up to the shop door, he paused only a moment before turning the handle and entering. The bell above it rang as he entered, his senses adjusted to the smell of inscence, herbs, and exotic spices that permiated the air. This place cleared his head and made him feel at ease for a time. So remote it seemed from the real world, a world he woudl soon hav eot enter back into.

The owner was a comely old fellow with sparce hair and a wrinkled demeanor. He smield warmly as G'rezshda approached him with the vial in-hand. "I would like these preserved." G'rezshda said.

"You would, indeed." the owner replied, genlty taking the vial out of G'rezshda's hands. He then lifted it up to the light, adjusted his spectical, and looked at it with intense scutiny.

"How soon can this be done?"
"It is important not to rush these thing..."
"How soon..."

The owner touched one of his tiny fingers up to his lips as if to demand silence. He then opened the vial and poured out the liquids into a dish. The smell was insideous. "They have seen better days. I doubt I can repair the damage done to them, but I can rejuvenate them a little. It will cost you."

G'rezshda nodded in reply. The man then pour out the cranium liquid into a larger vat. Other misterious liquids were added to it until it gurgled and bubbled in a troublesome brew. The man then reached over, plucked a strand of hair and stabbed him with a tiny rod from G'rezshda, then stirred them into the liquid. The liquid then glowed a most brilliant purplish light before subsiding down to a darker hue. The man could do little to hide his startled appearance, but said nothing as he poured the contents into a cystaline sphere. The eyes were then dropped into the sphere and the sphere was sealed shut, fuzing the two pieces together till they were as one.

Knowing very little of the arts, G'rezshda did not like to take unnessary risks. He grabbed a flask of flammable oils from the shelves, threw it into the cauldron, and lit it with one of the candles upon the counter. As much ashe trusted this man, he new better that to leave anything behind with his blood or hair in it. Snatching the rod from the mans hand, he smiled happily.

"The bill will be sent to you in the usual manner."
"As I expected."
"Indeed."

And so he left without further discourse. The trek to the dukes manner was relatively easy. The small sphere that held the two eyes replaced the vial. He could feel its warmth from within the layers of his clothes, but he ignored it. He had an appointment to attend to.

Stepping up to the front gate, he followed in right behind someone else, trailing along after the corner of the others shadows. Unnoticed he was as he slipped past all the guests, servants, and guards.

Opening the garden entrance to the private study of the duke, he silently seated himself down within the softly comfy chair, pouring himself a stern glass of bradywine. The glass he held in one hand, while the other rolled the crystalline sphere over the front and backs of his fingers....

They were beginning to actually believe the rumours...

Esharee sat by herself at a table in the darkened tavern, the lamp-light seeming to cast more shadows than it banished. Occansionally she sipped from a crude glass before her, trying not to balk at the taste of the liquid within. She had ordered red wine and this was what they had presented her with, a murky liquid that tasted like nothing she had ever come acrss before. Probably the closest it had ever come to real wine was a picture of a grape shown to it before its contents were fermented together. The concoction was practically a crime against the wine-maker's craft, the best description she could come up with it was that at least it wasn't poisoned. Though that was no great compliment, Esharee had known poisons taht would have been a delight to drink rather than this. She toyed briefly with the idea of searcher out the person who had made this and devising some elaborate end to their lives. Any who created this and then sold it on for consumption by others certainly deserved it.

The assassin turned her attention back to the other side of the taver where a loud group were breeding ever greater levels of anger ithin their number. She feinted concerned interest each time one of them stood up and addressed the crowd, only just preventing the self-satisfied smirk from gracing her features. These were the ones that were believing the rumours that came to them from the refugees of the rebelling city to the north that she had 'visited' a few days before. Every scrap of news that came their way was leapt upon and blown out of all proportions, the crimes of the nobles against the peasants becoming ever more depraved with each telling. The whole thing amused her no end, to see them become angry and reckless without even understanding the full truth of the matter.

She could see the future in their words and actions even though Esharee was no fortune-teller or oracle. Such plain and ordinary people were always so easy to read, it was barely a challenge to try and predict what they would do next. They would stay here and let their discontent grow for a while, drinking enough alcohol to dull the parts of their brains that might actually think clearly. Only then would they march out into the streets, gaining ever greater numbers with their inflamatory cries and loud roars of injustice. And in time they would go forth from the city, heading towards the city and their percieved enemies, fools every one that they were.

In a fit of digust Esharee deliberately pushed the glass onto the floor, the dark liquid within spilling onto the floor. It soaked into the dirty rushes that covered the floor, though it could hardly do any worse to the filthy ground of the tavern that had enough waste upon it to make her think that it doubled as the inn's stables at night. The poorly made glass shattered, tiny glittering fragments waiting within the rushes for the next drunk who was unfortunate enough to fall and land on them.

She pushed herself away from the table, getting to her feet and pulling her cloak back onto her shoulders. The rest of the tavern paid little attention to her, they were all too swept up in the torrent of rebellion that was flowing through their veins, more potent than any alcohol they might purchase at this establishment. The door opened easily enough under her touch, delivering her into the warm light of late afternoon where the sun had stained the west sky red. A few children were about in the streets, playing their games with one another or just making mischief for their parents. The last of the traders had already packed up and were more than likely making their way home, safe from this bubbling cauldron of insurrection.

Looking one way then the other, Esharee set off, her form shrinking in upon itself in the shadows till only a small pale grey cat remained. On four fleet paws the feline traversed the village, hissing and spitting at any that thought to pet the 'sweet little thing'. She had no wish to appear as the adorable little kitten this time, she was leaving this place to its own troubles, there was no more amusement left to be found here.

....but a few days later news arrived in the town from the nearby vineyard. It seemed as though someone had lured the owner out into the caves were his wares lay waiting to be sold and had then drowned him in one of his own vats. The tavern-owner shook his head at the sad news, where on earth was he going to find such a cheap supplier of wine now?

Sipping lighlty form his goblet of fine wine, Rorshach accompanied the Duke to the private room they used for discreet conferences. Along the way, he admired the fine tapestries lining the hallways and may his usual cheerful ramarks onteh mostly female subject matter, but the Duke's thinkly veiled somber demeanor did not go unnoticed. In fact it made the large centaur even more cautios that usual..

It was probably this that led him to recognize that somethign was out of place.. it wasn't conscious thought, but merely that somethign was out of place. No insects moving, or small birds in teh garden, or maybe too much noise somewhere. It was jsut a sign the the balance of "nature" was disturbed by a predator nearby.

Stopping short, Rorshach motioned for the Duke to be silent, and handed over his goblet. The twinkle in his eye and smileon his face never faded as he indicatd that the duke should remain while he checked on the room. Defying logic, hte enormous centaurmoved swiftly and silently disapearing into the room. Were anyone not to have known him to have oberved the actions, they would likely have questioned their eyes, but since the days of sneaking into his mother's kitcens for extra snacks, the centaur had found that he could move without being detected-- and the matron centaur had tried everything.. setting traps, magical wards, wachers, listeners.. it was simply that he had an innate ability not to be noticed or detected.

Inside the room, Rorshach noted that very little was outof place, no random pilfering or thievery, and no assassins lying in wait. At least not in the usual manner. A man, clean cut and freshl groomed, smelling faintly of the soaps used at the finer Inns in town, he radiated an aura of self confidence and poise. The Duke ad not informed Rory of a guest, and the man sat in the Duke's seat drinkning the duke's bradywine.

Moving behind the chair, a long knife appeared in the master assassins hand. Well balanced for throwing, this particular piece of razor-sharp cutlery had a portion of one side of the blade serated witha design intended to be used to cut our a man's larynx before he could cry out for help. It had been used more than once to turn an alraming screm into a aoft gurgle of warm, read, sticky fluid. Faster than it appeard, the deadly instrument came to rest on the intruders neck press just hard enough to draw a faint line of blood, and allow no room for movement. "Do be holdin' still a might bit, neighbor." Rory whispered in a cheerful tone. "I do no wanna be replacin' Boorland's favorite chair!" Continuing in a louder voice , he called, "Boorland! Do be bringing me wine an introducing me to the fine guest who would drink with us!"

Vret had glared intently at the darkly liquidious sphere that held the two tadpole eyes. They idolly floated within the inky liquid, lifeless. Suddenly, they turned an icy black, swam for a brief moment and seemed to glare back at Vret. It startled him a bit, but through the eyes he saw a centaur creeping up behind him.

If he had not been glaring at it, he would never of caught the image of the lumberous centaur approaching from behind. Just then, the centaur lifted him out of the chair. Swiftly, he tucked the sphere back within the folds of his garments and attempted to turn to meet this creature, but it was too late for much reaction.

He allowed the centuar to ruff-handle him up against the wall. As Vret allowed himself to be pushed, he gently clicked the heels of his boot to eject the blade hidden within the sole. He then flicked his wrist and gently placed the razor-sharp poisened blade by the centaurs flesh, careful not to touch him with the tainted blade. All the while he grimaced under the strain of the centaurs weight. He had truly been surprised.

Seeing the duke by the doorway, he glazed back at the centaurs dark and unwavering eyes. To Vret, they almost seemed like to slags of coal.

"Do be holdin' still a might bit, neighbor." Rory whispered in a cheerful tone. "I do no wanna be replacin' Boorland's favorite chair!" Continuing in a louder voice, he called, "Boorland! Do be bringing me wine an introducing me to the fine guest who would drink with us!"

It was all he could do but blink at this creature. Thousand of ways on how to kill him rolled within his head, but he would perfer not to kill an aquantance of his contracter before he was about to be paid. "If you will notice, kind centaur friend, the poisened blade I have at your belly." He had said, waiting for the centaur to take notice of it. "It would be in your best interest to release me."

Vret then swirled the goblet that he still held within his other hand, he said "You mind? My throat is parched, and this is some rather pleasant brandywine that I would perfer not to have go to waste in some needless tussle."

At Rorshach's call, the Duke rushed into the room unsure of wether to expect trouble or a gag from the oftimes playful centaur. What he was not ready for was seeing the two assassins a whisper away from eliminating each other. "Vret? what the balzes are you doing here?" THe outraged Lord sputtered. "There is no reason for this kind of rude behavior!

"And Rory, he does, indeed, have business to conclude with me." Boorland continued, "Now both of you unhand each other and let us act like the cordial adults I expect out of my friends and not the petulant children you seem to be!" Turnign his back to the two he set about tiding up the room and erasing the signs of the scuffle.

Rory was caught by surprise as now sooner had he placed his knife at teh intruders throat, than did he notice the pair of eyes from staring at him-- eyes that were inside s sphere being held by Vret. Neither this or the ensuing scuffle were sufficient to take the tinkle from his eye or silme from his face however. And hearing hte knife come out of the other gentleman's boot was not a concern for the big centaur either-- he did not intend to judge or kill any man in another man's home, and he had a policy not to kill those who were not designated marks. If hte man had meant ot stab him, he would have tried already; the attitude displayed was not that of a thief or assassin on the job, but rather of one who was being arrogant in some display of worth.

Releasing Vret, his knife suddenly becae one of three being juggled in a complex wand pattern. Rory added in an empty goblet and a alf full decanter of wine even the duke was not aware of having been hidden in the room. In an even more complex pattern, the knives dissapeared and the glass was filled. Raising a toast, the hge centaured proclaimed, "Now this be truly a liquid to be easin' a parched throat!"

Rounding on the Duke, his visage took on a more stern demeanor. "Ye have been me firend o'er these years 'tis true. But take care to be midnful o' our arrangement-- any that ye did need be killed or hurt in ye duchy (an' even nearby) I did be seein' done if'n ye be proving need. Other crime did be likewise handled an' reduced.. I have even been hearin' tales beein' told to children and criminal alike that thsoe who no be behavin' will be hearin' Rorshach's Flute. and that eb the last o'what they hear. But our arrangment did be that I be hearin' and taking'' care o'ALL those needs-- no women, no choldren, and none without there bein' just cause.

"This do be our accord, and ye were the one who did be beggin' me for help-- I wish to be livin' in me flower gardens, not to be tillin' new graves. But I do no like to be playin' with others whom I do no be trustin' Rare do it be that any assassin, theif, brigand, or other such be passin' through without a message bein' sent first to me; it be well known, amongst the right circels, where to be lookin; for work around here. I do be likin' how we are and no be interested in much change.. This do be a matter o'honor for me, Boorland, please be no testin' my resolve..."

G'rezshda blinked curiously at the centaur. It had occured to him that this man was the head of the Flute. He was unmoved by the remarks held by him or the duke, he knew after all, where he stood. His station in life was remarkably clear, but this was a very important contact to have.

Smiling carefully, he nodded his head to the centaur saying, "Sir, my name is G'rezshda Vret. I assure you, the buisness I had was not within the limits of your boundaries. I appologize for any inconveinance that this may have cost you, and hope that you can forgive my impertenance by not making myself or my actions clear to you."

The sphere he held in his hand within his pocket heated up within his grasp. G'razshda did not consider himself a petty thief or hoodlem, for all he knew, that this Flute organization was nothing more than a band of merry thugs. He had found it best not to consort with these types. A thives guild had almost foiled his plans once before, almost costing him the life of his target he was trying to protect. And so, he had killed each and every single one of them. It was, after all, what he did best... "I had once signed in to the Glendale Circle, but it ended in tragic dissaster. They bumbled my mark, and almost cost me my life. I have personal reasons for not introducing myself." If the centaur was anyone, he would know of the incident, and have an idea of who he really was.

Taking his attention back now to the duke, he watched as he cleaned. Why was he so nervous? "Did you receive the package in fair order, m'Lord?"