Trust Me, M'dear

Twostars - 


 * ''Though it is difficult to discern at first glance where the Freelander District of Redwater ends and the Merchant District of Twostars begins as the two collide to make up the southern area of Light's Reach, the differences some become easy to ascertain as one spends more time within the dynamic and animated district of trade.


 * ''The townhouses, for example, soon share their streets with larger coach houses and lodges. The roads become wider as a matter of common course rather than restricted to those that are mainly through-fare routes. Brightly painted signs hang from every other structure, hinting at what is sold within, and windows the size of the entire length of the lower floor that faces the street replace the more modest windows of domicile houses.


 * ''Large warehouse buildings leave no question as to what role Twostars plays in Light's Reach as those large rectangular constructions dominate the western edges of the district, set flush against the inner curtain fortification. Merchants ply their wares from stalls on every street corner, while bards, minstrels, and an assortment of other thespians and musicians entertain the masses that flock here, attempting to earn a few Kahars by virtue of the merriment they bring to the passing Merchants, Freelanders, and Nobles alike that browse the goods of the numerous stores and shops located here.


 * ''The main road that surges through Redwater is an impressively wide through-fare that links to the Redwater to the west, and the main plaza to the north. The Tower of Night stands in the south-east corner of the district where the main curtain wall connects to the twin bulwarks.

Soft and gentle and still lies the nighttime across Twostars this evening. Not a breath of wind stirs the air; only the most distant sounds of footsteps, mingled with the usual calls of the night-things break the otherwise-complete silence.

Yellow lantern light shines from the windows of the shops, golden pools spreading across the cobbles. Everything else is bleached of all colour, bathed in shining silver-blue moonlight.

From the north slithers the golden-hued form of Mysra, the Syladris looking about the city with wide amber eyes. "It isss very different here at night," she remarks to herself softly as she wanders the street. Her hands remain clasped in front of her loosely as she examines the storefronts and other features around her.

From the west, Gefrey walks into the merchant district, looking around slowly for... something.

Mysra's words almost seem to echo back to her--Twostars, being the merchant district, is not even frequented by the wayward drunks at this hour. But that is not to say that it is empty. There's a few pedestrians about, presumably meandering their way home.

From inside one of the shops as Mysra passes, the storekeep looks up, fixing a cool, masked gaze on the Syladris.

The Driscol Duke manages to attract little to no attention from the passersby, save for a couple respectful nods.

The Syladris is oblivious to anyone looking at her for the moment, more interested in the buildings and the shiny things around here that are so different from what she's used to. Mysra continues to slowly slither through the district and take in her surroundings.

Gefrey Driscol continues on his way, heading toward the botanical store... but he slows upon seeing the syladris, turning to look at her. "Light's greetings, Syladris."

In the shadowed silence of the evening, a single sound falls into the stillness out of place. It's the sound of footsteps, all right, but it's got a slight drag to it, an uneven, syncopated rhythm. (A limp, if you will). Gefrey may catch it, Mysra probably doesn't.

No, Mysra is too busy turning her attention to the Duke who has just greeted her to hear the footsteps. "Oh, hello!" she replies brightly to Gefrey, "How are you? Mysssra hasss not ssseen you in a while."

"I've been... quite well," Gefrey says, turning his head to the side, in the direction of the limping footstep. "Busy, but well. And you?"

Around a corner, from the direction of an alleyway, comes a middle-aged man. Maybe he's a little short, maybe mostly bald... but there's a substantial amount of muscle in those arms. He leans on a cane, but the limp doesn't seem serious. An old wound that never quite healed properly, perhaps. He stops a few feet from the duke and Syladris, watching with a curious little gleam in those dark eyes.

"Mysssra'sss home wasss attacked," the goldscale replies to Gefrey, "But ssshe isss asss well asss can be exsspected. Do you know if they have thingsss to make food with here? The Golden Dragon isss out and Mysssra isss feeding her friendsss who have lossst important thingsss in the attack." Mysra smiles to the Duke, then, "Mysssra isss glad to know that you are well."

"They will have something somewhere nearby," Gefrey says with a slight shrug. "You could try asking the innkeepers where their supplies come from." He looks aside to the man now, giving him a nod. "Good evening, Master."

The man gives a nod, limping up to the pair. "Evenin'," he rasps, voice dusty, as if he's unaccustomed to using it. He gets close. Close enough to reach out and touch either duke or Syladris. But his eyes linger on Mysra a moment, bright with interest. "An' evenin' t' ye, too."

The goldscale smiles at the man, "Hello. Mysssra hass not met you before." She leans forward gently, removing any personal space that the man may have had, "What isss your name?" She is, now, distracted from the Duke entirely.

Gefrey Driscol takes a step back, turning to look at the man curiously, watching him and the syladris with care.

There's *just* the briefest of hesitations--scarcely an instant really--of reluctance before the man reaches to put an arm about the Syladris' shoulders and grins. It seems a little false. "Miksel, M'dear. 's chilly out here, no?" He draws his cloak tighter about him.

"Cold doesss not bother Mysssra," the Syladris remarks, "Ssshe isss pleasssed to meet you, Miksssel." The arm doesn't bother her at all, and the goldscale even takes it as a sign that she has been Approved to Hug. And so she does, but is considerate enought o keep her tail out of the mix, "Mysssra isss alwaysss happy to meet new people." She doesn't seem to notice anything false about the man's grin.

More used to the vagaries of human expression, Gefrey shifts a little bit, making sure his cloak is loose and the polearm strapped on his back is quite visible. "A veteran, Master Miksel?" he asks.

Oh, yes, that beady little gaze flicks to the polearm. But just briefly. "Oh, nay, not really," he says with a small shrug. "Jus' a farmer from outside de Reach, aye." That hug is returned. "A pleasure t' meet ye, too, M'dear."

"A farmer?" Mysra asks, "What isss it that you farm? Mysssra isss in need of thingsss to make handtartsss with, and ssshe hasss very many of thossse ssshiny bitsss that people like to trade for them."

"Oh? That's a good profession," Gefrey notes with a nod. "If I might ask, how did you come by that limp? A bad accident?"

"Very bad," Miksel agrees. "Plow dun run right o'er my foot." Proudly, the Freelander displays the damaged limb. "Here, now, one o' dese shops 'ere be mine, M'dear," he says to Mysra, beginning to guide her down the street, if she'll come. "Ye c'n buy wot ye need, aye? An' at a very reasonable price, I might add."

"They are ssstill open?" Mysra asks, following along with Miksel quite willingly, "Many of the placssesss in thisss cssity were not open and Mysssra could not buy thingsss from them."

Gefrey Driscol 's frown suggests a slightly less trusting attitude toward this shop, and he follows along at a steady pace. "Hmm. I've not heard of this shop before now."

"Dere be many shops in de Reach, aye," Miksel replies to the duke, pleasantly enough. "Aye, M'dear--ye're talkin' t' the keeper o' it, why not? I c'n do a little favor for someone from out o' town."

It happens suddenly. For just an instant, as Miksel lets the conversation lull for the space of a few seconds, the silence in the city can be heard. Pervasive and overwhelming, a silence that creeps into the corners despite the distant sounds of activity. Or is it silence, really? Perhaps just that brief flash of foresight before trouble.

Two men spring from the shadows of a narrow alley, blades glinting in moonlight and lamplight. A wordless cry, another, not so wordless, about Shadow, and one of them is already aiming for Mysra.

As for Miksel? My, that limp did heal fast. In one movement, he goes to slip his arm from around Mysra and sprint down the street--if he isn't caught, that is.

Mysra backs up, gasping as she realizes what's going on. The Syladris tries to dodge that strike aimed for her, and yells, "Mysssra hasss done nothing wrong! Why do you wisssh to hurt her?" Miksel is forgotten by the goldscale as she messes with the rather heavy coinpurse she has, wrapping the string around her hand and grasping the top of it... and then /swinging/ it at the man who has attacked her.

Swiftly, Gefrey unsheathes his poleaxe, and in the same circular motion brings the blunt end to bear on one of the attacker's wrists, to try and smack the dagger out of his hand. "No," he says firmly. "You should know better."

The Duke's blow just about *takes the man's hand off*. Bone snaps, a loud, popping crack loud enough to give a sharp *pock* sound that seems to ricochet off store walls and cobblestones. The dagger drops to the ground with a clatter, and a howl escapes the man as he falls back a step, cradling the injured limb and looking about wildly before he starts to flee down the street after Miksel.

As for the other? A single swipe of that second knife--a dented, scratched hunter's blade--knocks Mysra's purse aside. Barely. With a hiss of fear... no, make that fury, he readies himself for another attack. Two words can be made out in that hiss: "Shadow creature."

Unfortunately, a coinpurse isn't made for parrying blows, and the knife tears a hole in it. Mysra's coin spills out all over the ground, rendering the bag pretty useless as a weapon. With a startled cry, the goldscale drops the purse and looks for a rock instead, while keeping her eyes on her assailiant and dodging where necessary.

Gefrey Driscol twists, drops, and swings his poleaxe, this time hoping to catch the assailants legs with a sweep of the shaft, to knock him over. "No murder tonight," he says. "But words for the guard, and maybe a broken leg or two."

Mysra's scrambling yields up a sizeable cobblestone, worn loose from the road with use and big enough to fit easily in her hand. It'd also cause some hefty damage.

The remaining attacker spots Gefrey's staff as it flies down towards his legs, jumping high to get over it--but it catches him sharply at the back of the knees. Down he goes, into an undignified heap on the round, letting out a yelp of pain as the strike hits. But he's not seriously injured--just downed. And that blade is still in his hand.

The Syladris snatches up that rock quickly and turns back in time to see the man go down. Tears are streaming down her face, and she faces that man not in anger, but in fear. "Mysssra doesss not want to hurt you," she says, holding that rock ready in case she has to swing it, "But ssshe will if you attack her again. Leave Mysssra in peacsse. Ssshe hasss done nothing to dessserve thisss."

Gefrey Driscol looks up to find the running pair, then shakes his head, twirling his poleaxe around so what we shall call the business end is pointed straight at the man's throat. "Drop your dagger," he says quietly, "and Mysra shall confiscate it while we wait for the city guard to come take you in."

The man quivers briefly... and the dagger falls from his hands. It lands on the cobbles near Mysra and lies abandoned.

The Freelander, a scruffy man of no more than twenty-five, quivers on the ground as if held there by invisible ropes. "Ye'll regret dis," he growls, eyes never flickering from that polearm. "'er kind'll destroy us all. But by den it'll be too late, won't it?" A bitter, hollow laugh.

Somebody, probably a storekeeper closing up shop or one of those few passersby, has called the guards. It's not a terribly private place, after all--close to the alley's entrance though it may be. Now their booted footsteps and the jingle of ringmail announce their coming as they draw near.

Mysra frowns. "You know nothing of Mysssra or her friendsss," she remarks, picking up the man's dagger and tucking it away, "/You/ are the one who attacked for no reassson. /You/ are the one who doesss not care to underssstand before fearing." Those tears flow more freely, and the goldscale settles into her coils to cry, "Why mussst people hurt Mysssra? Ssshe hasss not done anything wrong. All ssshe ever doesss isss cook for people and try to make them happy, but people think ssshe isss bad..."

"Master, there are a few things you should know," Gefrey says in a dry tone. "First of all, we don't try to intimidate Dukes like that. Second, unless you are incredibly certain of your abilities, attacking a nobleman carrying a poleaxe is incredibly stupid. We do have access to rather good training as we are raised.

"The third thing," Gefrey continues, "is that if there is anything I will regret, it is that there are apparently so many who would pick and choose portions of the law as they like it. If there is anything that will destroy us all, it will be that, I imagine." He nods to Mysra, before calling to the guards, never taking his eyes off the Freelander, "Two of his compatriots escaped. One is a middle-aged man with a bad limp. I did not get a good look at the other, but his sword wrist is broken quite badly."

The leader of the guards there divides up his men, sending three off to find the other two, and leaving one more and himself to take care of the one on the ground.

That one also doesn't appear to be listening, either to Gefrey, or to Mysra. He's turned his face stolidly to the side, teeth clenched, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. As Mysra first begins to speak, he flinches--visibly--away from here, and there's fear there. But there is no other reaction. And no other words. As the two guards drag him to his feet, he spits on the ground in front of Mysra, and trudges off with them.

"You are a very mean perssson," Mysra remarks softly to the man as he spits at her, "Mysssra wissshesss it wasss not ssso. You could have been Mysssra'sss friend." She continues to cry for a while, getting it out of her system, before the goldscale finally calms down and straightens up. "Firssst thossse bad people attack Mysssra'sss home," she says to herself sadly, "And now more mean people from Fassstheld attack her..." She shakes her head and starts slithering off westward, "Mysssra doesss not think ssshe likesss Fassstheld anymore."

And in her wake, the crickets sing on into the night. It is, and will forever be, that some remain untouched when violence draws near.

Return to Season 7 (2008)