Black Wings

 We ask a simple question, and that is all we wish: Are fishermen all liars? Or do only liars fish? 

Wildling Reach Tavern


 * Startling cracks of light show through the clean, polished board floor of the tavern. Squinting through them one can see all the way down to the bubbling marsh below and the rowboats that float there.


 * Windowless and dim, this board construction sitting atop stilts smells unsurprisingly like swamp, smoke, and fish. Light comes from oil lanterns on the walls as well as the big tin stove set upon a careful pile of rock that also casts some semblance of heat into the room.


 * Above this a cauldron of fish stew bubbles merrily and Berny Slough, the wary-eyed innkeeper, is more than willing to haul a marsh-chilled keg of beer up on the rope from which it dangles for the well-heeled patron. A trapdoor leads down to a small dock below, while a door to the side of the bar leads upstairs and into the storeroom above.

''Welcome to Wildling Reach: Home to fish, swamps, marshes, fish, fishermen, more swamps, suspicious locals, and a few wooden shacks upon stilts. Not to mention the various creatures that would kill and eat you without so much as a second thought. Well, those and the rumored tribe of Wildlings that's supposed to call this place home.'' ''It is hardly the highpoint of the Fastheldian Empire, but it holds a certain charm about it if you squint /really/ hard and tilt your head to the side. And then leave.'' Regardless, it is a place that holds some importance, for within the somewhat deserted tavern of the forsaken village three men can be found: ''One appears to be a ranger of sorts, sat at the bar, most likely clad in leather armor or some kind beneath the long black leather cloak that enshrouds his form. One is a man clad in black robes, sat in a corner of the tavern at a viewing angle to the ranger, apparently reading a book. The other is the tavern's owner, Berny Slough. The local cook seems to be missing from the equation.''

To the uninformed, the Ranger - although he has a look of nobility about him - could be anyone. To those versed in legend and lore, the ranger is quite obviously the Sovereign Prince of the Blood: Serath Kahar.

One such person steps into the tavern, with the light step of the seasoned traveler. The wandering bard tugs back the hood of his travel-worn cloak and pulls his braid free of its collar, looking about at the relative desertion. "...A small audience," he notes with a smile, walking over to the few present with a slight bow. "But quality over quantity should be a law of life. Light's greetings."

"Sit down." The ranger offers as a near whisper, just loud enough for the bard to hear. His gaze remains affixed upon the neglected mug of ale that stands upon the bar in front of him. "Don't say anything. Just do what I say."

Taran obeys, taking a seat with a little nod and an interested expression.

"I'm being watched. Listen..." that same ranger murmurs to the bard now sat beside him, watching that same mug as if he feared that to not do so would somehow cause it to spill. "I'm going to get up in a minute and walk upstairs. That guy in the corner behind me will follow me. You follow him."

''That guy in the corner doesn't seem to have noticed Taran yet; or, if he has, he's pretending not to notice. He just continues to read the book that's in front of him.''

Taran smiles slightly, and nods. True to the original request, the bard does not speak.

Serath waits a few moments and, after placing a few coins on the top of the bar to pay for the untouched ale, carefully swings his legs to the side and moves off the barstool to stand. Careful not to make eye contact with the man in the robes in the corner, the ranger-prince takes a moment to adjust his equipment, offers a simple to Taran, and then - near soundlessly - navigates around the tavern to arrive at the door that leads to the storeroom above, vanishing up the stairs a moment later.

Taran taps his fingers lightly, almost soundlessly, on the countertop - tempo allegro, 5/7 time, but the pauses are irregular. Perhaps the bard is composing, or remembering a melody.

''The man in the corner looks up over his book for a few seconds. A glance is cast upon Taran tapping out a tempo, and then apparently dismisses the bard's presence here as trivial at best. Carefully - quietly - he closes the book he was reading and places it upon a chair that rests next to the one he was sitting on, moving to stand a moment later and following Serath's path through the tavern.'' As predicted, the black robed ascends the stairs that lead to the overhead storeroom a few moments after that.

The music stops as Taran withdraws his fingers from the old wood; rising to his feet, he follows with light steps - up to the storeroom, with the caution of a man fully expecting lots of trouble when he gets there.

Storeroom 


 * A dull "L" shaped room that sits above the establishment below, the Wildling Reach Tavern's storeroom is a fairly generic affair, and one that is lit only by the few weak lanterns that hang from the various wooden support beams that keep the structure standing.


 * The wooden floor underfoot is dry and somewhat dusty, with most of the available space taken up by crates and barrels of various items, and a chest or two containing goods of a more expensive nature. The door that leads back downstairs is at the top of the "L".

''"Expecting Trouble" it is! The 'clink' of steel ringing upon another weapon greets the bard as he finally catches up to the other two that preceded him. At the far end of the "L" shaped storeroom, amidst the shadows of the rarely frequented place and beyond the eyes of the Imperial Law, it would seem that the robed man had made his move; Serath having apparently just parried an attack from a somewhat wicked-looking shortsword composed entirely of shadow.''

''Indeed, even the robed man's attire seems to have changed; for where once black wool could be found, now only the shifting shades of shadow remain. Shadow blades and a shadow robe. The man is quite clearly a Mage, and an unmarked one at that!''

Serath himself hasn't changed much; except for the fact that a steel longsword has come into play - one which doesn't seem very well suited to the cramped environment as the Prince parries the various strikes and thrusts of his current foe.

Taran is perhaps spared the choice of a weapon by having none that he would know of - it seems he also has no compunction about ignoring the commonly accepted rules of fair fighting, either. Moving as soundlessly as he can, the bard aims a punch at the mage's spine - having no hope of doing more than providing sufficient distraction.

''The interaction between bardic flesh and robes forged entirerly of shadow result in an audible *crack* of sound. An almost electrical spark that seems to flow more from the act of the two elements meeting than the force of the blow, stinging both bard and mage in the process. Regardless of interaction, Taran's 'distraction' seems to do the trick.'' ''With a yelp that quickly turns into a snarl, the mage - all wild-eyed and bloodthirsty - turns on Taran. Something is snarled in a language not of this world, and that wicked blade of pure shadow is brought to bear, ready to strike at the very heart of the bard that dared to interrupt this conflict.'' Which is all the time that Serath needs to make his move...

Taran hops back, shaking out the fingers of his striking hand with a pained cry that turns to a snarl. "I *play* with that hand," he growls, and the bard's expressive tenor makes clear that he is very angry indeed. If further 'distraction' is needed, it's likely to be with a boot to the mage's knee.

''Without much warning, the mage's guttural tirade is brought to an abrupt end as a point of sterling steel erupts from the shifting shadows of the mage's chest. This earns a short chuckle from the mage as he places both hands upon that point; the shadow blade dissolving into nothing as the life fades from the body of the summoner. The mage looks back upon Taran, offers an evil smirk, looks down at the blade and then...'' *Thwump* Both Mage and steel longsword fall to the ground in a heap of weight and limbs; the latter firmly impaled in the former's body, most likely lodged between ribs.

This is a factor that earns a mutter of vexation from Serath. "Well, shades."

Planting one foot on the dead mage's back, the Prince takes hold of the longsword's hilt and YANKS - to no avail. "Well, shades. I didn't think this through after all," he offers, letting the blade and the mage remain where they are for now, finally regarding Taran in turn, and not without a smile; regardless of the scene before the two. "Good work. I am glad to see you, by the way. You just caught me at a bad time."

Taran raises both eyebrows, laughing quietly. "I came at your call," he reminds. "Or at someone's; when letters may appear on my person, seems wisest to heed the call." He looks down at the body. "...Are you quite sure he didn't plan on dying, my lord? I'd think most men would be a touch put out by having a blade through the chest..."

''The robe of shadows silently dissipates, leaving only the black wool of the mage's original attire in its wake. That and a darker spot around the long blade that sticks out of his back.''

"He planned on someone getting killed today. I don't think he counted on it being himself, though." Leaving the sword where it stands, Serath proceeds to kneel and pad the dead man down, checking his body for anything of importance. "For the record, this isn't /quite/ how I expected to finally meet you, Taran Songbird. I imagine that works both ways, too."

"...I saw you, in Lightholder," the bard replies with a smile, absently massaging his shocked hand. "The staff was...indicative." He tilts his head. "I have you, or a friend of yours, to thank for my Lute, I think?"

"Keen eye." Serath remarks with a smile, looking back up at Taran as he finishes his current task. Finding nothing, Serath stands once more, regarding the longsword for a moment as he ponders how to get it back out. "The Staff was a gift for Rowena, in case you were wondering and - indirectly - yes, you have me to thank for the 'Fat Lute'. Although I didn't "give" it to you, per se. That went down the network to another Pathfinder."

"I am often accused of being perceptive," Taran replies with a slight bow. "Which is quite worrying, considering how often I feel the fool. But my thanks, and more than thanks, for the Lute; she is quite the treasure." Absently, he re-settles his cloak across his shoulders. "But your message spoke of need." He indicates the robe, and the stained sword. "I do not think this is quite what was meant?"

Serath absently places a heel on the mage's back. "Not quite. As I said, you just caught me at a bad time. It seems that the reason I requested you also caught the attention of the cultists. Things are moving faster than I thought, but I-" *YANK* The longsword is pulled free, crimson dripping from the upper quarter of the blade. "-digress. I'd like for you to run an errand or two for me, if you don't mind?"

Taran bows. "I could hardly refuse, now could I?" he asks, a laugh rippling behind the words. "What would you have of me? I will serve to the best of my ability."

"You could, and I'd think no less of you for doing so, especially after what you just witnessed." Serath kneels again, proceeding to clean the blade of his longsword with the robes of the somewhat very dead mage between himself and his bardic counterpart. "Do you know of Vhramis Wolfsbane and Lucius Nepos?"

Taran nods. "I know of them, my lord, aye," he agrees, flexing his fingers. "And...at least this one wasn't on fire, is all I suppose I can say. Shock wears away sooner than pity. What would you have me do?"

After taking a moment to stand and re-sheath the longsword upon his belt, Serath gestures towards a large leather backpack hidden between two equally large crates, and explains: "I need you to deliver two very distinctive artifacts back to their rightful owners; a shield and a warbow, no less. I won't lie to you either - these are draconic artifacts, which is most likely the reason why the Cult of the Dragon decided to show up."

Taran blinks. "Cult of the...Dragon?" he asks, surprised. "You have my attention - redundant, as you had it before. Of which dragon?" Abruptly, he stops himself. "Forgive me - my curiosity does have a habit of taking over. Of course I will see to it that your items are delivered; which to whom?"

"No, I didn't think you'd heard of them." Serath muses, turning back away from the direction of the backpack and towards Taran once more. "Of Xil'varath, to answer your question. I doubt the name means anything to you. I don't think it would mean much to very many people within Fastheld *or* the Wildlands. Better to keep it that way. The Pathfinders have been keeping most of them in check, but they seem to be growing in numbers."

He waves a dismissive hand, "We're not talking about the "Bored Nobles Get Arrested By The Watch" cultist meetings either. Regardless, the less you know about them, the better. The shield needs to go to Lucius; the warbow to Vhramis."

Taran winces, laughing to himself. "Knowing or ignorant, stabbed is just as dead," he says. "But what I know, I fear less - even great danger has its limits." He nods, looking over to the backpack. "Bow to master Wolfsbane, shield to master Nepos. I will see that they have them."

Serath merely nods to that, and then wanders over to where the backpack has been stashed. It seems that the items are not *within* the backpack, however, but behind it; the backpack itself used to mask the distinctive glow of dusty blue that emanates from the darkness behind the two crates. Within a few moments the items themselves are on display - The Lady's Flight, and The Lady's Aegis. Two artifacts from the Dragoness Kalath'aria: She Who Protects. "I don't think I need to tell you to be careful with these." the Prince notes, dragging the items out into the open. "And I don't mean in regards to damaging them. I mean in regards to who and what they might attract."

Taran nods, bending to touch them lightly. "Beautiful," he murmurs. "But...I do have some minor experience in hiding the glow. Speed, it seems, will be of the essence; I know I can not protect these as well as their masters will."

"There's also a little something in the backpack for you." Serath offers in that distinctive regal purr of his; considering that Taran is near the backpack, one can only assume that that was what Serath judged to be the best time to announce that. "And while you consider that, I need to figure out what to do with this body. Light, I hope he isn't dripping through the floor. That's just what we need."

Taran opens the backpack to peer inside - his tilted, almond-shaped eyes widening significantly at the armor inside. "I -" his voice cracks in sheer surprise. "...I...thank you," he says, clearly finding the words inadequate. "But - what need have you of a fool?"

"Every man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day;" Serath offers with a smile, looking away from the body of the fallen mage. "Wisdom consists in not exceeding the limit. Now then, you'd better make haste. I'll stay here in case some of his friends decide to show up. Besides, I should be able to figure out what to do with him long before then. If the Watch were to find out that the Prince of the Blood had been attacked by an Unmarked Mage... well, the people of Fastheld aren't going to care if people are Marked or not after that."

Taran nods, picking up the backpack. Considering the shining armaments, he removes his cloak and wraps them in it. "I have a spare cloak, as well," he says quietly. "Under wraps is the best place for them." With a rueful look, he says, "Spending my five minutes of foolishness - when does one *wear* that armor? It hardly seems something one would wish advertised."

"I doubt most people would understand the significance in someone wearing armor that belongs to a group that doesn't exist." the Prince notes with a smile, the ice-blue eyes of the Imperial bloodline alight with amusement. "After all, most are unlikely to notice that the ranger sat in the corner is the Sovereign Prince of the Blood. People aren't very perceptive about things unless they need to be. As a bard, I doubt you'd understand what that feels like, what with perception being part of the job description. And even if they *do* know what the armor is symbolic of, it doesn't mean anything."

Taran blinks. "...Well," he says, laughing quietly. "I shall have to find myself a weapon other than my fists, in case I am caught upon the roads en route...staff or bow, I think. But - thank you." He bows. "I shall try not to fail the trust."

"Light keep you." Serath offers in return, before sighing and lowering to a crouch beside the now exceptionally dead mage from the Cult of the Dragon. "You know," he laments, "Fishing is boring until you catch something. And then it's just disgusting."

"On the other hand, a well-prepared fish filet is quite delightful," the bard offers, adjusting the backpack and the cloak-wrapped bundle to rest more easily in his arms. "Light keep you, my lord; as to the body...I have always found the obvious places to be the best. Find an open grave in the graveyard, tip him in, and cover him just enough that when the proper coffin is lowered he won't be noticed." He grins. "Not that I have ever had to give the matter much thought, you understand. Light keep," he repeats, slipping out.

The sound of laughter flows in the wake of Taran's departure; morbid laughter, given the nature of the amusement - but dark humor has a place in the world as much as all things do.

Return to Season 5 (2007)