A Wolf Among Sheep, Part III

Chapel Nave -  -
 * The Lighthaven Chapel is a chapel, sure. But it's far more than that, too, for while Imperial Law still counts for something in the little village of Gate Town, a law cannot always bring happiness. Gate Town is, after all, still on the wrong side of the Shadow Wall. It's here, to the chapel, that the people bring their sorrows, their joys, their hopes and their fears and lay them all before the Light. It's here that the people (well, some of them) come for refuge when life comes down on them.


 * But even for a place like this chapel which serves as the lifeline for a large portion of the town, there's a budget. And in Gate Town, it's not a very big one. Bare gray stone makes up the floor and walls, and the place is hardly bigger than a medium-sized hovel. The "alter", such that it is, stands at the back, jury-rigged from a couple of old crates and sometimes a tablecloth - that is, when it hasn't been stolen. The stubs of a few greasy candles usually burn atop it. Those are rarely worth stealing, and very few would bother.


 * The pews have seen better days, but they are the original ones, constructed for the chapel when it was first established along with the township. They're little more than wooden frames covered with worn cotton cushions, now. In places holes have been torn in the cotton, and the stuffing spills out. In others, large portions have simply been ripped away to expose the bare wood beneath.


 * The only way out is back through the door one must have come through, back into Gate Town.

-

It's been a long, fairly fruitless day of searching. Oh, it's not that there's not been crime - this is Gate Town - but the spiders that spin webs in this blight aren't so easily found just for the looking.

It remains, perhaps, hard to blame the petty thugs that live in an uneasy and often shattered peace, here, but they look dimly on the better dressed wanderers from beyond the Shadow Wall, and have been less than forthcoming... even when threatened.

So it is that by the end of the day, in taking a moment to shelter from a brief summer evening's downpour outside, a certain ranger finds herself here - in a hopeful sanctuary still tainted by the grime of the world outside. There is no priest, there are no parishoners - but the candles are alight, smoky tallow sending trails lazily to the ceiling above.

Expelling a slow, exhausted breath, Caprice pulls back the hood of her cloak and swipes a gloved hand through her hair, finger-combing damp flyaways with little success. She stands there at the mouth of the door, wringing out the tail of her cloak and stomping mud from her boots in an effort to make herself more presentable, but in the end, she maintains the look of a bedraggled pup.

The door's rusty hinges creak ominously behind her before closing with a thud that echoes from the high ceiling.

One second passes - two. Dust drifts down from an exposed rafter, illuminated by the thin candlelight.

The voice from the wings .. perhaps it isn't wholly unexpected, given the timbre of the day. It's rough, touched with so much amusement, uneducated and sparing. "Y' got big ones, fer a girl."

A shadow detaches itself from the deeper shadow near the altar. "Brass ones. Probably chime when you walk. Wonder who you stole 'em from?"

It. He? Probably - he's tallish. thin. Nondescript in stained leathers, with truly a face only a mother could love. Not that it's deformed.. it's just.. off, somehow. Not quite in proportion, with eyes of different colors (one blue, one brown) - his teeth are even and white, coming as they do with a smile that isn't kind, but may be trying to at least be disarming.

His approach is completely unexpected. Reese's head snaps up suddenly, wide eyes turning upon the man in a moment of unguarded surprise. A brief moment. In the next instant she steels her gaze, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Aye, mayhap y' hae th' same, rogue," she tells him. "Weel ken, aye, whit when I'm cuttin' 'em off."

"Oh, shut it. If I wanted you dead, girlie, y' would hae been a'ready." The fellow rolls his eyes, clamboring up to sit on the back of a pew, two away from the ranger. "Mind, I know a brothel you'd fetch a right price at - but I'm bettin' you and I, we can do better than that. see, I know you've been askin' questions. Poking your nose in - lucky you've not got it bloody, yet."

Caprice is careful to keep a healthy distance between herself and the man, although she seems grimly aware of his obvious advantage. With a heavy oaken door at her back and the element of surprise lost, she merely watches him, stone-faced and silent.

He crosses his arms - the leather he wears creaks. Ah - there it is - the long knife at his back, but, no, it's not drawn.

The question he asks is blunt, however, "You been askin' questions about certain people. People that don't like questions, much. Makes you unusual, around here - 'specially because you don't know who those people are. Why?"

"Why, becoose he keeps sooch gude-lookin' friends," the Pathfinder drawls with a wry quirk of brow.

"I thought they looked a might ratty, m'self." The man scratches at a stubbled chin. More bluntly - "Do you have business with him.. more o' a personal nature? I'm not askin' for my health. See, I'm askin' for yours."

A rare and genuinely amused smile from Caprice Firelight. "How verra consid'rate o' ye," she quips. "Dae ye play doctoor wi' all th' lasses, sir?"

"only the right pretty, stupid ones." The fellow shows what he probably thinks is a friendly smile. "Spit it out. We all got our jobs to do - I got mine. So you can tell me, or I can get ya killed - no hard feelings, mind. And no skin off o' my nose either way. Just a shame to have to spit a pretty girl." A pause. "If you go with the dyin' part?" He's quite serious - "No havin' fun first. My word on that. See, we're not brutes about it - just work that needs doing."

"Aye, t'would be a shame," Reese agrees with a solemn nod. For a moment, it would seem she is prepared to acquiesce, her shoulders rising and falling with a small sigh -- and in the next instant, she is spinning and leaping, one booted foot planting on the wall to spring... but alas. There just isn't enough room for her to maneuver, let alone build the momentum to vault over the man and put herself in a better position. She comes down awkwardly and lands on one knee in an unsteady crouch, once again paying the price for reckless, runaway overconfidence.

His knife flicks out with an easy confidence, the movement certain and practiced and... his expression wry. It's levelled at her - long enough to be something more than a knife, yeah, and definitely less than a shortsword. The ugliest sort of knife - with no real use but fighting.

It's unashamedly a bare six inches from the Firelight's face, gleaming in the dim. From above, in those open rafters, comes the sound of tightening bowstring.. left and right. "You know, girlie - you make bad choices, m' guessin'. This a habit of yours?"

There's nothing from Caprice save a sharp sweep, with the intent to knock the man's feet out from underneath him.

Caprice moves - but the slender fellow and his knife stay out of the way with almost contemptuous ease.

*TWANG* *TWANG* - arrows thud into the pew; one wide, one near the ranger's head; there are two more, at least. But no time! NO time to count, no time to react - that knife is flickering in, snicker-snack, the fellow carrying it wielding it with obvious skill, and murderous intent. A slash at her forearm, a feint that follows up with a cut at the woman's throat...

Too many variables, too quick, no time, this way, that way... no way. Caprice jerks violently, attempting to roll, to twist out of harm's way, but lady luck is not with her. The steel fang tastes her flesh, and its bite is red and cold.

She grunts, blood oozing through her gambeson to pool in an ominous, discolored puddle beneath her ringmail. Teeth clenched and breathing labored, she grabs at the man's wrist, that sickening red something trickling down her left arm. Droplets are flung as they wrestle, each fighting for possession of the blade, each trying to present the other as a target for the archers.

He.. wasn't expecting that, apparently. What starts off as wrestling ends up with a twist to his wrist that elicits a yelp; the lady-ranger manages to take possession of the knife.

Behind her, two bowstrings sound as the man retreats; he moves to vault over the intervening pew, trying to gain some distance.

Reese rises to give chase, but it's when she stands that the damage dealt shows its true and ugly face. Blood runs in red rivers from a gash at the nape of her neck, draining the color from her already-pale face until she is white as bone. She falters a step, lightheaded -- and it is in the second it takes for the Firelight to get her bearings that she forfeits a quick finish. Still, she presses on undeterred, her black cloak snapping in her wake as she breaks into pursuit, clearing the pew and ducking behind it for cover.

A second knife comes out - far less of a blade than the first, but still dangerous. The man flashes a toothy grin again - baring teeth - circling wide for the altar; bowstrings again twang. This, apparently, has gone past jibes and taunts. He does, however, certainly seem to enjoy his business.

Tha-thunk, thunk!

Arrows punch into the very space where Reese's head would be, if she weren't crouched behind a pew. And behind a pew is precisely where she wishes to be. Biting the flat of the knife, she holds it between her teeth, eschewing it for her widowmaker.

Vice comes out to play, swallowing a bolt greedily.

The arrows do not fire, now - the Ranger is under enough cover that firing them lacks a certain point. Unreliable shots do little, after all.

The knife-wielder edges around the altar, drawing a second in his off-hand; there are no more to pull from the sheathes at his back, in his boot... but that leaves one left to throw.

And, yes, throw he does as Caprice finishes readying the bow, that time just enough to let him add his own missile to the mix ...

Room. That's all she needed. Breathing room, and that intoxicating rush of adrenaline, and the sweet, seductive feel of sin between her fingers. Smooth as satin, she bobs her head to evade the incoming projectile, then squints one eye to sight the bastard and return the favor with her personal compliments.

It's pure luck. Absolute pure luck - he happens to move up along the altar; the bolt caromes off of one of the crates that make it up, diverting just enough to miss, just close enough to cut leathers. And then he's on her, with that knife; slashing savagely, trying to say in close where the crossbow is more hinderance than help.

Caprice sees him coming, quick enough to trade bolts for blade, but not quick enough to gain the first strike. He's on her, his deadly edge skimming the obsidian mesh of her cuirass harmlessly, and then it's a struggle in a too-tight space between the pews. She fights to get her arms around him, to embrace him tightly, to draw him close enough to kiss... and drive her knife into his back.

STAB. It's a meaty, tearing sound - one that has the fellow dropping a knife from numb fingers, eyes going wide. The sound he makes is a croak, at best, his weight suddenly heavy as a second stab hits something even more vital.. something that has blood bubbling at his lips.

He is dead, or close enough - but the Shadow District is not kind, and the bowmen have no qualms about finishing the job the ranger's started. Bowstrings again thrumm, setting the air aquiver with their remarkably deadly song.

Reese's breath is warm and wet on the face of the dead man straddling her, and his blood feels much the same when it spills onto her nose and cheek from his gaping mouth. There's no time to contemplate the nature of human mortality, or the ruin of his corpse: the archers remain, and desperate men are the most dangerous.

She looks left, looks right, looks up, and just as the arrows are loosed, she props the body up as if a macabre shield, wincing at the sound of the missiles punching into his flesh.

And then everyone's on even keel. As swiftly as she can, with her head swimming and vision blurring and the world swaying unsteadily, the wounded Pathfinder crawls out from beneath the man's remains, shoving them into an unceremonious sprawled heap before once again reloading Vice and aiming for the closest man on the rafters. She is panting like a beaten dog, and bleeding just as badly, but she squeezes that trigger all the same.

Bow on crossbow, two archers on one ranger... Vice's word sinks home, but not in flesh, no. The quarrel lodges deep in a rafter-pole, the bowman flinching away ... they remain in their positions, flanking the door; what else is there, but to fall? What was an ambush is now limiting their movement - but they fire, oh, yes. They certainly do, with an eye to bringing down their prey before they are brought down in turn. But.. now it is a game of waiting and cover, of readied shots and moments of clarity...

Lovers passing in the night, crossbow bolts and crudely-made arrows; none reach their intended destination. Caprice mops sweat from her brow, thumbs it from her eyes, and sniffs, sitting with her back against the ruined pew. One moment to breathe. Just one. Then it's another bolt, just another, one more, one more and a stroke of madness, of brilliance.

Cradling Vice in her arms, she sets to work at a near-frantic pace, slicing a strip of linen from the clothes of the dead man beside her. Her fingers are shaking. She blinks the clouds from her vision. Shaking, shaking, but she knots it, knots the cloth around the tip of the bolt, gives it a tug. A line creases her forehead.

Back on her knees she goes. Vice is couched. Another bolt picked off. But not at the men above her, no. At the candleabra on the altar, that one tiny source of fire. One tiny source of fire... and a wall covered in flowing tapestries, and pews and pews of abused cushions vomiting shredded cotton.

The bolt hits its mark, the candleabra holding the few tallow candles there. Over it goes, sticks of flaming wax rolling and skittering across altar and cobblestone floor; but there's no time to watch, no time to see if it's caught... there are more arrows, and sudden shouts of alarm from those in the rafters.

One archer is lucky enough to catch Reese in the shoulder as she lowers Vice, eliciting a wounded bark and an awkward recoil that's painful to watch. She clutches her hand to the site, grimacing, slim fingers parting around the missile's shaft. And while her shoulders are hunched over from exhaustion and blood loss, she is still able to lift her head to regard those above her, argent-blonde locks plastered to her brow with blood and sweat.

"Repent!" Caprice Firelight implores of them, voice breaking. "Repent, 'n yer las' mooments alive!"

Her weapon is brought to bear once more, quivering in her unsteady grip, and a final shot is fired off to dissuade any further retribution.

At the altar.. the flicker of firelight grows brighter, the smoke thicker; the tablecloth that covers those wooden crates seems to have caught.

In the rafters, the two trade nods, one gesturing to the door - the leftmost drops out of his perch, dangling, then letting himself fall, while the other ducks the bolt sent his way. The former seems to be eying the heavy door...

The latter fires a shot; it's aimed, but the intent seems more on serving to keep the ranger's head down than anything else. A retreat, it seems, is in order.

It works. Reese dips her head behind cover again, the arrow whistling through the air above her before plugging into the soft wood of the wall behind her. It's time to go, but she doesn't, instead staggering to her feet with Vice hanging halfway off of her shoulder and swinging her head in the direction of the fallen archer. And as the flames lick around the altar, and acrid clouds begin to fill the room, she bites back the pain, moving toward him with the unsteady swagger of a drunken sailor on a swaying deck to seize him by the hair and slice the apple of his throat.

With a gurgle, the archer who was dragging himself to his feet painfully discovers quickly that you cannot scream with a cut throat. He crumples, trying to still his lifesblood's escape.. and failing miserably. But in the rafters, the last archer moves enough to fire - and there is no cover, the range short, now... That one hurts. Caprice screams then, a single cry of pure, unadulterated agony. Her knees buckle and she doubles over, the filched blade falling from nerveless fingers as that horrible stomach-wrenching burning claws up her spine. A second arrow has sprouted just below the first, its crimson bloom terrifyingly close to the heart... but almost doesn't count.

How long she stands there reeling is anyone's guess. When reality reacquaints itself with her, the younger Firelight finds herself in a sea of smoke and flame, a hellish prison promising doom to any foolish enough to linger.

Saliva with a frighteningly coppery-tasting twinge is swallowed back and followed up with a dry heave and a gag. Tears streaming down her face, the Dawnbringer turns in shuddering, stunted movements, like a broken marionette. One foot before the other, a goose-stepping series of stomps. The blaze is spreading around her.

The dead man, the lithe dagger-dancer with the twisted smile, the unlucky sot foolish enough to underestimate her, is seized by the collar and dragged along with. One foot before the other. One foot. The other. Again. Again. A gloved hand slaps onto the doorhandle, pulls... pulls...

And the rush of fresh, cool air that greets Reese is as sweet as freedom.

The Watch is here - though there are not enough of them to pacify gate-town, there are enough to organize the denezens in trying to save the church. Luckily, there is enough space and darkness, enough hue and cry.. to vanish into the shadows, should that dawnbringer so choose. Regardless - the church behind sheds light enough to find a path.. whatever that path may be.

- Return to Season 7 (2008)