The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Most of the patrons had retreated to bed, or to cool baths to ease the heat of another long, sweltering day when the messenger pushed his way through the tavern door. He too was suffering from the heat, and his dusty linen shirt clung to his back with sweat as he leaned over the bar. Young, hungry eyes sought those of a half asleep tender, and without a word he thrust a piece of folded parchment toward the man. It was sealed with a plain circle of wax that bore no emblem, and "Ashfiend" was written in a decidedly feminine script across its top. The tender was curious, a dozen questions dancing at the tip of his tongue, but the messenger hardly paused before he was striding back out the door. He had been paid to deliver the thing, and been paid well not to open his mouth.

For you,

Under a large rock, near the southern edge of Silver Lake.

It bore no signature, no way of identifying its author save for the script itself. If anyone were to go through the trouble of tracking down the messenger, they would find he could report only that a man by the name of Cutter had employed him to deliver a letter for a witch..

Even though the night was late, when the messenger arrived, there were still a few stragglers about, nothing of note just a small group of four crowded around a corner, a table moved to the side held their drinks. They seemed to be involved in a game of sorts, and game of chance, and perhaps coin moved from one to the other, but it was all in good spirits..dice rolled as the ale flowed.

They were a motley bunch but not rowdy, males all it looked at first, and with their heads turn, and the language used it could be true, that not a lady was in the bunch, an easy enough observation. One slipped a head to the side to see the hand off, there was a smile hidden beneath hood and curls.

Then back to the game, and the ale....but mostly the game, this one impreticular loves the game...

What is needed now is a worthy opponent.

William staggered inside, his legs aching from a hard march after an equally hard day's work. His stomach growled in hunger, his heart shook with fear, as he noted the handful of patrons involved in some game for coin. Without sparing them a second glance he sped quickly to the bar only to attempt to forcibly slow himself half-way, causing a distinct jump in his gait.

Do not look suspicious, or out of place, he thought, else the Ashfiend will be displeased you drew attention to yourself. Get the message, ask who left it, and leave. For the sake of your family, William, do nothing else.

It took several moments to convince the bartender that he came from the Ashfiend himself. His own hand, burned by the Ashfiend's terrible, leashed chill was not quite enough. Followed by a wilted rose, one of the tell-tale symbols upon the creature's scorched armor, was enough to receive the simple message. A few questions, and at the cost of what coin is in his pockets, earns William the simple information of a message delivered by a man from some witch.

He was not terribly surprised that such a creature would have dealings with witches. Though, he considered, what type of person would willingly deal with the Ashfiend was another matter entirely.

There is a quick thanks, and a brief recitation of the message itself as he looked it over. It is quickly rolled and stuffed into his belt before he fairly runs out the door and towards one of the gardens where the creature awaited.

Soon, he hoped to any gods that might be listening, soon his family would be safe.

The farmer's progress does not go unnoticed; a tired-looking man of middling years and appearance sits nursing an ale, apparently watching the game of chance as the anxious fellow makes his way to the bar and presents his credentials. That idle gaze flicks to follow the man from over the rim of his mug as he abruptly slows, attempting to assume an air of nonchalance; he's not very good at it.

The tired-looking man remains where he is as William is given the letter and swiftly departs; no sooner has the farmer passed through the door than the onlooker is rising himself, cloak swirling behind him as he follows the hapless messenger. His footsteps are near-silent, and he stays close to cover as he trails the man, demeanour no longer tired but keenly alert and resolute.

We shall see where this leads. As shall the watcher's comrades, discreetly stationed around the tavern's environs.

Totally unaware that someone might be following him, as thoughts of his dear wife and children dance about him in ghosts of memory. At least, he considered, he hoped that they were memories - and not shades left behind after their death.

It took him some time, distracted and anxious as he was, to locate the stone apparently indicated by the brief, bizarre letter. His wounded hand would not assist him in the task either. It is only then that he spares a brief, cursory glance about himself. Pulling a hammer from his belt, he attempts to worm the handle between dirt and stone to try and lift the granite weight with a simple lever. His face flushes as he attempts to lean on the hammer and raise the side of the rock.

An image of his son, charging Ashfiend with a simple staff, flits before him just then. With a final, desperate groan he manages to heft the rock aside. William tumbles over as well, clutching his death-touched hand and panting for air. Even as he lays in the dirt his uninjured fingers slip into the shallow hole, attempting to grab whatever is inside.

Soon it would all be over.

Soon.

The poor unsuspecting farmer, Doing everything possible to secure the safety of his family, and here he was perhaps leading their death on. For even though he followed the directions prescisely. The thing Ashfiend would surely end the lives of all he loved, if it was discovered he was followed, if they were not already to the grave that is. Fortunately the gypsy has no knowledge of this to cloud her judgement as she watches from within the group of players.

As she plays, the woman eyes the man as he enters, see his desperate squabble with the tender, and then his departure. She was about to move, when another moved first. The solo drinker, she had noted him earlier and his interest in the game, but when he moved her instincts kicked and she held her place, taking another roll till he was safely out the door. Then a look to the second floor, where a shadow shifted.

Taking her leave of the game, she moved at an easy unrushed pace towards the door, a nod to the tender and she was out. Moment before the window of the room she keeps opens, and a bird is release. From the air it hold similarities to the a hawk, or falcon, but this bred is not of this land, not of this Province. nothing from sea to sea would match it. It is as foreign as the gypsy's mysterious accomplice, but its skill is sharp. From high above it swirls following the farmer who is followed by another....Who from a distance is followed by the gypsy, who through sight and sound, is lead by the tracker...

Why did that old lady swallow the spider?.....oh right to catch the fly...

The poor unsuspecting farmer, Doing everything possible to secure the safety of his family, and here he was perhaps leading their death on. For even though he followed the directions prescisely. The thing Ashfiend would surely end the lives of all he loved, if it was discovered he was followed, if they were not already to the grave that is. Fortunately the gypsy has no knowledge of this to cloud her judgement as she watches from within the group of players.

As she plays, the woman eyes the man as he enters, see his desperate squabble with the tender, and then his departure. She was about to move, when another moved first. The solo drinker, she had noted him earlier and his interest in the game, but when he moved her instincts kicked and she held her place, taking another roll till he was safely out the door. Then a look to the second floor, where a shadow shifted.

Taking her leave of the game, she moved at an easy unrushed pace towards the door, a nod to the tender and she was out. Moment before the window of the room she keeps opens, and a bird is release. From the air it hold similarities to the a hawk, or falcon, but this bred is not of this land, not of this Province. nothing from sea to sea would match it. It is as foreign as the gypsy's mysterious accomplice, but its skill is sharp. From high above it swirls following the farmer who is followed by another....Who from a distance is followed by the gypsy, who through sight and sound, is lead by the tracker...

Why did that old lady swallow the spider?.....oh right to catch the fly...

The paper wrapped parcel was small enough to fit easily in the palm of the man's hand, and was carefully secured by a single length of blue dyed thread. What that paper kept was hard, and were his trembling fingers to clutch it tightly enough, the edges would quite easily give way to the stone beneath..

The blossom of a rose, hewn from a single piece of powder blue chalcedony by a practiced hand. Beneath the chalcedony lay a darker stone upon which the blue crystals had formed, and this too had been carved into a swirling leaf pattern. This carved stone was the sole content of the package. No name had been left, no contact nor partnership sought.

It would reach his hand if he wished it to, of that much she was certain. She was no bit player, not in any of their shadow games. The cries of a dying world would not have her lift a hand, not against this one, nor any of the others who had come before. Small fingers would pace the length of her neck through the dulcet, halcyon hours time and again, waiting only for the thing to be complete. Soon it would begin again.

A rose, William considered with a desperate sigh. Why, of all things, did it have to be a rose? Wouldn't the Ashfiend consider it mockery, or arrogance? Wouldn't such a slight send him into a murderous frenzy and destroy what little hope his family had for survival?

Its beautiful construct, given the circumstances under which he had discovered it, bespoke witchcraft. Its elegant beauty could not fail to capture his attention for a few moments before, remembering where he was and who waited nearby, he headed towards the neighboring apple orchard upon a gentle slope. The poor fool had no way of knowing if he had been followed.

He also ran with the flower at his side for any observer to see and the wrapping beside the rock-tomb he had pried it from. Spindly legs bore him quickly, fueled with fear and love, into the orchid. For a moment he cast about with narrowed eyes, unable to see much save for the trees.

And then it grew quite cold.

As the breath escaped him in wispy clouds, quickly dissipating once they moved beyond the Ashfiend's presence, William felt his knees trembling. He took a deep, ragged breath to steady himself - a breath that also froze in his lungs. From the shadows beside him flared the baleful, livid Ashfiend's gaze secreted away beneath a hood whose presence stood in sharp contrast to the vibrant orchard.

Without offering a word, the darkly armored figure extended a single gloved, injured hand. William gaped at the torn, translucent flesh beneath and offered a silent prayer. Gathering his courage, the farmer placed the rose carefully into Teron's outstretched hand and waited.

For his part, Teron turned the flower over in his hand, evidently studying it before he lowered the hand to his side. That it was a rose, of all things, intrigued him. Shaped by great skill, magic, or some combination of the two. Very few had ever offered him gifts of alliance - most things he took were from those he had already killed or those who paid tribute out of fear of annihilation.

"Is this all?" Ashfiend rumbled in an empty, hollow voice.

William nodded. "Except," he began, meeting those unholy eyes for the shadow of a second before quickly averting his gaze. "Except for the simple paper it came wrapped in." As the silence threatened to drag on, perhaps feeding the hate in Teron's eyes, he added, "the paper bore no mark!"

"And the one who left it?"

"A man named Cutter," William spoke too quickly and, licking his lips, fought to bring the warring emotions within him under control. "At the behest of.. of a witch. m'Lord."

"Indeed," Teron replied, looking over the rose once again. There was only on witch he remembered, a dream-witch, a permanent enemy and also occasional ally. "Very well." At that he turned to depart, making for a particularly dark patch of shadows amongst the trees. What starlight there was caught the faded golden hem of his ruined cloak.

"But," William started, advancing a step. "But m'Lord! My family?" His words echoed back to meet him, panic coloring his voice as it threatened to break. "What about my family?"

Seemingly mesmerized by the rose, twisting it before his eyes and watching how its elegant curvature reflected back his gaze ten-fold, Teron abruptly halted. "Your family lives..." and, with that, he stepped into a puddle of shadows and was gone.

William stared in shock for several moments before he turned and raced home. Had the creature told the truth, or was it merely drawing out his own agony? Reaching the farmstead and throwing open the door, he found his terrified family inside. Amidst the embraces, hugs, tears of sorrow and thanksgiving, they were far too busy to consider one question.

Why had the Ashfiend allowed them to live?

The tracker circled high above...around and around, in slow precise sweeps. A vulcher looking for scraps of meat, a hawk honning in on its prey...but it was not hunting, it was seeking...and It was a beacon...And the gypsy was close. but not near, she could tell by the trackers position where the farmer stood, and held position just enough to see his efforts from afar.

When he moved the trackers dove and swooped. Spinning up higher he trails off in the direction of the orchard aswell. the Gypsy saw the direction and followed, knowing the area, she was able to cut a few corners, and was slipping through the orchard just behind Poor William.

she moved, near parrell to him, yet within the thick of the trees it was easy to remain out of sight. the sudden chill though had her hault and take more firm cover.

She watched the exchange, heard the words, even caught glimpse of the offering. the word witch, and the name Cutter were noted and filed...Then Ashfiend, was pulling back into the shadows...and the farmer rushing to see if his family was indeed alive..The tracker would follower the farmer....and when all were gone..She would move out,and examine the area...Looking for anything of note. Looking to see if the chill of Ashfiend presence, frost bit the leaves near where he stood.

She remembers his touch, though it seemed Alastirs skills were more then talk, for her hand was healing well...

Other things she sought out were basics, foot imprints, any evidence of weather his fading to shadows was some sort of smoke and mirrors effect, or if he enters some sort of in between. Anything she could gather from that place she would...And then she would see this farmer...and his family....

For nothing that she has heard about this Ashfiend, gives hint that he would be compassionate. Unless....

The tracker circled high above...around and around, in slow precise sweeps. A vulcher looking for scraps of meat, a hawk honning in on its prey...but it was not hunting, it was seeking...and It was a beacon...And the gypsy was close. but not near, she could tell by the trackers position where the farmer stood, and held position just enough to see his efforts from afar.

When he moved the trackers dove and swooped. Spinning up higher he trails off in the direction of the orchard aswell. the Gypsy saw the direction and followed, knowing the area, she was able to cut a few corners, and was slipping through the orchard just behind Poor William.

she moved, near parrell to him, yet within the thick of the trees it was easy to remain out of sight. the sudden chill though had her hault and take more firm cover.

She watched the exchange, heard the words, even caught glimpse of the offering. the word witch, and the name Cutter were noted and filed...Then Ashfiend, was pulling back into the shadows...and the farmer rushing to see if his family was indeed alive..The tracker would follower the farmer....and when all were gone..She would move out,and examine the area...Looking for anything of note. Looking to see if the chill of Ashfiend presence, frost bit the leaves near where he stood.

She remembers his touch, though it seemed Alastirs skills were more then talk, for her hand was healing well...

Other things she sought out were basics, foot imprints, any evidence of weather his fading to shadows was some sort of smoke and mirrors effect, or if he enters some sort of in between. Anything she could gather from that place she would...And then she would see this farmer...and his family....

For nothing that she has heard about this Ashfiend, gives hint that he would be compassionate. Unless....

Several apple trees in the orchard, which had framed the Ashfiend before he vanished, bore the telltale signs of his prolonged presence. The branches that had regrettably reached for him bore leaves stained with a gray, lifeless blight; cancerous and dead. Several leaves had settled about his bootprints, nearly obscuring several of them in their dead blanket.

There, where he had vanished into the darkness, were but a pair of footprints. Either he had taken to the air, or had simply vanished - or whatever else such a thing might suggest to the inquisitive mind.

As for William, his family had indeed been spared. It had not been some malevolent joke upon the Ashfiend's part. Though everyone in that family bore the marks of Teron's vengeful grasp upon their hands or shoulders, they all still breathed, slept and cried.

Gathered the damaged fauna, leaves and apples, plucked and set into a pouch, the trail followed till it went no more, the prints were solid enough...Then nothing..

Did he need the shadows to enact such an escape?..Where they an important piece?..thought now on ways to trap the fiend if need be. Of course the only way she could think of diminishing shadows involved the use of magiks which itched her nose and caused her neck to stiffen.

Nothing else could be found here, so she stood and moved towards the entrance of the orchard. A familar sound, from above, as the tracker returns, swooping down to an out stretched arm. the claws dug into flesh, but the woman seemed to be used to the effect.

The bird was not tame, not by any stretch of the word. They had entered into a partnership, there was equal amounts of respects. Its frame close up dwarfed most game bird of the area, the length and strength of beek and claws could slash and rip flesh with ease. Feather held colors of browns, blacks, greys, whites, though upon and near the head and neck strikes of deep navy blues...Showing it to be a female bird, for the males held Green Strikes....

"Where did he lead you?..."

the question came not in words, but in a series of whispered whistles and clicks, it is similuar to the way she comunicates with the Vertex. The bird head tilts and twitches, clicks and caws return. the gypsy of course knows not what the bird is saying...but the movement of herhead, give her clues.

"Show me..."

And the she throws up the bird once more and she is gone to the sky....the tracker leading the Gypsy towards the farmstead of Poor dear William and his family...

William lived not all that far from the Broken Dagger itself - separated from the dangerous, infamous hub of bizarre and downright dangerous activity by a small number of miles. He had the dubious honor of supposedly dwelling near some heathen religious site whose standing stones, nearly ten in all and each standing four feet tall, marked the edge of his property.

A handful of trees stand between his door and the footpath that meanders past land that has, regrettably, shrunk over the past several years. A tightly packed number of graves cluster alongside the house, cradled against its weathered wall.

It is several long, tenuous moments upon which William opens the door to peruse the figure before him. Behind him stands a woman, both their faces pale with fear and their eyes betray their attempts to master it. Both struggled with an inner, queasy *knowing* that the Ashfiend had released them too easily. In his free hand, however, a sharp eye could catch a hammer held beneath white knuckles. Was the woman one of his servants? Was their salvation only a cruel joke?

"It is a lonely hour to be on the road," William began, quickly shaking the semblance of a stutter. "What do you want?"

"Teron Ashfiend...

Came the only words from the Gypsy. Ash she pushed her way inside. If the farmer, had any knowledge of the area, he might recognize the Gypsy when she was under the light. but once inisde she looks to the woman...and then to the farmer...

"Everything you know....from first meeting, to last... Careful farmer.. A lie may be deadly...

Best he close the door, now..