Idly laid plans..

[Alastir]

It had been an easy thought, and an easier carrying out of such idly laid plans. During a routine trip to the township itself, he'd noted one of the shoppes had a room above it for rent. And it was a cheap room considering that the famine had people with little money to spend on it.

"And how much was the room?"

"Oh, not too much. Fifteen shillings a month, do?"

The elderly gent was bespectacled and dusty from hawking wares. He turned to brush dirt from his shirt, and small bits of straw.

"I shall take it. Here."

Coin was deposited into the man's hand. Of different mint, but money spent all the same, didn't it. The gentleman didn't even look at the coin. Merely counted it and stuffed it into pocket.

"Thank you, Sir."

"You're a good boy, polite and kind. I can see it in your eyes."

"Why, thank you sir."

It occured to Alastir that people here are not accustomed to such polite manners, and to treating those older then you with respect. But it has occured to him that using this approach is the best avenue to getting anything done in an orderly and quick manner.

"Move in at your leisure, young man."

"Thank you, ever so kindly."


And he had done just that. Each day, when he'd gone to town for supplies for his chemist tonics, and poultices - he'd taken extra clothing to stash in the room above. Then, the next day he'd stashed one saddlebag, that was full. Of course, he'd taken his horse. On the third day, the last saddlebag was taken to the room. Spartan furnished as it was, he'd pried plank from under the table to put the saddlebags there. And the table was placed back above it. Then, he'd paid for three months to the old man by way of note and small coinpurse. Then returned to the Inn.

All was going according to plan, and even then - one had to have contingencies didn't they?

Oh, why yes. They did.

[Alastir]

The next day had been remarkably odd. He'd slid himself into Myrken's scene a bit too much perhaps, and had become known to some around the outlaying areas with the farmers. And this had led him to gather much in the way of information of how people felt. But that night? That terrible night..

"How did he know? Shrewd cunning old man. Playing the fool but all the while, he knew. I shouldn't have undestimated him.." Alastir thought to himself on the way back towards his secondary residence. A sort of safe-house as it were. He'd circled the block four times in different directions to make sure none had followed him. Casting glances, making sure before he'd gone up into his room above the shoppe.
--


He'd left the lights off and made way to his bed in the half-light of the moon. None had followed him. He'd put himself in this position and wasn't entirely sure how to extract himself. Now, someone knew. And he'd have to play along - perhaps heal for free just to keep his secret safe. He'd not underestimate anyone, ever again. It was a simple lesson in humility, wasn't it. He'd relied on his own shrewdness, and his arrogance had blinded him to this fact. He was acutely aware of it. And it was maddening.

"I'll have to play along with him, until I can be sure he can be trusted. Either that or gain some leverage to make sure he doesn't break his word. But then again, he hadn't actually given me any word. Only dodged questions, offered speculation but - he is greedy. Perhaps his greed will keep his mouth shut if I keep him healthy." Thoughts rolled, and Alastir twisted on the bed.

"Don't forget, son, that people below your station are not stupid. Just because you have a position, doesn't mean it's invulnerable. Peasants are people too, and are as shrewd and cunning as any nobleman. They have what we call, Peasant-dumb. Where they fake stupidity so you'll fall into a trap of arrogance. People are sometimes ruled by their desires, their goals, their own motivations - but most of all their own ethical codes. Some are stronger, some are weaker. But, a cornered animal is the most dangerous. Especially wounded. The same goes for people. Remember that, always."

"I know, I know. And I played right into it, didn't I? I'm so smart, yet so stupid." Teeth grit, and he rolls face down onto the pillow.


So what now? What could he do now? Merely keep the facade and keep things quiet. Act like nothing is wrong. It was the only course of action. Perhaps find some leverage, find something to keep harm at bay. Or at least, keep his past his own secret.


Yet, admist the darkened cobblestone streets; in the alley - eyes watched still.

[Alastir]

The week had given rise to many different happenings. Ideas, catapulted themselves into the forefront of the man's mind. Alone now and late at night he'd stolen away from the Dagger towards his safe-house in town. Saddlebags remained under the floorboards, and a book was placed aside it. No, he couldn't be caught with -that- upon his persons. Best to leave it here. There is various umbrics, and alembics, vials - beakers, a small candle-burner to one side of his room. He'd transformed the room over time into a small alchemic labratory. Of course, to make the different things to pass off his true talents. He'd knack for the basic chemist's premise. And further, even more so. For even his talents needed a push now and again. But, alone, and here - he could focus on learning without eyes watching him. He could relax - and continue the studies he'd sat aside for the veritable escape here.

A quiet sigh; the books he'd borrowed from the library held no clues.

"Useless library. Tomes of history, tomes of hearth-lore - and nothing of advanced medicine, or a yewman's toasting."

It's part exasperation, and part knowledge. Garnered, cravings of it. The phantom twinge of his back. He rubs at it gingerly before blowing the candle out. Silence, nightfall. The bed is warm - and the ceiling has become familiar.


Oh, you shrewd boar, now you'll not understimate me. Now, you'll keep your secret for fear of your health's diminishing returns. But, I will heal you full. I will make sure that you live. So you understand, not to understimate me. Not to mock me, with your simple manners that hide that keen mind underneath. I will not lose to you. Not again. Even admist that keen razor of yours, there is something to shine, isn't there. I take your challenge then. To make you healthy. May you prize your health, sometime.

But, lo, the smirk on the man's mouth. The razor-ken of pale-green eyes that hook the candle's area. A glance at his hand - the 'diagnosis eye' retorts. Healthy, clean limb. Muscle-sinew in right order. Tendons, connected perfectly. Muscle twists into knots - relaxes. A quiet flood of adrenaline. Muscle contracts. There's a soft squeal of metal.

Then silence.


And in the distance catticorner to the shoppe where he hides; eyes watch the shutterboards.

[Alastir]

It'd been a few days since he'd returned to the place in town above the shoppe. And this had been a night for it. So many things had happened. So many peices of a puzzle that'd been slid into place. The bed was more comfortable then the one at the inn. And iron-eyes would be mad if she didn't find him. At this point, he didn't much mind. He'd gone through the food he'd bought in one evening. Or rather, wasn't it morning. The after-effects of adrenaline still made him rather groggy. And all the fruit and dried meat he'd eaten made him feel better. The right side of his face still ached slightly - but it was more from the itch's after-effect then anything. A few tiny scant lines of paler skin then normal appeared there. His hands hurt, and he ached some. But these would pass with some sleep. And he knew it.

"At least, it works. That's all I'd hoped for."

There was no candle-light and the shutters were drawn and locked tight. There was scattering of books, and the alembics and beakers were empty. He'd retrieved his bag on the way back to town. And he'd still had some fear of the burning-eye's return. But, his arrogance let him choke down that fear - for it would have to recouperate too, wouldn't it? There was always some hope there. But, he knew it didn't fear him. And threats to it were hollow. But there was something he did know. It could feel pain. Even if it was undead, or inbetween - it could feel pain. And not just physically. It hated evil, most of all. But, there's the rue - wasn't it? That it had become what it hated the most. It almost makes him pity the burning-eye. But, it'd not killed the girl from the inn. And she was somewhere, alive. He only hoped that she'd be found in time. He should tell constable-quicksilver. But what? He was sure if he did - he'd either be censured for it - or worse. Called a fool. And he couldn't tell why he'd come out of it alive. The hu-- miss Quiller could. But, she said she'd keep his secret. He only prayed she would.

"Quite a mess, I've gotten myself into. Ow."

His voice was still slightly hoarse, and was on the mend. By the time he'd wake up - all his injuries would be gone. Now, it was time for sleep since he'd gorged himself on food. Afterwords, he'd been so ravenous. And sleep kept nudging at his conciousness. He'd plan contingencies tommorrow. Oh, tommorrow -- He had to get the note from the bartender so it wouldn't be sent to Miss Emory. He'd forgotten to get it before he'd came here.

"Too sleepy."

Soon sleep claimed him. And eyes, having missed some, perhaps little, still kept their view.

[Alastir]

The night was crowded with his thoughts, and the pause of deliberation had come in the form of a tankard of cider that he'd stolen away with to his room to drink while he thought that night. So many different things had happened.

"The Ashfiend, and now the warmonger-man. Myrken is generally cursed, isn't it."

It's a fleeting thought, and one that strips hope away but he had more hope in the hatred of evil Ashfiend had, then the silver of hope that the fiend had humanity. And he'd bank on this fact, quite greedily himself. They'd not given him the name of the man who'd declared such a war, so insanely. But, they'd said he was a monster. But, was he a devil? And of this SinVraal? Was this man a devil too? And what would the Ashfiend do if it knew there was more then one devil? Would it hunt the warmonger, too? It's a plan, and it's quite insane - and he knows this. But, would it work?

"Maybe I should rethink this. A different approach. Would restoring Ashfiend's humanity return him to being human, and thus mortal?"

It is this line of thought that he's been pursuing after the incident with the burning-eye. He knew he could hurt him, but to what extent? And for what? Could he be rid of the curse? It would take a lot of time in preperation, and thought, and the machinations. But there is Vraal and the warmonger to think about, too. And Myrken without a shield.

"I should learn how to use a shield. Since, I've no talent with a sword."

It's a quiet laugh, to himself as he entertains such a notion. Learning how to use a shield, as a weapon, as a defense. It'd stop a sword, but would it stop a ruinous one? Would it give him time to run? Perhaps he'd ask iron-eyes about it. Maybe she knew. She was a swordswoman after all. His eyes were heavy and the cider was running low. He falls asleep half-sitting up with the tankard sitting to one side. Eyes close, the world ends.



Or does it? Does the world stop, even when other eyes are watching?

[Alastir]

"Ey' wot, you want me to build wot son?"

The old smith peered at the detailed diagram of the shield-gauntlet. Some feat of ingenuity of course, at least Alastir thought so. It was neatly designed for just his own purpose. It was partly gauntlet, partly rounded small-shield. And with an extra-over lap crescent of metal over knuckles that bended when one put their fingers through the loops. And, with straps that attached to forearm, in two places, and wrist, alike. All to balance the kinetic impact it might take.

"Hmm. Y'd be better off with a kite shield, son."

"Just, humor me, if you would please, Master Smith."

"Won't take too long, cause y'kin easily take some stock of mine and put em together."

"I meant, the design. It's feasible to use? I trust you know about combat?"

"Ay', I can tell what a man's been up to by looking at his weapon and it's condition. I see you're puttin' joint at fingers and an extra bit attached there. You gonna use a blade in the same hand as a shield? That's pretty reckless and crazy in a fox sorta' way."

"No, I wasn't going to use a sword at all."

The smith laughed, rather loudly.

"Son, you say that as if you don't want to hurt anyone. This could be used as a weapon."

"I know. But, I merely want it to deflect, mainly. If necessary, sturdy enough to strike back."

"When do you want it, son?"

"As soon as you can finish it."

The old smith looks the design over, then scratches out a price on it. And it's a hefty sort of thing.

"This do?"

Alastir looks at the price. It was hefty all right. But with all he'd saved in eating at farmer's houses, and the money he'd collected from serving Treadwell, and farmer's small tithes. He could afford it.

"I'll throw in an extra ten percent if you can finish it by tommorrow."

"I'd have to order all my apprentices in, to do it so quickly."

"Hence, the extra ten percent."

The old smith laughed, yet again. The kid was either clever, stupid, or had too many ideals in his head. But, the kid seemed nice. And he'd heard about him being a healer.

"Wot say t'is, we pass on t'is ten percent and if we ever need yeh to heal an accident of uh apprentices, or say - my old bones 'ere, we come and get yeh?"

"That's quite a favor, Messer."

"Ay', and tha's quite a design too."

"Very well, it's a deal. Tommorrow then?"

The old smith nodded, then picked up the paper, and stared it.

"You mind iffen I make some changes, it'll help you out in the long run?"

"As long as they're functionary."

The kid used big words, didn't he. One of them educated noble types, but he seemed more decent then they were.

"It'll be jus' that."

Alastir smiled at that, before turning to slip out of the forge. He'd have to go into town to secure the money necessary. But after this, he'd be at least somewhat armed. Even if he hadn't a clue how to incorporate it into any sort of fighting style. He'd never learned an armed fighting style before. He hoped he could negotation, or persuade iron-eyes to teach him. Because, with all this insanity as of late - he needed some way of defending himself. It's not as if he didn't want to rely on others for help - it's just they couldn't be there all day, all night, all the time. He wasn't naive enough to completely miss that idea.

[Alastir]

The price he'd negotiated for the defensive weapons were rather steep - but he didn't see this as a problem. It'd cut slightly into his older funds, but he still had plenty to survive off of plus a bit more. Though he'd have to be frugal otherwise on other different things, such as clothing, for the time being. But with the stipend and the farmer's chiming in now and again - he was fine.

They were exquisite things, of master-make. And he was rather excited when he got home with them. He'd tried them on, and they fit snugly. Almost too perfectly. How did that smith know his size? One would guess experience, and he's not good at guessing in this type of manner. He'd worn them for a couple of hours to see if they'd offer any discomfort. After a while, he could feel muscles pulling - they were unused to the weight. But, after a while he didn't really notice after the warmth of muscle had subsided. And, the way they were made - they were easily tucked at either side on his hip - and almost camoflauged themselves as hip guards.


"I wonder how easy they are to move with, though."

Of course, he had no natural talent for swordsmanship, even though his brothers had put him through the ringer to try and train him. It's just, he wasn't any good at it. But that's not to say he didn't know something of sword-fighting. General terms, perhaps, and motions, but little else. But, there was something that the healer's order had taught him. How to defend one's self unarmed; and without harming others too much. So, he'd been telling the truth when he'd said he hadn't any training with armed combat. But, he'd neglected to say he'd had training with unarmed combat. He idly wondered if he could incorporate these into the style he'd learned. But it'd been ages since he'd practiced at all. So, he figured - it might be best to sequester himself away for a few days and excercise some. Try to get that old feel back, and then go for more training under iron-eye's watchful supervision.


At least then, he could try his hand at deflecting someone using a sword. He was just hoping he was somewhere in the general vicinity of speed that she was. Though, it might take a while before he got there.

[Alastir]

These are troubled times and Alastir is no less troubled by all the different incidents that have happened lately. There is the odd letter from Glenn, that'd gripped the man's fear for him. But, hopefully he would be safe. Alastir, at least, hoped he would be.

Then there is the entire incident with Zayken that he's to think upon. At least some of the people of Myrken would stand up to it. The rest would merely cower in fear, in their homes. But, this is life and these are people.


"Talent does what it can, genius does what it must."

A fair exemplar of things to come perhaps, but the man's no genius in fighting. And he's spent a fair time practicing blocking blows with the gauntlet-shields of his. And, how has he done such without eyes to watch him?


"Sir, you said when I moved in here - you were fixing to retire. Was that correct?"

The old man looks at Alastir, "That's right."

"What are you going to do with your shoppe, and the warehouse?"


"Oh, nothing really. Just close it down. We're moving, the missus and I. Too dangerous here anymore. And, no one really cares for fish anymore."

"So, the building will be left to rot?"

"Oh, no. I'll just board it up."

He hadn't understood what Alastir was asking.

"I'll buy the shoppe from you. How much do you want for it?"

"S-s-sell?"

"Well, you said you were moving, and I don't expect you'll be back, right? Why not take some coin for your trouble - and it'll help smooth the process of moving, right?"

"I already have money, son, and I doubt you could afford the asking price."

"I'm not going to continue renting it, if you're not here to pay, Messer Smythe."

"Well, heh." The kid had caught him in the act, hadn't he?

"Well, so, a fair price then, for the buildings - and the land. If you're not coming back it won't matter. And when you get to where you're going, where is it you're going anyways? - never the matter, you'll have coin to buy new land."

"Tempestia."

"What's that?"

"It's a small country other side of the mounts, in the mounts, inbetween Thessilane and Dauntless."

"I've never heard of it, or seen it on any map."

"It's young, I don't expect it'd be in Razasan's libraries, yet."

The hell did the old man just say. He stares at Messer Smythe a moment, who merely smiles.

"Oh."

"Anycase, young man, here's the price." The old shoppekeeper scrawls something on a peice of paper. "Can you pay it?"


"Yes."

"I figured. I'll turn the deed to you then, and you can send your money here."

A slip of paper is exchanged, and Alastir nods.

"Take care, son. You've just bought a shoppe cursed by ill-luck, and worse times." The old man laughs, before slipping out the door.

And maybe, the old man was right.

[Alastir]

It's no suprise what one can do, when one doesn't sleep. Or only sleeps very few hours of the day. The sign of the old fish-shoppe, and warehouse - had been taken down. The placard's old script tossed into a firebin for reclaim later for anyone who wished it. It'd taken most of a night of hard work in cleaning the place. The front shoppe, and the back warehouse, too. The old man hadn't left much. Some rudimentary furniture in his old part of the upstairs. And Alastir had taken the larger room as his own now. With a little push-shove of moving furniture about. And now, he had his own kitchen, and stove. Along with plenty of room for his things.

Now, what exactly should he make this place? He'd taken time to make one part of the warehouse a training room for himself. Lining the beamed ceilings with ropes and bags of dirt to swing about. And try to avoid. He didn't have time to bother iron-eyes at the moment. And he wasn't about to ask silver-grim to teach him how to fight. And the hours he'd finished such alterations to the place gave rise to the hours of welts, bruises, and sore wrists. Ignas had been right. Blocking straight-out hurt. A lot. Deflection was easier, and less painful. He'd remember that.


A day later...





He'd returned back to his shoppe, and sat down at the bare-table, with a loaf of bread. The bruises had already gone, but the soreness remained. He'd not gotten rid of it. Let it be reminder to him, of everything. The meetinghouse and the meeting itself had given him sudden realization. That there isn't a difference between the nobles and peasants here - save one, and that was degree of wealth and perhaps education. Everything else? They were exactly alike. And coming between them with a peaceful solution - wouldn't do anything. He's heard the history - that many of a governor who hadn't done as they'd promised - were evicted by force. It's no wonder Razasan ignores this province. It's no wonder why it's cursed. It's cursed by it's own people. But, how do you combat such?

"Perhaps, with a shoppe of some repute."

The idea had nettled him considering that many of the peasants here hadn't known how to read, let alone write with any clarity. They had no school worth mentioning, at least, in his mind. They didn't even have a choosing-day here. It's no wonder that poor Elizebieta was starving. She hadn't any training in any sort of field, nor an education to make sure she didn't starve. He had no pity for her plight, save that her Father wasn't teaching her anything save how to complain with gusto. But, how to remedy such?

"A shoppe that sells many things. Books, an Apothecary, and Healings. It'd save me time in having to travel to the peasants. Each man pays according to how they can."

And here is a grand scheme turn this place into a book shoppe. Also, a place where those who cannot read - will be taught - how to read. Maybe education would get rid of their ignorance. Perhaps it would lessen this divide. And then make the only arguments about wealth. Teach them math. Offer healing, as well on the side. Sell herbs, and remedies, perhaps. It would gain him some money - and some good will both. But there's a part of him that's pessimistic - that thinks that even education can't save these willfully ignorant peasants. And the optimistic side, the idealist's side - thinks that it might help. That if they understood the responsibility of noblesse oblige - the whole entirety of it, then they might not be so quick to complain of it. Then they could come up with their own remedies - that didn't include using an entire militia to push what they wanted. Perhaps a school, where those who were gifted at healing, could be taught to heal others. He was a Master, after all, at his craft - who wouldn't want to learn? Or would that bring about too much suspicion? A soft sigh.


"Or maybe, I'm just a fool."


Eyes, were still watching as that placard was stripped down.