measured_words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
measured_words) wrote2006-09-03 06:06 pm
measured_words) wrote2006-09-03 06:06 pm
Shadows 3.3
I even met my personal schedule, though I have realized that I need o fix something in 3.2 to have my timeline work. eh- whatever. It is close enough :)
Shadows 3.3
Matteo shifted his position very carefully, trying to stretch an hour's accumulated tension out of his legs while keeping very quiet. It had to be almost morning, and he was tired and stuck. Not three meters away were a number of cages holding Crimson Masks. Two of them were babbling incoherently and throwing themselves at the doors of their cells. Another was curled up into a ball in the corner, chewing on its hand and rhythmically beating its head against the wall. Thump. Thump. He'd started using the sound to mark the passage of time in the absence of natural light. A fourth simply lay on the hay-strewn ground, occasionally bursting into convulsive fits, peals of mad laughter, or both. The gibbering ones, he was sure, still knew he was there. The minute he showed himself again they would start screeching madly, cackling and grabbing out of their cells towards him. The others would join in and then one of the other cult members would come down to see what had set them off. That would be no good - he'd only barely escaped detection the first time it had happened. There were only so many places to hide in this room, and most of the good ones were a fair bit distant from his current location.
A row of stacked crates separated off the half that wasn't full of cells from a table covered in alchemical supplies. He didn't understand much about the later, but he knew that whatever he could do to muck up the cult's operation would be beneficial to his cause. There had been some things bubbling in strangely shaped glassware containers and he'd mixed mixed them together in random proportions, adding in some powders he'd found in the crates for good measure. One of the concoctions had turned from black to a deep orange and clouded into a thick purple smoke that burned his lungs before dissipating into the air. He'd been more careful after that, but still managed to sabotage the rest of the supplies he could get at in the crates.
He could have stayed hidden there easily enough, but he'd never be able to escape. It was on the far side of the room from the sole entrance. Instead, he stayed crouched where he was, in the shadow of the crates and next to the door. He could hear preparations being made in the upper room and knew that it was only a matter of time before they made their move. They'd be distracted when they came down to collect the masks, and that when he'd make his bid for freedom.
Matteo was tired. He hadn't had the chance for any trance since the previous evening, and keeping still required a lot more control and effort than people who'd never tried it might credit. Relaxing at this point might be dangerous, and so he continued to wait. Another hundred thumps of the mask's head against the cell wall: another ten minutes or so. The commotion upstairs seemed to be increasing. There were heavier footfalls and more metallic clanking. Some of the cult members must be strapping themselves into the heavy armour he'd seen when he first snuck in. Any time now. He took a deep breath, and waited.
It was another ten minutes before they headed downstairs, three of them filing in with long rods with clamps at the ends big enough to fit around a man's neck. The masks growled and shrank as the other red robed figures approached. A priest growled something unintelligible that made the hairs on the back of Matteo's neck stand up - Infernal, he guessed. The masks seemed to understand, as they started gibbering and moving towards the doors of their cells. The two armoured men flanking the priest moved forward then - now was his chance. He slipped behind them and slunk cautiously up the short stone stairway. He was given no opportunity to pause at the top as another set of armoured men were about to head down. He stepped quickly into the gloom behind the rack where the wavy-bladed ceremonial weapons issued to the masks in battle were currently housed. There were, he estimated, about fifteen cultists all together, and they were on the move. There was no time to waste.
He kept close to the shadows, like he'd been taught. he had to make it out of this room before he could do anything else. The people here were distracted, at least - they weren't expecting an enemy in their midst. Not for the first time since he'd abandoned his conversation with Gordon's Shadow, he cursed he fact that he'd fallen into this unprepared. The festival night was supposed to have been a chance to unwind. Instead, he'd learned the hard way that there was no such thing as 'off-duty' in a war like this. If only he'd had his cloak, and were dressed in more stealthy colours than the bold red and green he'd chosen in the hopes of catching the eye of some of the local ladies... At least he had a good set of knives, his component pouch, and his gloves. He still wouldn't bet on his chances if he were caught at this point.
But somehow, he wasn't. He made it to the door. A whispered word of magic, and it slammed open. He ran. The resulting moment of chaos gave him the time he needed to gain some distance.
At first he just ran to get away. He wasn't familiar enough with the city to orient himself easily while on the move, though he'd noted some key landmarks the night before. Everything looked different in the early dawn light. He needed to head towards the market district.... north, then, which meant crossing the river. Shinkyo was a large city, and though there were people about at this time of day, he had been running for twenty minutes straight without coming across a single conveniently placed horse. His legs were screaming for him to stop. He was sure the cult could follow him easily enough, too, simply by tracking the direction of the puzzled stares. Elves were a rare enough sight in the south when they weren't tearing through the streets like madmen before reasonable folks were even settling down to their morning meals. He ducked into an alley to catch his breath.
What he really needed was a better plan. He'd never make it to the compound if he had to keep up this pace. He wasn't sure where exactly the cultists were planing to start their rampage from or, for that matter, if the compound was their only target. They might have horses or even wagons, and Prince Lynel was currently housed at the Daimyo's palace further east. They might even head there first, but his best bet was to get to Volaris and the others, and hope that none of them had overindulged in the festivities. He needed transportation. Slipping through the alley to a neighboring street, Matteo hurried towards the waterfront.
Another ten minutes and he'd found what he was after: an inn with stables. He'd picked up a half-empty wine jar on the way to serve as a prop. He paused for a moment to make sure there was someone inside, and prepared for his entrance. He took a swig of the sake - a cheap vintage, even better - and was sure to spill some down the front of his shirt. He was positive that he looked otherwise properly disheveled. A song on his lips, he staggered into the stalls and looked around.
Right on cue, a pair of stable boys popped out of the hayloft to investigate, pitchforks in hand. Still singing, the elf relieved himself against one of the walls - just a strange but harmless drunk. He made a subtle alteration in his tone as the pair stared at him in confusion, and they were his: fascinated.
"Why don't the two of you saddle me up the fastest horse in this stable," he called out to them before picking up the next chorus. "Quickly now."
They looked at each other, and dropped their pitchforks as they scurried off to comply with the implanted compulsion. Minutes later, Matteo was riding hard for the north bridge, looking to make up as much lost time as possible. He'd left the boys the rest of the sake and a little cash, and hoped they wouldn't get in too much trouble. If he listened closely, he imagined he could hear screaming in the distance ahead.
The narrow cobbled city streets were not a friendly place for a speeding horse, especially one ridden by someone unfamiliar with the intricacies of the city. The animal's hooves slid on stones well polished with ware as it tried to jump a low bench pushed out into the street by a vendor setting up a market stall. It slid and spun, whinnying loudly as it struggled to right itself. Matteo rolled free of the stirrups just as it fell to its side, kicking out wildly. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and it was clear he'd lost his mount for the time being. The horse would recover, but not in time to bear him on to his destination.
He was still revved up on adrenaline from the ride, and he knew he couldn't afford to lose his momentum at this point. The stall owner came over to help him to his feet, but he waved the man off. He was at least in the right district now. A little dazed, he set off once again at a slow sprint. his ankle was throbbing - he must have landed poorly, but he'd have to make it somehow.
He was feeling lightheaded by the time he stumbled into the street where the compound's main entrance was located. The imperial guards stationed outside weren't quite two hundred feet away, and Kurtis Trevyn, another Loyalist guard, was stood outside speaking with them. Good enough. Matteo slumped against the side of the nearest building, ignoring for the moment the black spots invading his vision. He pulled a short piece of copper wire from his belt pouch, spoke a word of power, and gestured to the air.
"Kurtis," he whispered across the distance. "It's Matt. Go get Volaris. Tell him there are cultists and masks. Headed here, right now. Coming from the south."
The spell's target froze and looked around. "What?"
"Just go." The elf's legs refused to comply with further orders from his brain, and he slid into a sitting position on the side of the street, exhausted. "I'll be there.... in a minute."
Except he never made it. He closed his eyes for just a moment's rest, and couldn't quite muster the energy required to fight back the blackness that rolled in as the adrenaline that had sustained his race to the compound finally failed.
Shadows 3.3
Matteo shifted his position very carefully, trying to stretch an hour's accumulated tension out of his legs while keeping very quiet. It had to be almost morning, and he was tired and stuck. Not three meters away were a number of cages holding Crimson Masks. Two of them were babbling incoherently and throwing themselves at the doors of their cells. Another was curled up into a ball in the corner, chewing on its hand and rhythmically beating its head against the wall. Thump. Thump. He'd started using the sound to mark the passage of time in the absence of natural light. A fourth simply lay on the hay-strewn ground, occasionally bursting into convulsive fits, peals of mad laughter, or both. The gibbering ones, he was sure, still knew he was there. The minute he showed himself again they would start screeching madly, cackling and grabbing out of their cells towards him. The others would join in and then one of the other cult members would come down to see what had set them off. That would be no good - he'd only barely escaped detection the first time it had happened. There were only so many places to hide in this room, and most of the good ones were a fair bit distant from his current location.
A row of stacked crates separated off the half that wasn't full of cells from a table covered in alchemical supplies. He didn't understand much about the later, but he knew that whatever he could do to muck up the cult's operation would be beneficial to his cause. There had been some things bubbling in strangely shaped glassware containers and he'd mixed mixed them together in random proportions, adding in some powders he'd found in the crates for good measure. One of the concoctions had turned from black to a deep orange and clouded into a thick purple smoke that burned his lungs before dissipating into the air. He'd been more careful after that, but still managed to sabotage the rest of the supplies he could get at in the crates.
He could have stayed hidden there easily enough, but he'd never be able to escape. It was on the far side of the room from the sole entrance. Instead, he stayed crouched where he was, in the shadow of the crates and next to the door. He could hear preparations being made in the upper room and knew that it was only a matter of time before they made their move. They'd be distracted when they came down to collect the masks, and that when he'd make his bid for freedom.
Matteo was tired. He hadn't had the chance for any trance since the previous evening, and keeping still required a lot more control and effort than people who'd never tried it might credit. Relaxing at this point might be dangerous, and so he continued to wait. Another hundred thumps of the mask's head against the cell wall: another ten minutes or so. The commotion upstairs seemed to be increasing. There were heavier footfalls and more metallic clanking. Some of the cult members must be strapping themselves into the heavy armour he'd seen when he first snuck in. Any time now. He took a deep breath, and waited.
It was another ten minutes before they headed downstairs, three of them filing in with long rods with clamps at the ends big enough to fit around a man's neck. The masks growled and shrank as the other red robed figures approached. A priest growled something unintelligible that made the hairs on the back of Matteo's neck stand up - Infernal, he guessed. The masks seemed to understand, as they started gibbering and moving towards the doors of their cells. The two armoured men flanking the priest moved forward then - now was his chance. He slipped behind them and slunk cautiously up the short stone stairway. He was given no opportunity to pause at the top as another set of armoured men were about to head down. He stepped quickly into the gloom behind the rack where the wavy-bladed ceremonial weapons issued to the masks in battle were currently housed. There were, he estimated, about fifteen cultists all together, and they were on the move. There was no time to waste.
He kept close to the shadows, like he'd been taught. he had to make it out of this room before he could do anything else. The people here were distracted, at least - they weren't expecting an enemy in their midst. Not for the first time since he'd abandoned his conversation with Gordon's Shadow, he cursed he fact that he'd fallen into this unprepared. The festival night was supposed to have been a chance to unwind. Instead, he'd learned the hard way that there was no such thing as 'off-duty' in a war like this. If only he'd had his cloak, and were dressed in more stealthy colours than the bold red and green he'd chosen in the hopes of catching the eye of some of the local ladies... At least he had a good set of knives, his component pouch, and his gloves. He still wouldn't bet on his chances if he were caught at this point.
But somehow, he wasn't. He made it to the door. A whispered word of magic, and it slammed open. He ran. The resulting moment of chaos gave him the time he needed to gain some distance.
At first he just ran to get away. He wasn't familiar enough with the city to orient himself easily while on the move, though he'd noted some key landmarks the night before. Everything looked different in the early dawn light. He needed to head towards the market district.... north, then, which meant crossing the river. Shinkyo was a large city, and though there were people about at this time of day, he had been running for twenty minutes straight without coming across a single conveniently placed horse. His legs were screaming for him to stop. He was sure the cult could follow him easily enough, too, simply by tracking the direction of the puzzled stares. Elves were a rare enough sight in the south when they weren't tearing through the streets like madmen before reasonable folks were even settling down to their morning meals. He ducked into an alley to catch his breath.
What he really needed was a better plan. He'd never make it to the compound if he had to keep up this pace. He wasn't sure where exactly the cultists were planing to start their rampage from or, for that matter, if the compound was their only target. They might have horses or even wagons, and Prince Lynel was currently housed at the Daimyo's palace further east. They might even head there first, but his best bet was to get to Volaris and the others, and hope that none of them had overindulged in the festivities. He needed transportation. Slipping through the alley to a neighboring street, Matteo hurried towards the waterfront.
Another ten minutes and he'd found what he was after: an inn with stables. He'd picked up a half-empty wine jar on the way to serve as a prop. He paused for a moment to make sure there was someone inside, and prepared for his entrance. He took a swig of the sake - a cheap vintage, even better - and was sure to spill some down the front of his shirt. He was positive that he looked otherwise properly disheveled. A song on his lips, he staggered into the stalls and looked around.
Right on cue, a pair of stable boys popped out of the hayloft to investigate, pitchforks in hand. Still singing, the elf relieved himself against one of the walls - just a strange but harmless drunk. He made a subtle alteration in his tone as the pair stared at him in confusion, and they were his: fascinated.
"Why don't the two of you saddle me up the fastest horse in this stable," he called out to them before picking up the next chorus. "Quickly now."
They looked at each other, and dropped their pitchforks as they scurried off to comply with the implanted compulsion. Minutes later, Matteo was riding hard for the north bridge, looking to make up as much lost time as possible. He'd left the boys the rest of the sake and a little cash, and hoped they wouldn't get in too much trouble. If he listened closely, he imagined he could hear screaming in the distance ahead.
The narrow cobbled city streets were not a friendly place for a speeding horse, especially one ridden by someone unfamiliar with the intricacies of the city. The animal's hooves slid on stones well polished with ware as it tried to jump a low bench pushed out into the street by a vendor setting up a market stall. It slid and spun, whinnying loudly as it struggled to right itself. Matteo rolled free of the stirrups just as it fell to its side, kicking out wildly. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and it was clear he'd lost his mount for the time being. The horse would recover, but not in time to bear him on to his destination.
He was still revved up on adrenaline from the ride, and he knew he couldn't afford to lose his momentum at this point. The stall owner came over to help him to his feet, but he waved the man off. He was at least in the right district now. A little dazed, he set off once again at a slow sprint. his ankle was throbbing - he must have landed poorly, but he'd have to make it somehow.
He was feeling lightheaded by the time he stumbled into the street where the compound's main entrance was located. The imperial guards stationed outside weren't quite two hundred feet away, and Kurtis Trevyn, another Loyalist guard, was stood outside speaking with them. Good enough. Matteo slumped against the side of the nearest building, ignoring for the moment the black spots invading his vision. He pulled a short piece of copper wire from his belt pouch, spoke a word of power, and gestured to the air.
"Kurtis," he whispered across the distance. "It's Matt. Go get Volaris. Tell him there are cultists and masks. Headed here, right now. Coming from the south."
The spell's target froze and looked around. "What?"
"Just go." The elf's legs refused to comply with further orders from his brain, and he slid into a sitting position on the side of the street, exhausted. "I'll be there.... in a minute."
Except he never made it. He closed his eyes for just a moment's rest, and couldn't quite muster the energy required to fight back the blackness that rolled in as the adrenaline that had sustained his race to the compound finally failed.