• Solo • II. From Below (Graded)

[Kasoria]

10th Trial, Vhalar, 719
Commercial Circle
2nd break

Continued from here


He heard a door opening. He was sure of it.

It was an old house, and it made a lot of odd noises. Bricks and stones creaked at night, along with the scant piping between the floors. Cold and heat made the materials expand and constrict. While Stavos hardly had the education to understand that, he knew from experience what the sounds were, even if he didn't know why they occurred. He'd been employed by Missus Vorund for three arcs, too, since back when the Old Man was alive. He knew the house. Knew her rooms and her nature and yes, knew her enough to ascribe a gender to her.

So when he heard the sound of metal scraping on stone, he knew it wasn't just a random sound of the night. Even with the din of revelers out in the street, he could tell it was from below, not without. Which left the cellar... and that door.

But Stavos was still a young man, and young men often think too much of their skills. He drew his short sword and opened the door to the cellar. There was a tug at the back of his mind, telling him he should wake Devane. "If there's trouble, better to face it double", that's what the old boy always said. He was a grizzled bastard but Stavos knew you only got that way in their world by being keen, and nasty, and above all, cautious. Never hurt to have back up, even for something as trifling as an odd noise.

Stavos started down the stairs. He was sure whatever it was, he could handle it. His hand gripped the sword tightly. Arm bent, form already tense and ready to explode into action. Every step took an age. He paused between each one, listening, trying to pierce the gloom with his hearing. Nothing stirred down there... until he heard a soft, metal creak. The door was open. And a door that big, that heavy, that sturdy, did not do that unless someone made it.

The young man reached the bottom of the stairs, and groped for the torch he knew was at the bottom of it. Matches, too. He could light them one handed, a trick Devane showed him. So he could keep a hand on his sword, and his eyes swinging across the darkness. Soon there's be light and no shadows to hide in. He held his breath. Didn't let the fog of it blind him. He closed a hand around the torch and felt down to the matches-

Then he felt it. Rather, it reached out and felt him.

The air around him erupted into life, and light. The young ganger was blinded for a moment as searing white invaded his senses, seeming to push him bodily back-

-but that was not the case at all. His feet wouldn't move. His arms wouldn't raise. It was as if thick, hard chains were wrapped around him, the air itself hardening like water blasted into ice by a blizzard's chill poured into but a few trills. He opened his mouth to scream for help and... Fates... he couldn't breath. The chains were around his throat, too. Around his mouth. Blocking off air. Choking the life from him and lifting him bodily off his feet.

His arms were tight to his sides, now. Sword crushed against his thigh. His face hanged color and every panting breath only robbed him of more precious air. He raged impotently at the dishonor of it. A mage. A fucking mage! Striking at him from the shadows, without a chance to defend himself like a man. His vision started to swim, lack of oxygen demanding that his body lapse into sleep.

As his vision faded, a shape stepped into the small pool of light at the bottom of the stairs. It was already blurry and indistinct, but Stavos could make out the blazing white tendrils of ether pouring from one hand. Curling and pulsing like a living tentacle from the intruder, to the Shackles binding his body. He tried to stay awake, tried to desperately to force his eyes to stay open. With a great shudder, he lost that fight.

Just as the figure started to lower him back to the ground, and he saw black, bottomless eyes. They seemed to grow and dirty everything else in his world, until the blackness became everything, and he was buried under it.

Only then did Kasoria draw his ether back into himself. After letting the limp body drop to the stone floor. He studied the still body down there... and saw the chest rise and fall as he did. Sleeping. Not dead. He'd wake up with purple bruises from neck and ear to wrist and waist, but the boy would live. He looked behind him and scowled at the iron door.

Stupid old man. Why didn't you make sure it was closed?

"Bugrit," he muttered. "Too late now."

He started up the cellar stairs. Hands empty. No killing, not tonight. He didn't need to sour his meeting with blood on the widow's floors. It was hardly a good basis for their negotiations. At the top of the stairs, he flattened against one wall and peered slowly, out into the lit hallway. No other sounds of movement. The lamps were always burning down here, though. The guards that Moira Vorund employed insisted on it. One was always awake and on patrol, while the other slept. Hopefully, he'd get lucky, and the other-

"Stavos? Where are yeh, boy?"

The Raggedy Man rolled his eyes, and made ready.

[Kasoria]

The bastard never gave him a chance. Devane couldn't blame him. The boy Stavos liked to talk about "duels" he'd fought, and the older ganger always gave a wry, faintly bemused smile. Duels? Honorable single combat? Since when did that nonsense have a place in the Oh'Pee? This was the city that had given screaming birth to a fighting style built around the utter lack of rules. What you did to win, was what you did. The fairness of the victory was bloody irrelevant. Because losing in their world meant bleeding out in some shit-stinking alley without even a name.

Better to be quick and savage and unfettered. Most of all, make sure you were behind the poor cunt when you stuck him.

Devane was around the corner when something small, hairy, and furious came flying at him. Fist-first. The first blow was a knuckle punch that caught him in the throat. Killed the bellow of anger, turned it into a wet gurgle instead. He went stumbling back into the dining room but didn't go down. Swung his hatchet as he went, trying t buy some space and, if he was lucky, take a chunk out the little bastard at the same time.

The bodyguard blinked in disbelief at what assailed him. Dead black eyes. Pulsing black ropes across his arms. Most of all, a rushing whirl of darkness around him, like black cloth in a tornado focused around the very form of the man. Through the pain and the shock he choked down a breath and swung-

-Kasoria swayed back sharply, and the wide hack went wider. He waited until it had sailed past him before hammering down with his right, closed fist slamming into Devane's arm above the wrist. A moment later his open left hand crossed in front of him and knocked the hatchet from the loosened grip, sending it clattering onto the floor-

"F-Fuck-"

Don't let him shout. Not a word more than that. End this. Now.

He twisted his hip and slammed right straight into Devane's breastbone. The big man's lungs emptied in a single, painful whoosh that seemed to wash across his face like a stinking breeze. No air to scream, or shout, or speak. Kasoria didn't stop. Didn't give him a trill to exploit. He kicked the bodyguard neatly, precisely below the knee, sending him crashing down in the middle of the doorway-

-grabbed the side of his head and-

-with a grunt, smashed the side of his head into the frame. Bone cracked against wood in that unique, oddly hollow way. Devane's eyed filmed over, and Kasoria did it again. Just to be sure.

Devane's raised arms trembled once, then dropped to his sides. Kasoria let go of his head, and the rest of him followed suit. Five trills. Maybe six. That was how long it had been since he threw the first punch. He'd deduced where the bodyguard was calling from, which room he'd enter the hallways from. Then the Raggedy Man had moved quickly across the lit, empty space, and pressed against the wall. Ready for an ambush.

He could have used his magic, like with Stavos. Might have made things just as easy. But... something held him back. Much as his Spark growled at him, demanded to be used, to be unleashed, he yanked back on its pleas until it skulked back into sullen obedience. No. This was the lock all over again. He could not rely on magic. It was a part of him, true, and a weapon that couldn't be so easily ripped from him hands like a gladius or an ax. But it could be neutralized. Fates, the very discipline he practice was proof of that! More and more he wove Abrogation into his fighting. Melding Shields and Barriers and Shackles into katas and sword thrusts and karambit slashes. He did so well, for he was a man who treated combat as science and artform both.

Yet the balance is shifting. You're getting lazy, old man.

So he decided to handle this barehanded. Noisy and risky though it might be. He waited behind the wall and listened to footsteps approaching. A guttural voice made harsh by years of pipe weed grunting curses, slurring the youth for their wandering fancies. He waited until a bobbing head slouched into view and then-

Five trills. Maybe six.

Wood creaked above him, and Kasoria's head shot upwards. A pause... then another creak. Faint, as if a child was moving... or someone old and without much meat on their bones. The Raggedy Man's face contorted in annoyance. Noisy. Definitely noisy. Now the lady of the house was awake and his plan to meet her in her quarters was dashed. She'd be coming down to investigate. Moira Vorund wasn't one to hide behind her bodyguards forever, not when she could see with her own eyes what had invaded her home. He remembered that parang she favored; the one time he'd seen her practicing with it, in the courtyard, when he'd met with Vorund one time.

Need the darkness, now.

Kasoria swept back into the hallways and blew out the candles. Darkness fell like a blanket, and he moved through it back into the front room. He found a chair and a table as the first footfalls lighted down the stairs. He sat, and composed himself. Tried to will the composure back into his features, still a little flushed from the vicious flurry of violence he'd unleashed. By the time the old woman was in sight, he was ready.

"Hello, Mrs. Vorund."

[Kasoria]

"That'll be the devil to scrub out of the floor."

"I tried t'make it quick."

"Oh, I'm sure."

Moira sighed and clucked about Devane like a hen the moment she got sight of him in her kitchen. Still sprawled out where Kasoria had left him, bloody smear across his blond hair matching the one on the door frame. She knelt down with some effort and checked him over. Kasoria shrugged and filled the kettle. By the time the water was bubbling and he'd turned back around, she was at the table with a brown bottle in front of her. And a large glass.

"Always what you were best at, I suppose. Being pointed at some poor sod and being told to bury him."

Kasoria didn't respond. Not because she was right, but because he could hear the bitterness in her voice. The condemnation. A half-dozen pithy and barbed responses came to mind, lined up, chambered, ready to fire. But he let them rest. He wouldn't be distracted from his purpose that night. Instead he just waited for the tea to boil, then poured himself a cup.

"Yer husband," he said as he sat down, warming his hands with the steaming mug. "Had contacts all over the city. Men who whispered things t'him. Forty arcs he was in business. Forty arcs a' expandin' those connections, makin' the list longer. Time he died-"

"Time he was murdered-"

"-I'd wager he had contacts alla' way up to the Council." Kasoria smiled thinly. He recollected more than one occasion when a smartly-dressed, well-groomed errand boy sat across from Bangun Vorund, with a "task" that needed to be "handled". The Citadel might have been the heart of Etzos, but the Council? They were but men, and men always had need of underhanded bastards like Vorund. And Kasoria. "N'fact, I know he did."

Moira snorted and shook her head. She poured herself a measure and sipped at it. The liquid burned its way down her throat and warmed her belly. Chased away the slight chill in the kitchen, most likely from the open cellar door. She stared into the glass, reflection made amber and sorrowful. Looking at her plain, Kasoria could see it wasn't much different in the flesh.

"Aye, Bangun had plenty of... friends," she said, spitting the word. "For all the good it did him in the end."

Don't get distracted. Don't go wandering. You don't want to be here any longer than she does.

"I tried t'stop it," he said finally, voice low even as his mind seethed in annoyance. Moira looked up sharply into eyes no longer human, into a face lean and tight with inner tension. This was a creature twisted by his Spark, yet she caught no lie in his words. "I was there. Protectin' him. But-"

"But you didn't."

Kasoria shook his head. He'd had seasons to come to terms with that. They weren't friends, comrades, blood brothers or any of that shite. He'd bound himself to Vorund by oath and in return, the Old Man had done him the greatest service. Protected his son and the boy's mother, made them vanish and found them a lovely home far from the filth of Etzos Prime. He showed his appreciation in loyalty, for ten long years. Yet he did not feel the cutting loss of a friend's death when Vorund died. Because it was professional, not personal.

Problem was, all Kasoria had outside of his son, was his profession. And that day, he had failed.

"There was... seven of 'em, I think," he said, brow furrowed in recollection. "Got four of 'em. Took an eye outta another. Cunt who set yer husband up, Vorund did fer him himself, 'fore he-"

"Oh, do you think I care, Kasoria?!"

The sheer violence of her words silenced him. Chastened him like a little boy being yelled at by his mother. Not just anger, but mournful, bitter loss. The pain of a woman who loved a man she knew did evil things. She wished every day that he would change, make those big plans to "go straight" come true. The last arc, she'd seen the plans become more than just dreams. She knew her husband was putting things into motion, spending more time at his warehouses and freight yards than seedy taverns and front companies. Moira had dared to hope, let the feeling breath life into her. And then-

"I... I always knew," she said, to no-one in particular. Making a confession to a walking death squad in a big, lonely house. "I imagined it, all the time. I'd be in the kitchen, or the bedroom, or the study. There'd be a knock on the door. Nothing unusual, that. Just a knock. Then... Then I'd open it, and some Blackjack bastard would be standing there. Smirk all over his fucking face, just pleased as punch that he got to tell Vorund's bitch that he was dead. That someone had finally done what they never could."

Kasoria couldn't mistake the fierce, selfish pride in her words. Yes, her husband did evil things. Yes, he may have been evil himself. But she loved him and he was hers and she did not care, damn her. Her Bangun was strong and smart and savvy and she never doubted he loved her, too. His face grew more lined and wrinkled, but his eyes were the same burning gimlets that had stolen her when she was a girl barely twenty arcs old. When he turned them on her, she felt that girl again. Now all of that was gone. She had his will and testimony and his money and holdings, but not him. Nothing worth him next to her at night or holding her in times fair and foul.

"I don't care what you did, or what you do," she said, looking down so he would not see her tears. "I care that he's gone."

The assassin let the mug cool in his hands. He struggled to find the words, so he gave up trying. Instead he ran a warm hand across his face and leaned back in his chair. He hadn't come to soothe the grief of this woman, so he wouldn't try it. He knew from bitter, black experience that words never could.

"Yer right. Ain't nothin' t'be said about it now. Nothin' youse ain't heard before. So I'll stick t'the task, eh? I know yer husband kept most a' what he knew in his head. Safest place fer it, the really sensitive stuff. But there was so much, so many, that he had to 'ave written done some things. Kept lists, ledgers, whatever. I need yer help, to find those."

"Why?" The word was almost a plea. He'd heard men beg in the same tone. "Why me? Why now? What do you think he could have known and scribbled down that could help?"

Kasoria shrugged and sipped his tea. "I dunno. I jus' know he knew more than me, if yeh follow. He knew every sod inna city that traded whispers an' secrets fer coin an' favors. I get those names, those men, I can start askin' me own questions. Then I'll find out more, maybe enough to find 'em."

"Find who?"

The assassin was silent again, but not for long. He was asking much of the woman. Usually that wouldn't have bothered him, but Moira... she reminded him of someone. That same strength in such a frail form. That iron will to survive that the histories always gifted to great men of Etzos. But he knew the strength of women, too. Women who'd raised entire families with their husbands drunk or gone or dead or just plain useless. Gangers and sellswords who were every bit as nasty and tough as the men they scrapped with and against. Kasoria looked at her and saw a widow, grieving and angry, but saw more than that.

Moira frowned as Kasoria's expression changed. Under the mutations, she saw the man. The mind and soul that still felt some stirrings of emotion, even if they were rooted in a dead past.

"I'll tell yeh," he said with a nod. "Y'deserve t'know."

Kasoria started talking, with her listening in silence and Devane snoring softly on the floor. He told her what that damn girl in the tunnels had told him, more than a season ago. It took a few bits to tell the tale and Moira's eyes were wide by the end of it. She knocked back her glass and drained it.

"Fates, Kas," she said, somewhere between exhaustion and bewilderment. "Wish you'd just come and knocked on the door..."

Continued here

[Abra]

Kasoria

Rewards

Knowledges:

Skill:

Abrogation - Shackle (Master): Can Launch Iron-Hard Tentacles across the Air at a Target
Abrogation - Shackle (Master): Can Be Conjured Almost Instantly (depending on distance)
Discipline: Holding Back so You Fight to Disable, Not Kill
Negotiation: Knowing When to Just Shut Up
Stealth: Stop, Look, Listen
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq - Combo): Knee Strike to Get Them Down, Head Slam to Finish Them

Nonskill:

NPC Bangun Vorund: Had a Network of Informants Across the City (geographically and socially)
NPC Moira Vorund: Loved Her Husband, Not Matter What He Was
NPC Moira Vorund: Knows about the Pro-Sintra Forces in Etzos

Loot:
Injuries:
Wealth:
Renown:

EXP: 10

Feedback

I’m not sure if these NPCs have been used in the past or not, but it felt like you had a good grasp of their mannerisms. It felt like they were important and realistic instead of cookier cutter like most NPCs. You did a good job describing the combat in depth. It actually made me wince a couple times! That along with his attitude throughout the thread set the tone very well. It looks like this story is really important to kasoria’s development and I hope things end up working out for him. Enjoy the rewards.