• Graded • V. Thanam O’n Dhoul

[Kasoria]

51st Trial, Ashan, Arc 718
Outer Perimeter
2nd break

Continued from here



It never stopped bleeding. Not really. No matter how tightly it was bound or how little he exerted himself, whenever he changed the bandages at night, there was still a red smear on the cloth. For the first could of arcs he'd been hopeful, and dismayed whenever there was more red, more blood, less chance that the wound would just...heal itself.

Once he'd realized how naive that sounded, he stopped having hope. He got used to this new normal that involved forever having an open wound sucking air somewhere on his body. But every night when he got home, changed the dressing, cleaned it, he felt that tiny twinge inside him. Like a hopeful breath held, fingers crossed in his guts... and then he would sigh. Forget it. For at least another trial.

Six arcs. Not a long time, really. One trial you'll just stop hoping.

Dillan kept himself busy. It was good for drowning out the voices. He got home tired and aching and was oddly grateful for that. It proved that he was still capable of exertion, not just the cripple he saw in the eyes of everyone who met him. Sure, he stumped and limped and dragged his ruined leg, but he could still stack shelves and fill orders and deal with visitors to the store around the corner. An old friend from his childhood ran it, one still awed enough by his first profession that he thought even a crippled mercenary was good for business.

He smirked to himself in the kitchen as he stoked the stove. Oh, he wasn't helpless. Not even down one limb and out of practice. But he couldn't-

There was a knocking at the door. No-one came to see him that early anymore. Dillan turned to look at it and in the time it took to do that, barely two trills and probably a lot less... he just knew. There was his life before that moment, humdrum and tattered and limping along just like him, and then there was the life that would follow.

Such as it was.

The cripple stood in his kitchen and let the fears of trials flash through his mind. The caller knocked again. He could almost have smiled when the unseen figure called out for him to open up, stop fucking about, it's late and cold and he's fucking tired.

It would be Kasoria.

He opened the door and the dead, still look on the smaller man's face told him those fears were not formless things. They settled on his shoulders like vultures and seemed to push them down, even as he sighed and the assassin took a step beyond the threshold.

"Bloody hells are you doing so-"

"Need to talk to you, Dill."

Vague words, in a grave tone. Like a doctor marshaling himself to reveal a deadly diagnosis. Dillan breathed in deep and smelled... dried blood. Very close. Probably on the man's shoes. He hazarded a glance down and something black was smeared on Kasoria's feet. He swallowed what seemed to be a stone in his throat and stood aside. Kasoria let himself in... and didn't take his eyes off the cripple for a moment.

"Aye, well... come in, then."

He closed the door behind him, and locked it, and thanked the Fates his daughter was already gone.

Thanks for Jade for the template

[Kasoria]

"Drink."

"No, thank you."

"Sure? Looks like you've had a long night."

"I have. But no. Thank you."

Kasoria knew how he sounded. He knew his tone was frosty and his manner was brittle as iron cooled too quickly. Dillan was no fool, and could likely feel the assassin's eyes pinned to his back and his front as he bustled slowly around. He'd had a long trial, too. Kasoria could smell the sweat and ink on him. Long, boring breaks stacking and moving and rummaging and boxing and doing all that with a leg that wouldn't obey even simple commands.

He thought of his father, his little store that he was so proud of. The way he'd built it up from a wheeled cart to an actual business, with property and storage space and a sign painted above the front entrance. Built and paid for by trials and seasons and arcs, once you added them all together, that were stolen from his wife and children.

Rama was no bigger than his son, but he swelled to the size of an Ithecal when he unlocked his door in the morning, threw open the blinds, and declared his business open. Because it was his, and he'd earned it. Kasoria thought of his father as he watched Dillan lower himself carefully, painfully into the seat opposite him.

He's a proud man, too. Didn't let begging or family support him. Had to work. Needed to work. So he found work. But it wasn't enough.

It's never enough. And it was never going to be.

"So, what the f-"

"I know that it was Gina who set those four wankers on the farmer and his son. She was fucking the son and one of them. The kid told her when they were coming into town, what they were bringing with them, she worked out the rest with the other guy she was fucking and his three friends. I know, Dillan. So does Vorund."

There was a long silence. Even the crackling from the fireplace seemed muted and censored, like it didn't dare break the moment. Kasoria didn't want any lies to pass between the two of them. Not now. They were so... unnecessary. Almost insulting. He'd put the pieces together as best he could. The same smell from the same harvest of Euphoria, first in this house, and then at their hideout, but how could that be if that harvest hadn't even arrived on the street's yet?

Dillan's condition. That was how. They'd passed along some free herb as part of their deal with Gina, to help her father's pain. Now he breathed in and smelled it again, older, weaker, but still the same. And he was hearing no denials from the man opposite him. But he did see his face pinch and crumple at those last words.

"I... I see."

"No, you just think you do," Kasoria said, reaching into his coat pocket and laying a single blue stick of Euphoria on the little table between them. "Vorund has his product back. He has the heads of those four idiots. He'll do... whatever he likes with them. But they knew just where to strike. Just where to be waiting. So everyone knows it was a traitor that put them there. So someone else has to die."

Dillan looked at the taper. Lifted it up, sniffed it... and frowned.

"... that Scarf Rot?"

Kasoria nodded. His face was grave but Dillan could see the... animation in his eyes. A silent urging. The little man finally looked away from him. Staring into the fire like he did earlier the last day. Seeing visions and memories and regrets and the cold, merciless reality of his world. What was expected and demanded of him. He spoke as he stared.

"She has to be punished. But that doesn't mean she has to die. I know she isn't here. If she's half as smart as you, she'll have heard by now what happened to her friends. She'll know she can't stay here. Vorund could have men camped out here for an arc and never see a sign of her. So... I don't think it'll be her."

Dillan knew what was coming next, but he smiled at the words already said. He looked down and cradled the little taper of poison-laced Euphoria, turning it over in his hands, like a dagger fit to aim at his heart.

"She's twice as smart as me, Kas. Just stupid enough to love her old dad too much." He looked up and breathed in sharply. Kasoria's viper gaze snapped onto his face. "So... you made a deal with Vorund, right? Someone had to die, so if you can't find her..."

The rest didn't need to be said. Kasoria nodded. Both men sat in their seats, the same ones from the last day, and they wondered what a twisted thing mercy could be in their world. For they knew that was what Kasoria had arranged, because the other man was his friend long ago, and he felt he owed that memory more than just a knife in the dark. Dillan wanted to hate him, and did. Wanted to be his old self so badly, so he could take that monkey head of his shoulders and find his daughter and flee with her, fly across the cobbles and roads and stones with his two legs restored and never look back.

Then he wriggled his toes and nearly hissed at the pain. Reality was a cruel and unforgiving thing. So were the laws of their world, and he shook his head with a slow, sad smile.

"Has to be someone, right?"

"Yes."

"... then it'll be me."

He reached over and picked up the oft-lit stick by his chair, holding it over the gentle flames until it caught. The Euphoria stick went into his mouth and he puffed gently at it until the tip was glowing merrily and then-

Kasoria almost twitched as a coughing fit like a minor storm wracked the cripple. Dillan grimaced and looked down at the taper like it had tried to kill him.

"Fuck me, Kas... fucking Rot ruins the taste."

"Sorry." He shrugged. "Sure it'll get better once you keep at it."

"Hmph. Easy for you to say..."

It shouldn't have been funny. No, really, it shouldn't have. It was one, terrible joke balanced against the weight of what both men knew was coming. A daughter forced to flee and robbed of her father. A fruitless series of murders and thefts that had solved nothing, accomplished nothing, enriched no-one save a man who was going to be enriched in the first place. It was two trials of death and betrayal and still, and still-

Dillan started chuckling. Kasoria started smiling. The cripple took a deep drag and the smoke rolled and roiled from his mouth as he threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling. Soon Kasoria's shoulders were bobbing at the sheer, blasphemous mirth of the moment...

Then the laughter started to fade. Dillan's hands were lowering. He had to struggle, really try to get the taper to his mouth, and when he sucked in another breath, Kasoria could see his eyes already closing. Turning to steel shutters over his eyes, sending him to bed whether he wanted to or not.

The man was muttering something. In an old tongue they both knew, that most of their ilk did in the underworld. When Common was too obvious a tongue, their kind reached back to the olden times. To the language their fathers and their fathers and their grandfather's has first spoke when they arrived on this heap of rock and gems and founded a city. Common had since squashed any other tongue spoken, but the old words of Ith'ession... they were hard to eradicate. Maybe that's why the criminals took it up as their cant.

Of course, the curses were what people learned first. Children being children. Kasoria listened as the same one dripped from Dillan's sleepy fingers. Old, lilting words that got slower and hoarser as his head lowered... and then the taper fell onto the floor... and Dillan was adrift.

Kasoria sat there for a trill and pondered his last words. The curse leveled at him... and he nodded.

"Aye," he said, rising to his feet. "They probably will."

He walked behind his friend, stepping on the laced taper as he went. Sharp steel sighed like a lover across leather, and he found himself with his gladius in hand, staring down at the sleeping man. There was a soft snort as he changed his grip on the short sword. If he was awake, he wondered if Dillan would appreciate this way.

He'd probably recognize it. That had been a bastard of a fight, after all.

Receipt

-10gm for a dose of Scarf Rot

[Kasoria]

Kasoria had never seen so many people all together, and all of them baying for the blood of the men on the sand below them. It didn't take long for him to realize that it could have been one, the other, or both. The crowd didn't care. On every face and through every scream and holler and howl, he felt the great, trembling, gestalt majority demanding blood.

Just make it entertaining, and don't take ours.

"See?! He's getting fucking tired!"

Dill slapped and pawed at his shoulder so hard he almost spilled his ale. He shot him a glare but couldn't maintain it. The man was grinning so wide his head was about to split open, enraptured by the contest below, the sheer spectacle of it. So Kasoria just shook his head and necked his beer, lest some other errant limb ruin it for him in a bit or two.

"Y'think so?"

"Aye!" They both had to shout and neither cared. With so many hundreds and thousands packed around them, it was the only way one communicated without signs or finger gestures. And the two sellswords only knew the rude ones. "Big fucker's starting to slow down! Told ya he'd wear him down!"

Kasoria leaned closer - wondering after if he really thought a difference of a foot would make a difference when they were a couple of hundred away in the stands - and saw his friend was right. The beefy bastard who'd marched out in armor, carrying a halberd in both hands, was losing speed by the trill. The other man - barely clothed, let alone armored - was bleeding from gashes and cuts but was still lithe and nimble. It had been a fine dance and a thrilling fight but Kasoria could feel the suns setting on it.

He licked his lips and smacked Dillan back.

"Lucky I listened to ya!" He waved a chit under the man's nose. "Put fifty on the wee cunt, like you said!"

Dillan cheered, and Kasoria cheered, both men meaning it and Fates they must have looked like such a pair of wankers. Cheering a chit and already celebrating, arm in arm and raining curses down on the bigger gladiator. Why they were both down there, neither man knew. It was Rule By Combat, someone had said. Some feud or debt or crime that both parties were adamant could only be answered on the sands... and to the death. So, in the usual somber and civilized way of the Etzosi, much had been made of that.

Much fanfare and promotion, anyway. Kasoria hadn't seen the Crescent Arena this packed since... well, ever!

"Here we go, here we go!"

The big man lunged and the little man dodged, spinning away, shorter sword slashing out as he went whirling by-

-and the armored fellow felle heavily, leg cut through. The crowd groaned like one massive beast, giving deafening voice to the man none of them could hear. The halberd fell from his hands and the smaller gladiator held his sword to his throat. Kasoria forgot about his winnings. They were guaranteed now, anyway, but it was... this moment. This final breath of life. The bigger man was not begging, or so it looked. He was on his hands and knees... but then he straightened up.

Head back. Shoulders squared. The crowd was hushed, for just a trill, and in that stolen moment he could swear he heard-

"DO IT!"

++++++++++

It was called "the iugulatio". He'd never known what it meant, or what language it was, but Kasoria never forgot what it looked like. He remembered every detail, as his own blade came crashing down point first, turned red and black by the weak flames playing across it.

Between the neck and the shoulder. That hollow, where there was muscle but no bone. He remembered, and he remembered it was quick.

With two hands, he plunged the gladius into that spot, and with one great, bodily shudder, Dillan died under it. The blade ripped though his heart, and a lung, invading the inside of his rib cage from above like a flanking army coming in from above. Kasoria heard a single, rattling gasp escape the sleeping man's lips as the blood rose and bubbled from the wound just under his left ear.

They said that if you died in a dream, you died in the waking. But if you died in the waking while you were dreaming, then that dream became the next world for you. Stamped on your soul and chartering your course to whatever came next.

Kasoria hoped Dillan dreamed of his daughter. He pulled the blade free and marveled for a moment at the lack of blood. Just a single, thin line, coming fro the finger-long wound, between his shoulder and his neck. All the other, fatal damage was inside him, and when Kasoria tugged the man's collar closer around his throat... you wouldn't even know he'd been touched.

But he was dead. He checked that pulsing spot on his neck, then at his wrist, and finally leaned close to his mouth. No rush of blood. No thudding heart. No suck and push of breath on his skin. Kasoria wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. Then he made his exit, without looking back.

He'd done enough.

Thanks to Rumor for the template

[Kasoria]

"Like things aren't fucking hard enough around here..."

Vorund didn't often act like an old man, but when it came to grousing, he was a truly a man of his years. Of course, it had to be something justified that would set it off; not just the usual griping and complaining about "the youth of today" or what have you. No, for a man like Vorund, it had to be relating to him. His business. His network of interests and connections and alliances and arrangements. Beyond that, it had to be something that would really effect him, for a rich man could shrug off concerns that would drive a poor man to a frothing rage.

This time, Ilos sympathized entirely. You didn't need to be an old man to fucking hate uniforms crawling everywhere.

"They cause enough damage, make enough noise, they'll fuck off back to the barracks," the well-groomed young thug said without looking up from the account book he was working over. "It's all for show. It's happened before."

Vorund didn't answer for a while, and Ilos thought he was in for another one of the old cunt's tongue-lashings, just because he voiced a fucking opinion. But there was no disdain or annoyance in his employer's eyes; not at him, anyway. In fact, Bangun actually tossed down the letter he was reading and sighed, stretching out old, lean limbs.

"Yeah, it has. Every few arcs, the nobs in the Citadel gets tired of all the complaints from us common muck and make a show of"restoring order" or "returning justice", or some other such bollocks."

He sighed again, and there was a pensive edge to it. Ilos looked up and saw his face lined and drawn by the candlelight. Below them and beyond the warehouse was quiet, deserted... though the basement was probably busy. Should have been, anyway. The thought of such industry made both men smile for a moment. Balance had been restored, property had been recovered, and a message sent that would ensure no-one tried anything so fucking stupid again. For a while, anyway.

Vorund thanked the Fates for dropping an asset like that little fucker Kasoria into his lap. Ilos preferred not to think of the man at all. He was just happy business was back on track, and they had tens of thousands of coins worth of Euphoria to distribute to their people. As they spoke a team was breaking apart the twenty pound load, which they should have been doing two nights ago. Now it was late, and the dealers and pushers and peddlers and other assorted entrepreneurs were complaining.

Not for much longer, Vorund thought, digging around in his drawer for some baccy. Real problem now is getting it delivered without running into some blockade or checkpoint or-

There was a knock on the door, and at Vorund's command, Erasmus stuck his head into the room. "He's back, boss."

"Send him in."

Stuck up little cunt.

Ilos made a point not to even acknowledge the little man as he walked back into the office. Kasoria didn't need to make any point to do the same: Ilos was as much beneath his notice as the donkey he'd left tied up outside. He was there for Vorund, and no-one else. The older man already had something in his hand, heavy and almost clanking with so much loose metal packed inside it.

Kasoria took the purse and didn't bother checking. Bangun packed his pipe and took his time doing so, leaving his assassin to wait patiently until it was smoking in his hand. He blew out a thick stream into the sky and nodded.

"It was as you thought?"

"Aye. She was gone. Dillan was still there. So he went in her place."

Vorund snorted and sighed, beat of regret passing through his mind before being utterly smothered by cold satisfaction. He'd had men far more useful and in his employ for far longer killed without a second thought, sometimes doing the deed himself. Granted, Dillan had been "retired" for six arcs, but still... it was an insult. That a man would once work for him, take his money, his patronage, and then turn around one day to spit on that history. Even a used-up wreck like Dillan.

Then he shrugged. It mattered not. The message was sent, and the same precedent maintained: if it's not you, it's those you love. A parent, a lover, a child, an uncle... you couldn't protect them all, and everyone had someone. Thus was the price for crossing Bangun Vorund.

"Watch yerself on the way home," he said, tone of dismissal in his voice. "Blackjack and army boys are fucking everywhere."

"Didn't see too many on the way here."

"Yeah, well, they're mainly east and south the last few trials. They weren't, I woulda' said stay home tonight, wait for 'em to move on. You'd never have got that fucking nag and it's cargo back here."

"It'll pass."

"Aye, so said the boy over there-" he said, pointing with his pipe stem at a studiously working Ilos "-but the two of 'em together... ain't working out like the nobs planned, I think. Too much friction. Too many... wadayacallit... jurisdictions, being trampled. Blackguard says they're in charge of raids or searches, army says they're in charge of road blocks, but they keep overlapping, or doing both, or doing none, and all the while they're having cracks at each other like-"

"Like another couple of gangs?"

Vorund's face split in a rare grin. He wasn't stupid, was Kasoria. But he was deeply sodding cynical.

And what else would you be, in our world?

"Go on. Get home. You earned your pay."

Kasoria gave a crisp, short bow of farewell, then did as he was told. The faint odor of sweat and Euphoria seemed to rise from the floorboards, and he knew underground was a long basement full of sweaty, half-naked men and women divvying up that shipment. Vorund wanted it out that morning, and they weren't about to let him down. The air was cold when he stepped outside, none of the heat and grime he'd endured in seemingly every building he'd been in that day.

New sounds of the night assailed his ears. Massed, marching, sometimes trotting feet. Officers barking orders. Animals braying indignantly as they waited at checkpoints and stopped for random checks. He stashed his purse somewhere safe and was already plotting a quiet course back home, lots of back alleys and narrow, half-forgotten ways.

It would pass. It always did. Chaos rose and laid waste and then settled again, as if waiting for order to rebuild. Every time it did, something else was lost forever. Kasoria didn't dwell on the thought. He kept his eyes focused on the path, the future, and left the past behind him.

As much of it that he could, anyway.

Receipt

+1000gn contract fee/bounty

Thanks for Jade for the template

[Pegasus]

Kasoria

Overview

Very powerful writing - and I very much enjoyed seeing the relationship with Dillon. One slight comment that I'd make is that this is the culmination of a long series of threads and you know the story - but the reviewer doesn't, necessarily. I've reviewed enough of it to have a good grasp, but think of each thread as a story unto itself and, if you are referring back, give the reader the context. It makes for a more pleasurable read. However, lots of lovely imagery, lots of great dialogue. Well done. Please enjoy your rewards and, if there are any questions, drop me a pm.

Points

XP: 10

Renown: 10 (Vorun's man)

Loot

+ 1000gn as the culmination of a long series of threads. This thread, nor any in the series, can be used as a job thread.

Knowledge

Blades (Gladius): "The Iugulatio" (Execution Strike)
Discipline: Waiting Until Dismissed
Intelligence: Putting Together Clues
Medicine: Checking Life Signs at the Neck, Wrist, and Mouth
Persuasion: Offering a Painless Option
Poisons: Scarf Rot, Soaked into a Euphoria Stick

Non-Skill Knowledge:
NPC Vorund: Punishment is Certain, For Someone
Etzos, Ashan, 718: City Overrun By Blackguard and Army