Chapter 1 (raw first draft)
During the Festival of Spring Blossoms, the lands around the port town called Cosarali were awash in colors and moving peoples. Despite its place upon the eastern edge of the remnants of a once strong empire, the people of the area became braver with the return of the flowers and tree leaves. The dangers of being the bastion against the mainland and its dangers faded, as they celebrated amid the scented orchards and ornamental trees of the town itself. The wariness was still there, for as always there were threats of some kind, but there was hope in eyes it would pass, and safety come again to their town.
But not all in the land were out enjoying the day. In every land there are corners and buildings that house those of gloomier moods, those seeking oblivion in drink, or just a place to stay out of the light of day or inspection. The Inn of the Headman amid the small enclave of the Karleekie several miles from town was hosting some of those this day. It had its name from all the heads of beasts and monsters its owner had taken in his years here, guarding the town from the beasts that had become more frequent invaders over the last several hands of years.
As was often the case early in the day, the owner had the main room dark, with only small shielded lanterns over the few tables actually occupied lit and the windows still shuttered. The owner, Gyevo by name, sat at the corner nearest the fireplace, nursing a hangover over his ledger, which made all avoid the normally friendly dwarf.
Only three tables had occupants. Two guards of the local lord's service sat near the door, discussing a series of thefts in town and the villages around of late over their breakfast. Another table, closer to the fireplace, but still a safe distance from the owner, was being used by three priest-healers from the temple of Varew in the town, seeking a place to discuss openly, yet softly, a series of beast attacks
* * *
Gyevo's Inn was empty and dark. The first was due to the Festival of Blossoms in Cosarali three miles downstream on the shores of the bay. The second most assumed by the owner's mood and isolation in the fireplace corner table came from his current hangover. Three other tables were in use, all with regulars. The other fireplace table held two healers softly discussing the recent rash of terrible attacks, and the problems in treating the injured, the one by the bar held two guards worried over some thefts in town of late, which they also softly discussed in detail, each holding out a different suspect to first find and track.
The only table made as a booth in the alcove by the door was even darker, the lantern doused by the three sitting in it. Torozu, Codi Duhn and his apprentice, the hunter from the wild grasslands to the east. While the voices of the others carried in the room, the whispers of these three did not. The others did not look at that triplet at all, even if it meant turning in awkward ways to order a drink from Odea the barmaid.
None wanted to see the dagger lain upon the table, a dagger the guards would have to arrest the three for having and the healer's knew may send someone to them, perhaps beyond their skill to cure. Gyevo ignored everything but his recovery.
The knife was long, curved and had an ornately enameled hilt. The hilt was of a speckled mustard color, touched with not brown seeds as the condiment the inn was known to use on sausages, but made of soft pastel green glass droplets imbedded in the enamel of the hilt. The sheath though conveyed a different meaning to those sitting in the booth. It was black, marked with three gold wire inlays. When the maker of knives had lain the knife before them, he had done so in silence, which said much to the middle aged bounty hunter and his apprentice. It meant they had to accept the blade to find out the details about the target it was meant to be used upon. The black sheath meant there was to be no trace to lead the authorities back to the Allegiance of the Blades. The hilt told more, that it was to be a mission of capture or death at the weildiing member's discretion, and to gather as much information and relay it as one could during the mission.
Scorpio was working hard not to speak, among his folk any could question the master of the hunt before it began, but among those he had fallen in with, you had to accept the terms, and only gain information after your hand, or your mentor's in his case, had grasped the hilt. There were other ways, ones his mentor was slowly teaching him over the last cycle of seasons. One could read as he already had the message in the enamel colors of the hilt and sheath, and by the glyphs on the sheath and hilt. In this case, the hilt was unadorned, a rarity according to Codi's talks so far, and their few jobs this year.
The glyphs were still mostly a mystery to the young hunter. With only three available, on the sheath, it left him worried. On the bottom was the mark of the local guild hall, the short tanto blade so common here in the lands of Ankhgor. The center one was of a hand holding a plant of some sort, which could mean many things. The top sigil gave a clue as to the one the blade was crafted to end if need be. This mark was a very detailed head of a devil flanked by intricately crafted bat wings.
* * *
A cool rain was making a mess of the road up from the ford of the Cosar Stream, which meant the road was more a mudslide easing down to the flowing water than safe place to walk. Still, the dangers of the grass near the stream were too well known to the lone traveler daring to walk from town to the enclave of the dwarves. His leather shirt and pants were nearly a deep grey, save where the elaborate beadworks of his people still was not caked in mud from passing carts. The pants had green beads in the form of grass from the knees down to the hems, while the shirt bore an eagle upon the left front shoulder. All that could be told of his boots were they were tall under the pants, and covered in mud.
Despite the treacherous footing, his footing slid only when ducking beneath limbs of blossom laden cherry trees that lined the trail. The scent, while pleasant, had become something the walker had come to hate this past week. Amid the grasslands, while there were flowers, they were not so numerous as here in this swampy place. There one could breathe easily in spring, but here each breath choked one with the smell of flowers, leaving one nearly drunk on odors alone.
The walker shook his head, water flying from his tightly wound braids on either side of his face, their normal copper color now darkened as well by the rain. Today he had broken down and accepted the hat the elder who rented him a room in town had offered, to no avail. While the hat was indeed good for keeping the sun off, the canvas and cloth parts were untouched by wax or oils to allow them to shed the water. Her heart was in the right place, and being alone with no wife, the walker was used to doing for himself things such as waterproofing leathers.
At last the rains allowed the two towers and the palisade of the enclave to move out from their fog to dimly appear. The shorter tower barely shown over the wooden wall at this angle, down the hill from the compound, just the upper courses of deep crimson granite showing below the peaked roof atop it. But several of the upper stories of its mate, a tower of black stones with regular interruptions of
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