The Rogue127Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6FL6v4kzzp
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Most campfires had died down, and the men once tending to them were fast asleep in pavilion and tent alike. The wind rose, and so did the Rogue. The sound of pine branches whispering their song of nature muted the Rouge’s rousing, leaving his tent mates unaware of his departure. Enveloped by cloak and shadow, he slinked through the camp, heading for the town's edge where a thicket of pine trees stood.
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He weaved his way through the camp, careful not to make a sound cognisant of the noises around him. An owl hooted from afar, its call echoing softly. When the wind died, the Rogue did not move. When the sounds of nature proceeded, he continued his trek. Under his black cloak, aided by the blanket of midnight, he was a member of the nature's choir.
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Reaching for his breast pocket, the Rogue pulled out a shard of glass. It looked black under the moonlight but, in truth, was a deep emerald. He held it in the palm of his hand, treating it the way a ranger might treat a compass. He turned to the left, spinning on his heel. Nothing happened. He turned right, and the shard shimmered some, but not enough to indicate the objects of his desire were close at hand. Yet it was a promising direction, and so he continued.
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He prowled between tents and sleeping cots, confident that those who had drunk the wine would not be rousing, no matter the volume. It was those that did not partake that gave the Rogue pause. The reason for his continued wariness. The deeper he went, the brighter the shard glowed. It washed the Rogue in an undercast of emerald green light, painting his face in shadows and concealing his eyes.
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Holding the shard to his left eye, he looked down. Through the vision of green, the world appeared as if he were under murky water, hazy and unfocused. Yet through the muddled veil, he could see a bright outline radiating off the person closest to him, a thin vapor invisible to the naked eye, leaking from their sleeping cot. A thin-lipped smile spread across his face. With a practiced deftness, the Rogue made quick work of his target.
The sleeping cot was a thin, ragged thing, and the man sleeping in it bundled up in layers of clothing, stinking of wine. The Rogue’s fingers found a small silver bell, cracked and lined with deep scratches, dangling off their hip. Years of abuse had left it unusable, but the bell still held power. It would take a skilled silversmith with knowledge of the High Mysteries to properly mend the small magical fetish. The Rogue plucked it from the sleeping man all the same. ‘He will have to make do with what I find here tonight.’ he thought, placing the stolen item in a soft leather pouch on his waist.
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A bell here, a carved stone there, a wooden effigy of some long-forgotten god left in an unguarded backpack. One by one, he plucked this and that from unsuspecting sleepers. Most of these items were small, lacking in presence and power but still held a tenuous connection to the Mysteries that governed the mystical aspects of this realm. Gather enough, and one well-versed in spell lore could siphon the little power these items possessed.
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He was still determining if his employer had the knowledge or skill to do such a thing, but those thoughts were best left unsaid. The Rogue was paid to collect items of power, not to ask questions. Yet the ultimate purpose of this gathering of fetishes wormed through his brain, infecting his curiosity. ‘Even if I did ask him, he’d just play coy with me, like he does with most things.’ At that moment, the Rogue stared at the largest pavilion at the center of the camp. A dim orange light, flickering erratically, could be seen through the canvas walls. ‘He’ must have awoken, as he often did in the middle of the night, head filled with dreams and plots needing to escape.
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The Rogue felt he had combed through this stock of unsuspecting victims well enough and made for the pavilion, debating whether he would ask his employer about their future plans. As he made his way to the pavilion, the shard lit up again, shining bright as a torch and feeling almost as hot. He did not scream, but the sudden radiance burnt his hand, causing him to drop the shard. It lay there for a long while, burning the surrounding grass and dirt before it was cool enough to handle again. Wiping the dust and grime off with his palm, he peered through the Seeing Glass, wondering what could trigger such a response.
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It came from inside a tent. One not too far from the pavilion, by a campfire, all too familiar to the Rogue. ‘So our Dull-witted friend owns more than just a magical sword, it seems.’ He thought about creeping into the tent and taking whatever item the lack-wit owned. However, he felt it would be stretching his luck. ‘The chap hardly drank a sip. He could be wide awake or a light sleeper.’
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He had spent a fortnight with the young Knight, yet some nights he slept light and others as heavy as a winter bear. The risk seemed too great, and having the camp wake up to a dead man in their midst would cause more problems than it was worth. Still, he had never seen a reaction like that before from the Seeing Glass. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’ he thought and resolved to go back toward the pavilion.
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The two guards posted had long fallen asleep, both well-known drunkards among the Cavyero men. ‘I must tell him about these two before departing tonight.’ The Rogue stepped through the curtain door as if he were nothing more than a draft of wind, almost silent. Añofrio stood over a table, looking over a map of Aultar, The Known World, silently contemplating. The tall Knight was tugging at his braided beard, a sign he was clearly lost in thought. ‘A perfect time to strike,’ Thought the Rogue. He reached for the dagger at his hip and unsheathed it.
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The blade whispered as it rubbed against the leather scabbard that held it in place. Just then, a gale of wind blew through. It extinguished the candle flame, drowning the pavilion in the dark of night. Fast as a cat, the Rogue pounced, grabbing the Knight by his top bun and exposing his neck, where the dagger now rested.
“If you’re going to work in the dead of night, at least have the wherewithal to see that your men are awake and attentive. This is too easy.” The Rogue whispered into Añofrio’s ear.
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Añofrio held both hands up, or so The Rogue assumed by the movement he could feel in the darkness.
“I did not think you would be so keen on testing my security measures. How am I to know you would become my enemy, hmm?”
“Not me, but others. There are those from Úntaer that would wish you harm, my lord.”
“My Lord,” growled Añofrio, “Will you be using such language during or after I take you?”
“Whichever my Lord prefers.”
“I prefer you release me. The dark will get us nowhere.”
The Rogue wanted to linger in this position a moment longer but did not wish to rouse the Mad Stallion’s fury this late at night. He reluctantly stepped aside, sheathing his dagger and sitting on the cot beside the table. Añofrio made for the lantern, sparking it back to life, looking down at his Rogue.
“What role have you filled this time?” Añofrio asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Munaer Fuontaine La Dauterive, but my kin just call me Sable for the color of my hair.” He laughed, reveling in the absurdness of his newly formed identity.
“I am liking this new form you take,” Añofrio said, slowly approaching Sable.
He stopped once his waist met Sable’s head. Looking down, he continued.
“The blond of your hair-” Añofrio trailed off, taking a hand full of hair, gently playing with the Rogue's curls.
“I can assume a different form if my hair is not to your liking,” Sable said, looking up at his towering Knight.
Añofrio waved his hand in the air dismissively.
“Bah! To hell with your sorcery. I like this shape you take, my love. Do not expose your secrets tonight. I wish to have you in this form.”
They both gazed into each other's eyes, searching for desire and finding it.
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Birdsong heralded the approach of morning, though it was still dark out. Añofrio rose, lit a candle, and strutted toward his chest to gather fresh garments for the new day. Sable lay in bed, wondering if he should ask his question. ‘Would I even get a straight answer?’
“My Lord,” Sable bit his lip, hoping the Knight would take the bait.
“You should be changing your form when you leave. Let's not confuse the men, hmm?” Añofrio said, detached from the moment. He reached for a pair of trousers.
‘To hell with pretenses!’
“What do you plan to do with these things?” Sable said, reaching for the broken bell on a stool beside the cot.
The Knight flung a black tunic over his head, then turned to look at the Rogue. Añofrio’s pale green eyes seemed to burn a hole right through him. There was vexation behind those eyes. Yet when he spoke, Añofrio’s tone was more stone than fury.‘False Hospitality’ The realization left a hole in Sable's chest. He knew it would be this way after. The man was always this way after. He had put on his mask.
“Does this thing need saying? You are astute enough, I am thinking.”
“What is it that you are looking for?”
“Opportunity, insight, a small blessing, nothing more,” Añofrio said, placing on a belt.
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The pavilion fell silent. Sable made to put on an outfit of their own, looking for an appropriate garment to leave in. They made their way to the chest, digging toward the bottom.
“Sable, it is essential that I win both melee and joust. I need you with me on this endeavor, hmm?”
It was time for Sable to slip on the mask.
“As my Lord wishes,” Sable said, as cool as ice. Finding a linen chemise, they put it over their naked body, which was growing colder by the moment. It was white and well-worn but otherwise good enough. Añofrio placed a hand on their shoulder, his face grim and severe.
“In this place, the folk sing to the Stars for knowledge. Across the waters of Kaltuche, they do much the same. In the north, Norrishmen cherish their Norns, and even further in Esmeron, Shadow-dancers are afforded riches and statues. The undying love of both Noble and Common alike. Why does this thing happen? Why?”
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‘Because men fear what they cannot control, they turn to fortunetellers and pallor tricks. Anything to fill the void of their blindsight.’ Sable thought but knew better to say. Instead, they said, “Knowing the fate of powerful men can be lucrative.”
“Enough of your jests. Why?” Añofrio’s tone was stern.
Sable signed and said, “Knowledge is power.”
“It is the only true power we can wield. A man might be strong, but no man can be the strongest. A man can be fast but can not be the fastest. A man can be deadly but not the most deadly. The key to man’s dominion lies in mind. Are you catching my meaning?”
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Sable was well aware of the prize at the end of the tourney. Not the riches or favor of the Pieadrra’s but a bonus only afforded to those valiant enough to win Melee and Joust. Audience with the Wisemasters. Seers and divinators from all over Aultar. That power in the hands of a man like Añofrio was akin to a wind current under an eagle's wing. Sable’s original question still remained, why? Though the query burned within them, they decided against re-litigating the matter.
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Sable found a loose-fitting dress amongst the other clothes. Fully clothed, they strode over to the pile of stolen possession. The items had been laid out on the table atop the map. Notes were written on pieces of parchment containing theories of the possible properties of each fetish. One read:
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Hand-and-a-half sword. The blade is 88.9 centimeters.
The grip length is 17.78 centimeters. Quality steel. Apart
from the unusual look, no mystical properties can be detected.
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Sable looked at that sword now, curious as to the nature of the steel. They had stolen the thing but had yet to look upon it unsheathed. During their time as Sir Davyd of Thornwood, the Seeing stone had not reacted to anything on the lackwit’s person, yet Sable could not shake the feeling that the young Knight owned something powerful. It was more of a sensation comparable to instinct. A fluttering of the heart, a slight tremble of the limbs, a narrowing of vision.
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“What is it that you are doing?” Añofrio asked, confused.
Their fingers brushed against the sword's rounded pommel, burnished steel, plain but beautiful. Sable had not realized they had been moving ever closer to the weapon, being called by something within the steel. They pulled away, sweating despite white mist bellowing from their nostrils.
“I…I was curious.” Was all the Rogue could muster.
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Añofrio raised an eyebrow, bemusement playing across his face.127Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGBnXYQpiRh
“Your curiosity will be our undoing, my love.”127Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPsGQdy34ip
