[Mkguild] MK: "Last Light" (Act 1 of "Snow Storm") 1/5

[Hallan Mirayas]

As always, /text/ is italicized.  Thank you all for your patience.

-----

Snow Storm
  By Hallan Mirayas

Act 1- Last Light

February 18, 708

   He stalked his prey alone through shadowed halls, ever searching, always just a hallway behind, a corner too late.  He held a lutin blade in his hand, dripping with blood.  "I know you're here somewhere!" he shouted, his rage echoing tauntingly back from the darkness.  "You can't hide from me forever, murderer!  I -will- find you, and when I do I'll make you pay for everything you've done!  Do you hear me?!  I'll -kill- you!!"

   Drift jerked awake, his snarling scream still ringing in the stone walls of his room.  His throat felt raw and he rolled over in bed, fumbling in the darkness for the bottle of cheap wine stashed underneath it.  To his annoyance, he felt the bottle bounce off of his outstretched fingers with a clink of claw against glass and he grumbled a curse as it rattled further out of reach.

   "Madog?  Are you in here?" he called into the dark.  Hearing nothing, he opened a small drawer in his nightstand and flicked what he found there through the dimly visible doorway to his forge.  /Jing!  Jingle-jingle-jingle!/  The small, round bell bounced around his forge a few times, but there was no corresponding scrabble of metal claws on stone.  No Madog tonight.

   Even though the bait hadn't found its target to trick, the thought still brought a momentary smile to Drift's lips as he threw the covers off and dropped to hands and knees beside his bed, searching underneath for the straying bottle.  "There you are," he said when his fingers finally closed on the bottle's neck, but his smile turned to a disappointed frown when its light weight registered.  It was nearly empty.  He had, perhaps, sought its help in getting to sleep a bit too often lately.  "I'll have to get some more tomorrow," he muttered aloud, making a mental note.

   Disdaining the time it would take to hunt down something to drink with, Drift climbed back into bed, bottle in hand.  Pushing his pillow aside, he rested his back against the wall at the head of his bed and drew his right knee up to prop his bottle-clutching arm.  Outside, thin, broken clouds veiled the moon's light, making it wax and wane as they drifted past, and for a while Drift just contemplated the brightening and fading patches of light as they fell across his ankles, colored and divided by the panes of the stained-glass window set in the wall above the middle of his bed.  The white cross in the center gleamed no matter what the light's strength, and he watched it with particular attention as the night watch on the walls called out the passing of midnight.

   Finally, he pulled the cork loose with his teeth and spat it out, grimacing as part of it broke loose and tried to lodge under his tongue.  He fished it out and tossed it away.  "A little less cheap next time," he admonished himself, working another piece out from between his incisors with his tongue before spitting it out after the other two.

   "All right," he said finally, and took a somewhat careless gulp.  Too careless- some of the wine spilled out and dribbled down his chin and chest.  His lips hadn't sealed properly around the neck of a bottle since the Curse had claimed him, but he'd be damned before he would lap from a bowl.  Blotting up the spill with his hand, he took a more careful drink and tried to set his thoughts in order.

   The sword.

   A lutin-made blade, if appearances were anything to go by, and hardly worthy of being called an outright sword.... and yet...  A cold chill settled in the pit of his stomach, and he sent another gulp of wine chasing after it.  And yet, thinking of it as anything else felt strangely wrong, almost anathema.  It frightened him.  He scoffed at himself, a derisive snort, almost a sneeze.  /No, don't lie,/ he thought to himself.  It didn't just frighten him.  It /terrified/ him.  Why?  He had no idea, as he had no idea why it enticed him so much, too.

   /Don't lie about that, either./  Drift laid his ears flat and scowled.  /You know perfectly well why it appeals to you./  His fist tightened around the bottle's neck as the siren's call of revenge momentarily replaced it in his mind's eye with the grip of the sword.  Six years had passed since his father's death.  For five of them he had been certain that, given the chance, he would put that sword though the killer's heart and to hell with the consequences.  After the Yule attack and Erin and Nathan's deaths, he'd had even less reason to hesitate.

   He drained the last gulp from the wine bottle and grimaced as the bitter dregs coated the back of his tongue with a gritty residue.  "Yech.  Definitely a less cheap one next time," he grumbled, eyeing the bottle as if it had betrayed him before setting it down empty on the floor.  Bringing his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms overtop of them, he rested his chin on his forearms and contemplated the dim outlines of the stones in the wall on the far side of the room.  He had reason to hesitate now.  Alexis.  Misha and Wolfram and even grumpy Xavier, too, but especially Alexis.  He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  He wanted to wake up to the sound of her voice, the smell of her fur and the feel of her warmth in his arms.  He wanted to make a family with her and raise their children together.  He wanted the good times and the bad times, the tears and the triumphs, the figuring out each new day and facing it together.  He couldn't do that chained in a dungeon.  Maybe that's why the sword scared him so much; it could take it all away.

   He wanted.  And with the certainty of the dawning sun, he knew what he had to do.

   /Father Eli.../

-----

February 19, 708

   Alexastra rubbed at weary eyes and then splashed water into her face from the washbasin before her.  As grateful as she was to Lady Nocturna for her protection and support, the Queen of Dreams' method of cross-plane communication left something to be desired.  Certainly it saved on messengers, she thought as she eyed her dripping visage in the mirror, but even a daedra needed rest when on the mortal plane, lest she lose her grip on it and be swept back to the Hells, and she wasn't getting much.

   The she-bat scowled at her reflection.  /No more whining.  I will cope./  I must.  Scolding her complaints into submission, she shook them from her mind and the water from her fur and settled her thoughts into order.  Thestilus.  Thestilus and a sword.  That had been the recurring theme in the dreams Nocturna had sent her.  She would have to give up her close defense of Drift.  It had worked well for the past five weeks, but she felt a siege building against her.  Staying on the defensive now would let Lord Agemnos prepare a crushing strike far beyond her ability to parry.  To be honest, she was a bit surprised that it hadn't already come.  Now she needed to sally forth and strike at his levers of power in Metamor, and the chief of those was Thestilus.  The dreams seemed quite clear to her:  if she let Thestilus get too close to Drift, she would lose.  Admittedly, having an imp do the killing rather than the mortal who had actually signed the contract with him wasn’t Lord Agemnos' usual style, but with only two weeks to the deadline of her wager with him, she wasn't about to expect him to stick to scruples.  This was going to get ugly.

   First, of course, she would need to put Linafex in a tangle to keep him busy, but after that she would hunt Thestilus until he dropped.  She brushed her whiskers into place and smiled slightly.  If there wasn't so much on the line to lose, she would certainly enjoy what she had planned for the wretched brat.

-----

   Wolfram stepped into Patrolmaster George's office and shut the door behind him.  The room was warm to the ram's winter wool, heated by a small but intense fire burning in a fireplace on the left side.  The stone floor was carpeted in rugs of woven fur, and the walls were covered in maps of the Valley and its resident cities.  The ram bowed his head respectfully.  "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir," he said.

   "It's the least I could do for the grandson of an old comrade," George replied from behind his desk.  Gesturing for the ram to be seated, the jackal-man leaned back in his chair and allowed his mind's eye to range back through time.  "Crazy old Hartwin Lowe.  I can still recall his favorite phrase..."  Holding up a hand as if holding up a mug in toast, he continued, "'Today we wine, tonight we wench, and tomorrow... we win!'  He was a good drinker, a good brawler, and a good man to have at your side.  A bit battle-mad, perhaps, from too many hits to the head, but a good man nonetheless."  He chuckled to himself, setting his hand back down, and then returned his attention to the present.  "But you didn't come here to listen to me reminisce.  What's on your mind?"

   Taken aback by the unexpectedly nostalgic welcome, Wolfram paused for a moment to reorder his thoughts.  "I'm told," he said finally, "that my friend Edward Snow, also known as 'Drift', is being sent on a patrol to Glen Avery next week."

   "That's correct."  The jackal-man rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers against the tip of his muzzle, but didn't offer any more information.  Instead, he just waited expectantly.

   He didn't have to wait long.  "Sir, I'd like to volunteer to go along."

   George didn't appear surprised by the offer.  "Interesting.  You're the third person to make that offer today."  He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk between them.  "Why?"

   Wolfram didn't hesitate in spite of the predator's gaze fixing on him.  "Because I think someone is trying to kill him."

   The jackal-man's ears tipped forward, intrigued.  "What makes you think that?"

   "A lot of things.  The most recent was the ice collapse accident out by the river last December.  I was with him the night before when he checked the ice for safety.  I even helped him with the ice drill he used to measure for thickness.  There is no way it could have thinned that badly in twelve hours, even on a warm day, which it wasn't.  What's more, if I hadn't called him off the ice that day to give him the lunch he'd forgotten-"

   George interrupted with an upraised hand.  "Wait- what were you doing bringing him lunch?"

   "Alexis flagged me down in the marketplace that morning and asked me to bring it to him."

   The hand went down again.  "So Alexis sent you," he said with a tone of subtle interest in that fact.  "Continue."

   The fire in the fireplace popped loudly, startling the ram for a moment before he resumed his chain of thought.  "If I hadn't called him over just a minute before to give him his lunch, he would have been with the two that went through the ice when it cracked."

   "So you think that someone might try to kill him on this patrol."

   "Sir, Glen Avery is where his father was killed."

   "Son, if I avoided sending a person to a place where someone they knew was killed, I'd never get my patrol rosters filled.  This entire valley has been a battlefield at some time or another.  But you think someone might try to make history repeat itself?"

   "Yes, sir."

   "Tell me; wouldn't it be more appropriate to take this to the Watch than to pursue it personally?"

   "I already have taken my suspicions to the Watch, sir.  They're investigating, but without more substantial evidence..."

   "I see."  George sat back, pondering for a long moment.  "How are you on skis?" he asked, and the shift in topic brought a hopeful smile to Wolfram's face.

   "Tolerable, sir.  It's how I got out to Snow's ice crew that day."

   "Good.  The snow's gotten too deep to get out to Glen Avery without either them or snowshoes, especially with feet like yours.  See the quartermaster about issuing you a pair before you leave."

   Wolfram rose from his chair, hooves clacking on a bare patch of stone peeking through in between rugs.  "Thank you, sir.  I appreciate it."

   "Don't worry, Wolfram.  I'll be sending you and your friends out with a crew of my best.  You're not the only one who's had suspicions about your friend's... "  The jackal paused for a moment as if weighing his next choice of words carefully.  "...exciting lifestyle."

-----

   Sunset shone red on Arkos Linafex' fur through his forge windows, his narrow canine muzzle pinched with concentration as he soldered the second of three arms onto a new chandelier.  Business was booming since Snow had shut down his forge in January, and yet the Southlands hound still felt unsatisfied.  The victory was hollow at best- people still dared to compare his obviously superior craftsmanship to Snow's and the wretched upstart hadn't yet sworn off the trade for good.  Until he did that, left town, or was killed off, Arkos' monopoly would remain in jeopardy.  The desert dog-man snorted in irritation, and then paused for a moment of welcome imagination.  Given how much trouble that mongrel's family had been for so long, he didn't think he'd settle for anything less than Snow's slow and painful demise.  His fingers twitched slightly, itching for the cool feel of the gemstone in his pocket or the leather-wrapped grip of the long knife hidden inside his workbench.  Either would do perfectly for finishing Snow, though the gem would be more useful in the long-

   "Daddy!  Daddy, look!"

   Arkos yelled in pain as the soldering tool slipped from the edge he'd been heating and scorched a shallow furrow across the back of his left hand.  Biting back a string of curses, he carefully set down the tool and solder, submerged his hand in the pail of water next to the forge to cool the burn, and fixed his daughter with a thin-lipped frown.  "Mariah, dear, what have I told you about coming into the smithy while I'm working?"

   "Not to," his daughter said, peeking sheepishly around the doorjamb with one green eye, framed in cascading black curls.  "Are you okay, Daddy?" she asked, one small hand gripping the doorjamb as she leaned a little further into view.

   Arkos noted with amusement the care she took not to break the plane of the door and thus not /technically/ trespass into the forbidden smithy.  She was a clever girl, as he had raised her to be, a precocious child that he knew would grow into a fine young lady who could then be married into a wealthy noble family.  He would make sure of that.  If he could make a deal with one daedra, he could make a deal with two.  He just needed the proper bribe, and he cared even less about the fate of Snow's alleged soul than he did about his own.  Pulling his hand from the water bucket, he turned it over to inspect the burn and then replied, "I'm fine, dear.  What did you want?"

   Mariah came running to him, all her worries cast aside with the abandon of a six year old, and wrapped her arms tightly around his leg.  "Daddy, look!" she said again, smiling up with a gap-toothed grin.  "Another one's loose!"  She had lost her first tooth two weeks before, and now its neighbor was loose as well.  She wiggled it for him with her tongue.  "Thee?"

   "Very good dear," he said, leaning down to inspect it with the ceremonious dignity the event deserved.  "You're growing up so fast!  Have you shown your mother yet?"

   "Nuh-uh," Mariah replied, setting her curls swaying as she shook her head.  "But I want to stay with you, Daddy... watch you work.  Can I help?"

   Arkos shook his head.  "Now, you know I can't let you do that.  It's dangerous for little girls in here."  He gently stroked her hair.  "Especially ones with such bright, bright futures.  Daddy's going to make it all wonderful.  Now go show your mother and I'll be along just as soon as I finish this piece.  Okay?"

   The little girl thought about it for a bit and then nodded.  "Okay, daddy!   Love you!" she said as she fairly flew out of the room.

   A familiar voice spoke from a shadowed corner of the room.  "I wish I still had that kind of energy," it said, an ill wind that blew away the cheer young Mariah had left behind.  "Oh, wait,” it continued, taking on the sound of a self-satisfied smirk.  “I still do.  I love being immortal."

   Arkos' hand closed on the still red-hot soldering iron, momentarily fantasizing about planting it squarely between the unwelcome intruder's eyes.  Then he forced himself to set it down again and turned, slipping that hand into his pocket instead.  "Hello again, Thestilus," he said, turning to shield that pocket from view under the guise of looking towards his visitor.  "Are you here to tell me that I need to wait some more?  Also, I believe I told you something about coming near my daughter."

   "I didn't go near your daughter," replied the voice.  "I was here well before she was."  What stepped from the shadows, though, was not what Arkos expected.

   "Well, well, well," Arkos said, looking the creature up and down.  "Decided to go with a new look, did you?  If you're hoping to be incognito like that, you're out of your mind.  You are ugly as sin."

   "Thank you."  It smirked, a wrinkling of an already wrinkled muzzle.

   "It figures that you would consider that a compliment."

   "Of course," the creature replied, and then moved on to other business.  "We discovered something important about Alexis Nightwind and Lord Agemnos decided that I needed to be stronger if I was going to deal with her."

   "How nice that you got a promotion," Arkos replied with a sneer, folding his arms in impatience.  "But I fail to see how that helps /me/."

   "Weren't you listening?" the creature responded, circling around to the forge hearth and running his hand lazily through the fire.  The flames licked over long, sharp-clawed fingers without harming them, and a cloud of smoke rose from the fire when he dropped something into it.  "I said that I would deal with her.  An agent of the aedra like her would be /far/ out of your league and a waste of my lord's investment."

   Arkos Linafex sputtered as alarm and outrage vied for expression, fists clenching as if for a fight.  "She's a /what/?!  And what have you done to my fire!?"

   "Relax."  The creature turned to face him, leaning against the forge and crossing its leathery arms in an insolent mirror of his posture.  "It's just a more compact version of your incense sticks.  I’ve no desire to be spied upon either.  Yes, she's an aedra, but there's no need to panic.  My lord has it well in hand."

   "I'm not panicking," the hound huffed, recrossing his arms.  "I'm merely... concerned."

   "Of course," Thestilus replied with a smile that made Arkos want to hit him.  Hard.  With a hammer.  "Concerned."

   A very /large/ hammer.  "Cute," Arkos snapped.  "And when, pray tell, are you planning on dealing with her?  When will we /finally/ move against Snow?  I'm tired of waiting!"

   "Soon.  Very soon."

   "/When?/" Arkos retorted, his impatience unabated.

   Thestilus smiled, revealing teeth as sharp as a razor's edge.  "Let me tell you about a trip Snow will be taking this week."

   Arkos listened carefully and, as the tale progressed, his smile slowly grew to match Thestilus'.  Without a word, he stepped over to a side cupboard, pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses, and poured drinks for them both.  Passing one to the daedra emissary, he raised his own in toast.  "Here's to a successful business venture and the final crushing of the Snow family."

   Glasses clinked.  "Cheers," replied Thestilus. 		 	   		  

!DSPAM:4f9e8971222965315134984!
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