Edict of Edith: The Hit {M} (Open)

[Amalgamator]

The scent of rain filled the air once again, clouds low, fog thick, dark, dreary. The day was young, yet sounds filled Rhyvela as water fills the sea. Merchants shouted, angry, excited, greedy shouts, clinking of money, crashing of armor, clopping of hooves on the cobbled streets, water sploshing in canteens and jugs, wooden wheels crunching a dropped loaf of bread, drunk men singing, friars preaching, men and women talking, chatting, walking, crying, laughing. The world was busy, the torches were bright, and the glint of armor shone through the fog as a beacon of light through the dense shadows of the night. Dawn had risen, and the massive, crowded city was reborn for at least another day.

The Chickory Inn, a decrepit-looking building in a lower-class part of the city, crackled with energy as fighting men laughed, ate and sang, disrupting the sleep of all who let the time of night slip bye. One such man, a tired fable, dark eyes, messy hair, dirt-encrusted skin and clothes, dried blood covering a few barely-cleaned wounds, sword resting against chest unmoved, as it had been all night, waiting to taste blood again at the hands of its merciless owner.

Shouting shot through the cracked walls as the dark-eyed, resting man slowly came to wakefulness. The first glimpse of light from the sun was masked by the thick fog, making the room appear pitch black still. With a groan of frustrated defiance, the dark-eyed man grabbed the finely shined hilt of his dark, layer-forged broadsword and quickly flicked the tip of the blade straight up toward the ceiling, various rebellious joints crackling and snapping from the sudden action. The man then fluidly spun the hilt of the blade along his hand, the lever-action of his fingers forcing the blade down along his arm as he slammed the blade into the wooden floor below, the carefully sharpened tip slamming into the wood with a sound thump as it came quickly to rest.

The dark-eyed man released the hilt of his sword, wiping his eyes with his muddy, blood-covered hands as he tried wiping the sleep from his eyes. He sat up, the joints in his legs and spine crackling and snapping as his shoulders did as he stretched yet more, waking himself up slowly, carefully, angry at the unforeseen wake-up call. The man got out of his sleeping mat, effortlessly pulling the moderately heavy broadsword from its perch in the wood as he looked around in the darkness for its worn, carefully crafted sheath. The floor creaked with each step, cree, scree, crunch, snap, crackle.

The man found the sheath for his sword and combined the two objects, masking the metal's deadly edge so as to not need to worry about it betraying him on his travels. He dawned the sheath's strap over his shoulder and down to his waist, restraining the weapon against his left thigh so that it could be drawn easily. The dark-eyed man walked over to a table and grabbed a rock and a piece of dull metal lying on it, Flint and Steel, so that he could light the candle in the room.

Minutes later, the man assessed himself, his injuries, his dirtiness, his looks and his clothes. The bright red-orange light of the candle appeared only a dull yellow to the man, his appearance eerie in the familiar, yet odd light. He tore off his shirt, eyeing his chest and examining himself carefully. Two heavy slash marks lined his chest, one ranging from his shoulder to one of his lower ribs, a more shallow cut, and the other from just under his left nipple to just above his solar plexus. Both slashes had crusted over, some of the crust having been ripped off due to him removing his shirt. A bit more blood oozed out, but the pain was nullified by the man's iron ignorance.

The old scars on his body gave him bad memories, two large scars across his lower back, a few dots and scrapes across his arms, a large, odd circle through his left bicep...suddenly, images flowed into his head. Hay before his eyes, cold, gray, dead. He moved his arms, arms which he could not control, and poked two holes in the hay to see through it. He looked through the hay and saw a room, a ladder, a stack of more hay, a bunch of sticks, a group of people, a furnace, some food, a door. The people seemed familiar, his heart was beating hard, he heard clanking, heavy footsteps, crackling of fire. All of a sudden, the wooden door slammed open and men shot in, their armor an eerie blue gray, their weapons dripping blood, a gray liquid. He suddenly remembered what was happening, he flinched, arched his back to escape, pain shot through his arm, and as he looked, he remembered how he received the injury. 

A shout of pain, muffled, shot out his lips as he recoiled, falling back onto the floor. More pain shot through his chest as he stood up, grimacing, ashamed for his failure to remember memory from reality. The singing and eating continued downstairs without pause as the dark-eyed man used a water-basin to clean himself, put on his clothes, and walk out the door, his trusty leather sandals quietly pattering against the wooden ground below as he made his way to the exit, torches lighting his path. Men and women glanced by, avoiding his path as he walked through the room, his gray clothes and dull chainmail glinting under the bright torchlight. No one dared to step in front of him as he moved toward the lobby of the hotel, all but one.

A portly man in a green leather outfit, customary of the Chickory Inn, stepped into his path and quickly shouted, "Hey, you stay the night, you pay the fee," his grim expression showing an attempt to intimidate the unamused swordsman.

The dark-eyed man smiled charmingly at the Inn Keeper as he cleverly responded, "I paid the fee in advance last night, when you lay drunk in that little stool of yours. Cheap tricks inspire guards, and guards inspire death, fair Inn Keeper," his injured figure swaying as he spoke, his expression as realistic as could be for a man of his poor condition.

The Inne Keeper's eyes brightened in shock as he saw truth in the words of the swordsman, both his drunkeness and the guards, and thus he responded, "Very well, mind yourself sir," as he stepped out of the way, the singing slowly quieting as the men around the lobby realized who spoke.

The dark-eyed man dropped his clever smile, satisfied at the result of his words, and walked straight toward the door, completely ignorant of the awe of those around him. A few of the half-drunken men who were in his way quickly shot to nearby tables to escape his path, fearful of the walking legend. A few of the cheerful men offered him a half-drunk cup of ale, hoping to cheer him up a bit as well. Some men shamelessly continued singing, despite the odd, nervous tension in the air. The clinking of the dark-eyed man's chainmail echoed in the room, each link shooting fear into the eyes of the fighting men. 

The legend was almost unstopped in his path toward the door, until a cool-toned man in a blue messenger cloak stepped into his way, beard unshaven, hair untended, eyes bright, expression mellow. The man held a piece of paper in his clenched fist, shaking it slightly in nervousness as he cleared his throat. The dark-eyed man stopped a foot away from the man, uncomfortably close, intimidating, frowning at the interruption.

"Sir," the messenger cautiously started, his voice trembling, "I-I h-have a l-l-letter f-for-r you," he stammered, each second of talking making the dark-eyed man less patient. The messenger held out both hands, one cupped and empty for the messenger's tip, the other openly holding the letter, sealed in a golden twine with the Empirical seal keeping the parchment rolled. "I-It hai-ils f-from E-Edith-th, add-ddressed t-to G-Garwat the G-G-Gray," he managed to squeal out, swallowing his heart at mentioning the name of the man before him.

Garwat, the dark-eyed legend, stopped his impatient frown and changed to an honestly surprised look at the mention of Edith. "A letter from Edith? I suppose my fame precedes me," he stated, one eyebrow raised as he quickly grabbed the letter from the shaking messenger's hand. Garwat placed two silver pieces into the empty hand of the messenger, a large tip, and gently pushed the man out of the way as he reached for the door, letter in hand, lobby silent, tension rising, eyes staring. 

Garwat carefully opened the rotting door and left it open as he walked out, heads arching around the doorway as he left the low-rate Inne. Memories flooded through his head as he walked along the cobbled street, his eyes fixed on the letter in his hand as he held it before himself. What could it hold within? he asked himself within his head, his face emotionless again as he walked into an empty alleyway to read his letter in private. The legend sat on a crate beside a baker's store and snapped off the expensive wax seal, storing it in a pocket as he unfurled the scroll-wrapped letter. He read the letter in silence, not looking up for anything as his eyes scanned the letter.

After his perception was complete, he stored the letter in his pocket, a wide grin masking his face. He stood up, snapped his neck to either side in order to get more blood flowing, then took off on a run, headed for the castle gate at the center of town. His presence was requested by Edith himself, and thus his legacy was increasing. Step by step, curious stare, watchful guards, curious people, nosy merchants, cobbled road and worn out sandals, all things sensed on his way to the gate were ignored. Garwat the Gray was alive, and his chance for sweet revenge was, at last, at hand, offered to him on a silver platter with a bag of gold backing it. He could not be more blood thirsty and joyful if he tried.

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The Edict of Edith:
Addressed to: Garwat the Gray
Written by: Edith IV, Almighty Emperor of The Hallowed Circle, true heir to the world.


    Garwat, your fame precedes you. Your presence sends chills up the spine of the guards in my fair capital, and shakes through the legs of my advisory assembly. Your character outweighs the blood you spilled and your sheer strength matches even that of my personal guards.


    This letter, however, is not sent to praise you alone, but your abilities and my decree. You, along with Liliana, are both fabled forces to be reckoned with. Seeing as our enemy, the Highlights Empire, is also a force of reckoning, it only follows that you and Liliana deal with them accordingly.


    Now, all praise aside, I have assigned a task to both you and Liliana, the work of one who's power outweighs an army. Barlgrath IX, liar, heretic and fiend of all who are just, destroyer of peace, the source of the Riverdath genocide, has outdone himself and crossed the very line of evil. He oppresses his people like no man ever has before, his land is ruled so cruelly that even I feel pity when my holy army massacres theirs.


    Knowing all of this, your task, at last, is simple. Kill Barlgrath IX and all of his assembly. Seeing as you would need at least some assistance, I have provided Liliana, an assassin of her own fame, to carry out the hit with you. Conduct this task successfully and you will be provided 200 golden pieces each, as well as a residence of your own.


Signed,
Edith IV, Allmighty Emperor of the Hallowed Circle.


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