In the land of Arcadia, there is a road that leads to the dragon city of Jermon. On the road, many spokes away from that great city is Dyne, a dusty little cluster of buildings that calls itself a town. In the town, there is a tavern. And in that tavern, an uneasy silence fills the air, as an ugly little man dies an ugly slow death.
The only sounds as the hush descended were the scrape of chairs against wood floor, and a collective gasp of shock as the patrons of the bar watch the scene unfold before them. In the middle of the room, a man in a black cloak lies on the floor, his breath coming out in terrible rasps, his face twisted in a gruesome caricature of pain. He struggles, hands clawing at his chest as if to expose his heart to the cool night breeze blowing in through an open window. His dulling eyes turn upward to the figure standing above him. With one last sputter, he dies, the cures on his lips cut short as he releases his last breath. His head slumps to the side, a red angry scratch trails down his neck, a silent testament to the cause of death. A mutter begins to ripple through the crowd, their eyes fixed on the man left standing.
He was a drow, the half-breed of human and elven parentage. His features, though fair, bore hints of strength: the wide set of his shoulders, his hair raven black with thick sold streaks of white running from his temples, and the crooked bridge of his nose from one too many bad breaks. He glared down at the body; his knotted brow a capturing a perfect juxtaposition of fierceness and confusion. The shoulders slung low, the breath hard and fast, he looks as a man with the weight of his own anger crushing down on him, caught unaware at it's own strength. With suddenness, he seemed to become aware of the short dagger still clenched fast in his hand. He took a moment to stare at it, as if seeing it for the first time. His wonderment lasted but a moment before he slowly released it, letting it fall to the floor with a condemning thunk. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself, and with a small satisfied sigh, he let go the tension set in him. The drow called Gabriel then turned and simply strode out into the night.
A Bar, A Band
He traveled with the drows, though Gabriel felt it was more out of the unspoken segregation still in effect in parts of Arcadia then a desire for companionship. The half-breeds were looked down on, by the humans for being too elf-like, and by the elves for not being elvish enough. Most of the time, Gabriel simply ignored it; he could pass as human with his hair down and the right light.
Meeting them on the road, he had come into Dyne with the troupe of drow performers. Vivid and lively, they were easy going and quick to make friends with this lone drow. Dressed in bright splashes of color and fashion, they were like a flock of parrots, descending for the night and roosting in the tavern. Made of eight performers, they had a singer, four musicians, two dancers and even and illusionist.
There is a certain silence that can encompass a room when a group of drow walks in, even in a place with so many travelers and passers-by like Dyne. But the subtle unspoken hatred was no match for the troupe. With a sureness that surprised Gabriel, they boldly marched to an open space on one side of the tavern and began to set up, as if they were at the Spring Festival. Not sparing a glance to the barkeep or patrons, they unpacked instruments, put on costumes, and began warming up. The man behind the bar, a portly fellow with too much hair on his face and not enough on the top of his head, stood stunned. Glancing about nervously, he sweated for a moment before clearing his throat in the manner of someone with a nervous tic. At this, Akron, the troupe leader and percussionist, finished tightening the head of his drum, turned to the man, and said:
"Just a moment now, friend. We'll take request in a bit."
With that, Akron pounded out a quick count, and the drows began to perform.
Dyne's Companion (a song)
There once was a man called Dyne
Who moved his hands with such a grace
Picking purses with his specialty
While the ladies swooned at his handsome face
One night, over much ale
He learned of a treasure filled mine
With tales of jewels and gold, he exclaimed
'I'll snatch that horde, or my name isn't Dyne!'
The treasure belonged to a
Red dragon, who on riches slept
Dyne waited till the dragon's slumber
And then into the cavern he a-crept
Sunder was a fierce creature
But nonetheless, it wasn't long
When a sound woke the dragon, he found
To his marvel, the treasure was half gone
Sunder let loose with a roar
Shaking rocks that so well hid Dyne
He gnashed his teeth in anger, because
He smelled a human he could not find
'Come out, son of man', he cried
'And name yourself, such a skilled thief.'
But Dyne moved not. 'I'll keep where I am
I fear you may honor me with your teeth.'
'And for my name,' Dyne said
'Who am I to claim such a fame
when I stand next to a dragon born?
I am a nobody, and that's my name.'
'And we've come to an impasse.
I can't move from where I am, lest
You find me, which you could not do now.
So shall we settle this with a contest?'
'We'll take turns telling riddles,
Testing each other to wits end.
If you win, you get gold and a meal.
I win, I earn the right to call you friend.'
Sunder chuckled deep and loud
'Goddess, what fools these mortals be.
We'll play your game, sir Nobody
Little fool, to this contest I agree.'
The battle of minds commenced
Sunder perched on his mound of gold
And Dyne in the shadow of the rocks
Hours passed, many a riddle were told
Though Dyne was quick and clever
And in his years, learned many rhymes
The dragon's mind was both deep and old
So Dyne was the first to run out of lines
Fear struck him, his mind went blank
Fear struck him as the silence grew
Fear struck him, a meal he'd make
Fear struck him, what was he going to do?
'Nobody, I've beaten you,
But how to claim such a feast?
Shall I roast you first, or eat you whole?
You would have to be a mouthful at least!'
Then an idea came to Dyne
Cleared his mind from what had been muddy
'Sir if nobody is what I am,
Please tell me, how can you eat nobody?'
Now it was the dragon's turn
But it seemed he could answer not
Confusion lasted but a moment
Then was unleashed a fury losing wrought
He stomped his feet, lashed his tail
Roared till the walls almost buckled
Sunder's rage seemed to go on and on
Till Dyne thought he heard the dragon chuckle
'Come, tell me your real name
Come out, you haven't need fear my bite.'
Sunder laughed and said 'You're a clever one
And you have made a dragon friend tonight.'
A Story
Though the ale was cold and the cups were clean, Gabriel chose tea over intoxicants. The barkeep had been so impressed with the troops song that their first round was free. Even Gabriel got a bit of the generosity; his tea was only marked up by seven cops. Back at the table, the stories had started. Who played for the Public Chancellor of Vespa, who mad the most sil playing the Spring Festival Fair, that sort of thing. They were all stories the troupe had heard and told countless times before, but everyone listened and laughed like it was the first time all over again. Gabriel sat there, sipping his tea and smiling, allowing himself the pleasure of companionship.
"Gabriel . . ." He looked up from his tea to realize everyone was staring at him; expectant looks on their faces.
"Um, yes?" He felt a slight blush creeping up in his face. It was obvious they were waiting for him to do something. Akron smiled at him.
"It is your turn, friend."
"My turn for what?" The blush had reached his cheeks now.
"A story! That is the only cost we put on your joining our table. You must tell us a story."
Gabriel considered this for a moment. He let out a small sigh and finished his tea. The he reached down and set his travel bag in front of him on the table. From it, he pulled out a mask. It resembled the armor masks the Fourth Kingdom warriors wore into battle; though this one was free of the fierce faces and expressions painted on to frighten the enemy. The copper sheen reflected the poor light of the bar, and directed the eye to the runes, swirl-like, carved into it. Numerous straps ran from behind it, to hold in place on the head, and there were hinges on either side of the jaw, where it might be disconnected to allow the wearer freedom of the mouth. It looked both simply made and at the same time, important, proud. Overall, it seemed to stir a curiosity of who would wear it, for what purpose, and how a poor traveling drow like Gabriel had come into it's possession.
His fingers trailed down the side of the mask, his eyes caught faraway in a memory. There was a bit of soot smudged on the face, and Gabriel stopped to clean it off. He stared at the mask a bit longer, a ripple of indecision running briefly across his face. Then as if answering so some unspoken question, he nodded to himself, and lifted the mask for all at the table to see.
"The man in this mask died for me."
And that is how Gabriel began his story.
The Early Years
"My father, Jack, was a thief. And for the first ten years of my life, he was pretty good at what he did. We lived in Vespa: me, my father, and my mother Cianna. She never really agreed with what he did, but it kept her in the life style she was accustomed to. He father had held a minor lordship there, and after he went back to the Elven Isles, she inherited it all. I never knew him, my grandfather. Mother always said he was shamed that she took a human husband, even though she herself was a drow, the result of his . . . fancy with a human woman. Bit of the noble heritage of proud elven hypocrisy.
Anyway, like I said, my father was a thief, and good enough at it to keep us in the right social standings. Jack belonged to the Guild of the Hidden Wealth. He started off as a simple pickpocket, but had enough ambition to become Second Leader by the time I was born. For the first ten years, he did right by us.
It's funny now to think that I grew up a noble's son. Good schools, a small manor, the popularity that being heir to a title brings. I used t think that everyone lived like that. Certainly my best friend did. Arlo was the son of Mika, the First Leader of the guild. We were groomed to not only be lords, but successors to our fathers. I never really gave much thought to that aspect of our lives, but it seemed to be what Arlo lived for. He was always so proud of his dad, bragging all the time; though because it was the guild, we weren't suppose to tell the other kids, so I was the one who heard it . . . all the time.
One day, Arlo and I were playing in my house. Our dads were out doing their thing, and my mother was 'recovering' from a late night party of some such, the kind were she dressed extravagantly and drank wine in the same manner. We had our wooden swords and were slaying dragons, or we were soldiers going to war, or any other childhood fantasy. We were so into it that we never noticed the lamp that had gotten knocked over. Funny thing . . . I can never remember which one of us actually did it.
We got out as soon as we noticed the black smoke, but it never occurred to me that my mother wouldn't be so lucky. They said she had been asleep, and just never woke up, the smoke got to her so fast. I don't remember a lot after that point, just that I didn't see Jack for a full day and night. He came back angry, and smelling like a vat of Vespa's cheapest drink. He beat me that night. He beat me so bad I thought my own father was going to kill me. That was the first time, first of many.
He didn't do a lot of work for the next year, save for drinking and taking his frustrations out on me. My life went through a drastic change . . . before, Jack hardly ever raised his voice to me, but now I had to grow accustom to his fists. He very literally beat into to me the face that I was responsible for my mother's death.
Most of the money we had went to booze for Jack, and after about a year, we began to run out. It wouldn't have bothered him much, he was so out of it most of the time, except that it meant no drink for him to lose himself in. So he started taking jobs again, but he just wasn't as good anymore. A lot of it could be blamed on the bottle, but in truth I think he just didn't care much at that point. Jack got by mostly on his position in the guild, but after so many drunken failures, anyone with eyes in their head could see that it was all going to end badly. And that is exactly what happened.
I hadn't seen much of Arlo since the fire, our living situations and my father being the dividing forces. Also . . . I was ashamed. I knew the looks I got, the muttering behind my back. I was now the drunk's son. Not only that, but I was the reason he was driven to drink. I learned a lot about shame then.
Arlo showed up unexpectedly showed up one day, all a mess. Jack had left the day before on a job with the guild. He hadn't been drunk enough to look like he was, but he had a damn good start. I thought Arlo had slipped out to play with me, just like we used to, but right away, I could tell by the look in his eyes that wasn't the case. It was the same look Jack had when he would lay into me: blame. He stared hat me, chest heaving like he had run all the way there, fist clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
'My da is in jail. He's going to be executed. And it's all your dad's fault.' And then he hit me. Now at this point, I had been smacked around so much that it didn't bother me too bad, like it was the pain was just part of a routine I had come to except as a part of life. But I don't think it had ever hurt so bad, inside, as when Arlo hit me, just the once. I was knocked flat on my butt, trying to comprehend what had happened, and he just walked away.
Jack came home not too long after that. I'd never seen him so distraught, so scared. It was a frightening thing. He moved in a flurry, packing up our meager belongings and stash of gold. He took me by the hand and we made our way out of the city that night. That was the end of my childhood in Vespa."
Interlude, Part I
The tavern had grown considerable quieter, and Gabriel looked up to see quite a few more faces looking back at him. Just about half the place had stopped what they were doing to listen to him, card games and conversations forgotten. The barkeep came round to his side, pouring him fresh tea.
"Thank you," said Gabriel as he took a sip, easing the dryness that had accumulated in his throat. The barkeep nodded.
"So what happened after you left Vespa?"
Gabriel looked at him for a moment. The hint of a smile displaying the curious amusement at having obtained such an audience.
"We ran," he said simply with a shrug. "Whatever Jack had done to screw the job up, he had made a mess of it big. And the guild was not prepared to be forgiving, though I learned that later." He took another sip of his tea.
Rough Times
"For two years, we ran. Apparently, the drink had been good training for him, because Jack was exceptionally good at escaping anything resembling a life. We saw much of Arcadia; each new town came with a new name and story for us. A farmer and his son, a blacksmith and his apprentice, not that, at this point, Jack knew how to do anything but drink. So a while, it would be okay, and each time I thought maybe it would be the last. Bu with every glass he had, the paranoia would mount, and then we'd be off running to somewhere new. This is when Jack became much more interested in my 'education'. I learned all the down and dirty trick a thief uses to stay alive: stealing meat from the butcher, conning the clergy for a few cops, and most importantly of all, finding the next bottle. We did well enough to survive, and in his own strange way, I think Jack was proud of me. Not that it was enough to stop his fist, mind you. If he hadn't gotten sick, I don't think we would have ever stopped moving.
We finally settled down a port town called Halsbrïnk, which, I am told, is elvish for 'the sea's gift'. If there was anything that Jack was worse at then staying sober, it was fishing. Not that it mattered most of the time. They years had caught up with him, and he had come down with the drunk's sickness. The only upside was that even though I had to take car of him, clean up after him, and do all his work, he no longer had the strength to lay into me so often. His body may have failed him then, but his tongue stayed sharp. For a year, he lasted, mean, spiteful, mad at everything and blaming me for all of it.
It became just a matter of time. He was no longer my father whom I had loved, no longer even Jack whom I had come to hate, but a sad angry man dying slowly and painfully. It was just a matter of time, so I waited. I waited that night, while his breath came out labored and pathetic. Waited, while his eyes began to glaze over with pain. I waited for him to finally die, and leave me alone for good. When he did go, he did it with hurtful words still escaping his lips, cursing at me with his dying breath. I remember thinking that the stench of booze about him would soon be replaced with the smell of something worse, and I realized that my father was dead. He had left me. I don't know why, but that made me so . . . angry. He had given me nothing but pain and humiliation, but he was all I had left. And now like the selfish man he was, he had deserted me to try and survive on my own. So I hit him. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but I felt that after he had done it to me so often, I was damn sure he was going to get his. I hit him, and then I hit him again. And again. And again. Years of frustration, of trying to be good enough for his love spilled out of me and into my fists. All I could think of was hurting him like he hurt me, and how unfair it was that he had escaped that. I pounded on him till he was a bloody mess, and the skin on my knuckles split. But it wasn't enough, not for me on that night. Nothing in that shack of a thing we called a home was safe. The bottles, littered everywhere in the house, some still full of liquid, made an almost musical sound as they shattered. The single lamp we had managed to tumble over on my way out. I stood for a long time, watching the shack burn. The tears had started without me realizing, but soon I was sobbing like I hadn't since my mother died.
So I was alone, with nowhere and no one to turn to. I had seen fire consume both my parents. My only other living relative was my grandfather, whom I had never met. The first few months were the hardest. I went hungry and cold when I couldn't find shelter, got into a few scraps when I pushed my luck too far. It got so bad at one point, I actually tried to find dear grandsire, but that little adventure ended quite poorly. I had no stomach for sea travel, and mixed blood bigotry ensured I never got past Harbortown. I spent a miserable month there before I felt strong enough to return to the mainland. Back where I started, I was having trouble understanding how it had come to this. From being a noble's son, and successor to a guild, I had taken a meteoric fall from grace to become a penniless street urchin, always stealing my next meal. I was as angry at the world as Jack had been. And at 16, I decided that maybe he had the right idea all along, as I flirted closer and closer to picking up the bottle myself. I think maybe, in the end, I had a Goddess or two's attention, because something happened that would dramatically change my station in life . . . again."
Interlude, Part II
By now, the barkeep had dropped all pretenses, and pulled up a chair near the table. Again, Gabriel was bewildered by the amount of attention he had drawn. Nearly the entire bar had become fixed on listening in, save for a few. In the back, a couple of surly drunks complained loudly on how drows today had forgotten their proper place. At the bar, a short man in a dirty black coat sat hunched over his drink. He was staring intently at the cup in a rather noticeable attempt to go unnoticed. A nervous fugitive, perhaps. Still, Gabriel and his story had drawn in most of the bar, something troupe leader Akron noticed very well.
Gabriel started to say something, and then halted, unsure how to continue. The story was going to become much harder to tell. All the other past wounds and wrong doings hadn't been so bad; they had long since scabbed and healed over. But the events he was coming to, some of them were still fresh in his mind, still painful. Yet, he had come this far. And in a way, it felt good to be talking about it. Maybe it was a thread of the elvish vanity from somewhere deep inside of him, the need to be acknowledged and remembered. He would finish his tale, if only so that it would live on beyond him, and just perhaps not be forgotten.
From the table, the mask silently stared back at him. He toyed with it a moment before picking it up to look into it, as if to peel away the mystery of it all by will alone. With a sigh, he put the mask down, as his fingers began to lightly trace the edges. Gabriel could feel the anticipation of the crowd as they waited for him to speak again. Another sip of tea, and he started up again.
"I had no possessions, family or home. But what I did keep with me benefited me well," he started out slowly, his words picking up confidence as he went on. "My thieving skills had improved much, strengthened by the need to survive." He paused for a moment of quick reflection. "But I think it was my anger that kept me going the most. A sort of fiery stubbornness to persevere, no matter what I had to do. Like so many other things in my life, the fire threatened to consume everything."
A New Education
"I couldn't tell you what exactly led me back to Vespa after so many years. I guess a part of me was sentimental for my old home. I don't think that I thought the matter between Jack and the guild would have been forgotten by know, but in my arrogance, I was simply unconcerned if there would be repercussions to my return. Well, 'pride goeth before Chaos cometh', as the priests say.
I was only in town for about a week when it happened. Apparently, the Guild of the Hidden Wealth had gone through some . . . changes. Now, when a shop paid for 'protection', they actually got just that. Said stores where marked with the guild crest, a seemingly empty chest, in a discreet location; say, on the corner of a doorframe. This was a sign to everyone that could read it, 'Keep Out' mixed with 'Beware of Dog'. In retrospect, I should have noticed it, but in my mind there wasn't a thing in the world worthy enough to cause me concern. It turns out I was very wrong.
I'd like to think that there was some sort of detection spell involved, but in truth it was overconfidence that made me sloppy. With half a loaf of bread down my pants, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and a sinking feeling in my gut. It may have been awhile, but I remembered the punishment for thieving on guild territory, and it wasn't nice. The hand went over my mouth, and I was pushed out of the shop, into the nearby alley. I tried to fight back, but caught a hard blow across the bridge of my nose, breaking it for the umpteenth time. I was shoved back, but the brick wall caught me, knocking my head in the processes. Despite my vision beginning to blur up, I noticed two more men had walked up.
'What do we have here? Little boy, don't you know that this is Guild territory?' This from the portly man who had just walked up. He was older then the other two, and certainly had the scars to prove it. I raised my head to stare him in the eyes as blood began to flow from my nose. He looked at me for a second, a puzzled look on his face, and then he was overcome with a large, not too nice looking grin.
'Well well well . . . I never thought I'd see the day. Ya know what we really have here, boys? A nice fat raise. Meet Gabriel, son o' Jack, all grown up.' Eyes widened, then the other two grined as well. This was not sounding good. The portly one stepped up to me and drove a fist into my gut, smiling. Pain exploded in my midsection, and I fell to my knees, trying to catch my breath. He squatted next to me, and lifted my head up by my hair, to look me in the face.
'Now Gabriel, ye wouldn't mind talking a walk wit one o' your da's former mates, would ye? The boss has expressed oh so much interest in talking wit ye. Dere's some unresolved matters to be discussed.'
My father's mistake, catching up to me. And he wasn't even here to enjoy the moment. My mind began to race. Mika was dead, and I would think after about six years, people would start to forget. Who gave the orders to bring me in? For a very odd moment, I was proud that someone had remembered me, until I started to think about what might happen next. I rolled back to my feet, to try and get away.
'Come now, Gabriel,' the older one caught me easily, pushing me back against wall, hard. The back of my head and my teeth made the same clicking sound as the hit, and dots of blackness began to swim across my vision. 'Sins of the father, and all that, you remember. Bag him.'
That last part was directed at the other two men flanking me. A coarse bag was placed over my head, and I was in darkness. I assumed there were taking me to the First Leader, but it seemed we had only gone a few feet when we were stopped by a voice.
'Pardon me, but it doesn't seem like the lad is too willing to accompany you gentleman. If I were a judgmental man, I'd say you didn't have the best intentions for him in mind.'
There was a moment of silence, then the big one replied in a growl.
'On yer way, gaik. This ain't no business for an outlander to be poking his nose into, unless he wants to lose it.' There was the sound of a sigh before the voice spoke up again.
'The term 'gaik' comes from the Fourth Kingdom translation of the word foreigner, gaiko-kujin. This is the name they took for themselves when they decided to make the trek over the ocean to our land. Appearances aside, I've no right to that nomenclature, as I was born in the lands of the Empire.' The tone of the stranger was fascinating. He spoke as if he were lecturing a class of students, not confronting a trio of dangerous men with bad things on their mind.
'So you're not a gaik, so what? Ye still need to get lost . . . now, or we'll just have one more body to deal with.' The tone of the big man was clear. He was done with the stranger, and violence would soon ensue. Frankly, I was more concerned with his use of the term 'body'. Whenever someone refers to you as such, it usually means pain, in spades, followed by death. Damn my father's eyes.
I'm not too sure what happened next, bag over my head and whatnot. I heard the stranger step towards us, then the guildsman to the left approach him, I'm assuming with the intent to do harm. There was the sounds of movement, and the sharp cry of pain, but not from the stranger. After that, it became a jumble of noises, flesh making contact with flesh and people getting hurt. Some was shoved into me, causing me to smack my head against the wall a thrice time. As I tried my best to stop my head from spinning, I noticed that it had grown quiet. I had just enough time to wonder what that meant for me before I the light-headedness took over, and I fell to the ground for a short nap.
For obvious reason, I've no details on what immediately followed, or how long I was out. After a while, consciousness came slowly and painfully to me. First came the throbbing of my head, then fear; caution. I defiantly wasn't in the ally anymore. Still feigning sleep, I tired to take stock of were I was. Birds chirping and wind in the trees had replaced the busy sounds of the city, and I was no longer lying on cold pavement. If this was how the guild treated transgressors, then they had indeed changed.
I lay still for a few more moments before I caught the smell of food cooking. It had been a while since my last meal, and eventually, my belly's grumbling overcame my sense of wariness. Slowly rising, I began to explore my surroundings. Woven mats of on the floor, paper walls . . . it seemed to be Forth Kingdom style. The room I was in was plain: bedding on the floor, chest of drawers, a trunk and a washstand. Strangely enough, it seemed to be a guest room of sorts. I slid the door open, and head the sound of someone humming. The smell was quickly becoming deliciously overwhelming, so I quietly made my way to the source. The rest of the place, though moderately big, was like the room I had been in: simple. Growing up in affluence as I did, I always saw 'simple' as poor, shabby. But the place had an elegance all it's own; an uncluttered smooth feel, proud in it's own honest way. I liked it.
The kitchen was the most extravagant room in the house. Herbs and spices hung down from everywhere, along with all sorts of utensils. Light streamed in, reflecting in a multitude of colors from the stained glass windows. A fire was burning away in one of the stoves, and before it stood a man, his back to me, happily humming away as he busied himself with the food. Without turning to me, he spoke.
'Had you slept any longer, I would have sent for a healer. You had a sizable lump. You must have been quiet tired.' It was the same voice I had heard in the ally. This man had somehow managed to defeat three armed men by himself, and bring me back here afterwards. Unable to comprehend such an altruistic deed, I gave voice to my suspicion.
'Why?"
'Why did you have a bump? I suspect it had something to do with the manner in which those men treated you, but I can only speculate.
'No, why did you help me? I've no money for a reward, if that's what you're after.'
'Sometimes a good deed is it's own reward. I saw the situation you were in and thought you might be appreciative of my assistance.'
'Well, you were wrong. I can take care of myself; I've done it for years. I don't need some jackass to butt his nose in and solve my problems for me.' If you had asked me then, I couldn't have told you why I was so angry at that moment. Maybe my long taught suspicions were flared high. Maybe it was that my pride had been wounded at be caught and trussed up like some stupid novice. Maybe I was just resentful that this guy had so easily rescued me from a situation that was beyond my control. My head was pounding, my stomach empty, and I felt like a fool. I didn't need some righteous, self important nobody use me as his good deed for the day. I scoffed at his pretentiousness, and made for the door.
'You were unconscious for two days, so you're unaware that we are a good ten spokes from the closest town,' he called out after me. 'Of course, you're free to go, but I thought you might enjoy a meal before making such a trip.'
My hand was on the doorknob, and I hesitated. I was torn between my anger and having a full belly. I sighed to myself. What harm could it do? It's not like I actually had anywhere to go. I decided. I'd eat my fill, and then be on my way, far from this fool.
'I'll stay, but just for . . .' I turned to look my benefactor for the first time. Or I tried. He had no face, but a mask.
'You may call me Judaius.'
We sat at the table in silence. Night had descended, and he had lit some candles. Between bites, I tried to surruptiously stare at the mask in the low illumination. It seemed such an odd thing, not to be able to see the face of the man who probably saved my life. To be honest, I can't remember if the food was any good or not, or even what it was that I ate, I was so fixated on the thing he wore. I was trying to gather up the courage to ask him about it, when he broke the silence.
'You knew those men the other day?' He was completely casual, as if he were asking me if I enjoyed the meal.
'They . . . I knew one of them, from long ago. The important thing was that they knew me.'
'It was a personal matter then?'
'Not to start off, I . . . was thieving, some food, and was foolish enough to do it in guild territory. They were guildsmen.'
'The guild?'
I stopped, chewing my food thoughtfully, trying to explain, and realizing that I was trying to start at the end. Lying down my fork, I sighed, and gathered my thoughts. In all likelihood, Judaius had saved me from plenty of pain, if not death. The least I could do is tell him why. I started at the beginning, and told him everything. I spoke about my mom, and Arlo, about my father and what he had become. I told him about the guild, and how I had lived for the pars few years. I don't think I meant to tell him everything, but once I started, I found I could not stop. It was all flowing out of me. Everything I had pent up, everything I never had the chance to tell anyone else, it was all released. And like poison from a wound, I started to feel better once I let it all out. For some reason, it felt okay to let him know everything, like he was someone safe to confide in. I talked well into the night, stopping only when I need to ease the dryness in my throat with sips of water. He sat there and listened to everything, without a fleck of judgment. Maybe it was the mask covering his features and emotions, but I never felt like he was thinking less of me because of what I said.
'And they put the bag over my head. So you would know better then I what happened next.' I finished, a bit weary from the effort. Sitting back in my chair, I waited. But he just sat there. A moment passed in stillness, then he rose to collect the plates. He left them in the sink, took one of the candles, and started to walk out. Just like that. I felt my anger starting to rise again. I pour my heart out to him, tell him things I'd never uttered to a single soul, and what do I get? Not so much as a dismissive grunt. The pompous, arrogant son of a rock troll. Who did he think he was, that he could just . . .
'You are welcome to stay the night in the room you were in.' He paused in the doorway, mask glowing in the flickering light of the single candle. 'Anger can blaze hotter then any inferno. You've lost your parents to such a flame. Care should be taken lest you loose yourself too.' And with that, he left.
I found the room again, though the next few hours were spent in restlessness. Judaius's words rattling were around in my head. Was it true, what he said about me? Was I on the path to self-destruction? My anger had gotten me this far in life. I depended on it to live, to thrive! Save for the clothes on my back, it was the only thing I always kept with me. Everyone else I had known was gone; I could only count on myself. What could Judaius know about being as low as I had? He had no right to criticize me on how I lived. He hadn't gone through the things I had. I decided that he had not the slightest clue was he was talking about.
Satisfied at my justification, I resolved to give the matter no more thought, and turned over to go to sleep. But rest eluded me still. Something nagged at the back of my head, like a persistent flea in my thoughts. It was a long night.
I arose in the morning to an empty house. In the kitchen, food had been set out for one. Pancakes, eggs, toast and fresh fruit awaited me, a veritable feast, at least in my starved eyes. For whatever shortcomings I attributed to Judaius, he was an excellent cook. I took my time, enjoying my first pancakes since my mother died.
Leaving the house, I went to find Judaius. The house itself was on a hill, and off to one side was a series of stone steps worn with use. At the bottom was a well, and a small garden, where I found him. He made an odd image, dressed in loose fitting pants, a straw hat to block the sun, and that mask. His upper torso, shirtless, was a criss-crossing mess of scars, like a map of pain. Again, I wondered just whom this man was, baring the body of a warrior, yet saving orphan thieves and tending his vegetables.
'Gabriel. It is good to see you up and about. I take it you'll soon be on your way?'
' . . . I thought about what you said last night.'
'And?'
I stared at him, now feeling silly and childish, and it irked me to have him make me feel so. Did he mean to provoke me? His attitude was so casual, almost placating. Was he never fazed? I had a feeling I could tell him that I decided to turn into a dragon, and he would have just accepted it with a smile and a 'good luck'. Not that I could even tell if he smiled.
'And . . . and screw you! Judging me like that! You can't begin to understand what I've been through! I live how I have to, to survive! We all don't have big houses and nice little gardens, Judaius. Some of have to fight to keep alive. What would you know about that? You talk like I can just change, just like that! What if it's not that easy? What if I can't do it? It doesn't matter to you, after all. I'm just a screwed up kid you happened upon. No big deal to you. But you're telling me to change everything about myself? You think that sort of thing just happens?' The last words nearly caught in my throat with a sob, my emotions were so raw at that moment. Tears of anger and frustration were beginning in the corner of my eyes. I sighed, trying to calm myself. When I spoke again, it came out barely above a whisper.
'I don't need another father.'
His body tensed, and he drew himself up to his full height, which was taller then me. I felt a tiny sense of pride, that I had actually said something to make him react, make him angry. Then it crossed my mind that maybe that wasn't such a wise thing to do. For a second, I expected the fist to start down upon me, like what had always happened before when I let my mouth run off. But he did something I didn't expect, and hadn't had for a long time.
He stepped forward, and hugged me.
It was, for me at least, a confusing and awkward thing, but that didn't stop him. I was surprised at how, in one small action, he completely accepted a skinny thieving street urchin. He held me for a long moment, like a close friend, and then with his hands on my shoulders, he looked me in the eyes. I could see his behind the mask, pale and shinning, like I was seeing him for the first time.
'Are you bound to your anger, letting it lead you about as it may? Or, if given the chance, would you let it go, unburdening yourself of such a heavy load?'
'I . . . I don't think I know how, Judaius.' I heard him chuckle, and he gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
'I could teach you that.'
He took me back to the house. There we went to a large room I hadn't seen yet. The floor was empty and padded. Off to one side were wooden sparing dummies, worn with use, and on a wall hung a rack baring an assortment of weapons. Who was this masked man?
'This is my dojo,' he said not without a sense of pride. 'This is where I can teach to control your anger. This is where you will learn to hone your body and spirit. I'm going to show you the Pathless Way.'
'You're going to teach me to fight?' I asked, pretty confused.
'No,' he said patiantly. 'I'm going to teach you how to live.' "
Interlude III
Gabriel paused. The mask was in his hands, gripped tightly. He set it down on the table, and took a moment.
"For seven years, I stayed with him. It was the longest I was in one place since I was a child. In that time, Judaius taught me all he knew. He became a teacher, a friend, and yes, maybe even like a father. I can't tell everything that happened in that time, because a lot of what he taught me isn't exactly mine to share. I can say that it was there that I learned how to be at peace with myself, to be happy." He said with a faint smiling, recalling past memories.
"Nothing good can last, at least that's what they say. Fate seemed to have a way of finding me no matter where I went, or whom I was with. You'd think it was a lesson I would have learned by then, but still . . . it took me by surprise." Gabriel drained the last of his tea, and finished his story.
An Ending, A Beginning
"I don't know how he found me. Judaius sometimes made trips into Vespa, so maybe someone followed him. Or maybe he had men searching for me all that time, since he found I was alive. Either way, I can be certain that I was at least indirectly responsible for what happened.
As a part of training, I had to gather water for the house. What that amounted to was many trips up and down those steps, carrying buckets heavy with water. It was suppose to be an exercise to build up strength, and develop a good sense of balance. I think Judaius just didn't like doing it himself. I didn't mind. There is a refreshing loss of self when one throws themselves single mindedly into a tough physical task. It gave me time to think and be alone. Many a fight was retraced on those steps and in my mind. That was something else Judaius always taught; win the battle in your head before fighting it with your fist. I became able to recall entire fights, going over them again and again, sparing with imaginary opponents. I was near the end of my task and lost in thought, when as I neared the tops of the steps, a shadow fell on me. I looked up to see a face I never really expected to see again. He had changed. Time had molded him into a man, stern, with a stamp of cold determination upon his face. He was no longer the friend I slew imaginary dragons with. Arlo stood there, arms crossed, looking down at me with an unreadable expression about him. He was flanked by two large men, I assumed to be guildsmen.
'Gabriel . . .'
'Arlo.'
'How have the years found you?' I almost smiled. Maybe I misjudged his demeanor.
'Still warm, the blood that flows in my veins.' He gave me a wry, odd grin, and I felt a cold pit in the bottom of my stomach.
'It's nice, reassuring even, to know that we both followed in our fathers' footsteps. I am First Leader of the Hidden Wealth, and you . . . you are a consummate loser.'
'What do you want Arlo?'
He chuckled. 'I would like my father back, he who was robbed from me so young. I want those miserable years I spent without him back. I want restitution for the pain I've had to go through. Simply Gabriel, I want justice.'
I sighed. 'You'll not find it here. Jack is eight years dead, by his own drunken hand. I think what you want is not justice, but vengeance.'
His eyes widened with anger as they burned into me, and his hands clenched into fists. 'You're wrong. I will have justice done! And if not through you're goddess forsaken father, then by you!' With a flourish he motioned to the two men, pointing down accusingly at me. 'Now then, let's make the trip back to Vespa pleasant, shall we?' he said as the bruisers began to descend the steps to me.
I saw them, the powerful bunching of muscles in their shoulders and arms, but my mind held onto the image of Jack, stinking drunk, ready to lay into me as he had done oh so many times. Men seem to react to harsh physical abuse in different ways. Some become cowed by it, never to offer resistance again. For a second, I knew that feeling again, as absolute terror and helplessness taking hold and squeezing me. My mind screamed at me to run, and I took a shaky step back, thinking nothing save for how I could escape from the pain coming toward me. But before I could do anything else, I remembered words Judaius had taught me. I heard them in my head; as sure as he was standing next to me. 'Be like water.'
It was a cloak of calmness descending on me. Fleeing would accomplish nothing. I had been running my entire life, and yet here were my problems, coming at me still. If I didn't stand for myself now, then I never would. Judaius taught me that sometimes a man must face that which he fears most, no matter how it galls him. And when he must, he needs to be like water. I looked again at the men, and I understood Judaius's words throughout, like a piece of a puzzle just falling into place. The closest man was bigger, with a shaved head and gold earring all along his ears. The calluses of his knuckles, the graceless way he took his steps on the uneven terrain, and the twisted smile alight on his face told me volumes. He was a violent man, used to getting his way by overcoming his foes through sheer power rather then any skill. The second man was smaller, though still much larger then I. He had an intricate tattoo of lines and curves running down one cheek onto his neck. This one held back, wary of fighting down the steps. I noticed the way he carried his weight, how his fist were open, relaxed, not clenched tight. I knew he was the more dangerous of the two.
To be like water is to be fluid, responsive. Not too be stiff, guarding for attack, but relaxed, ready no matter what comes or how it comes at you. The big one stepped in front of me, his hand coming forcefully down on my shoulder. He meant to grab me, and pull me up with him by my scruff. So he was caught unready when I leaned my shoulder back, sliding his hand from it. I followed the motion through by pulling his arm down along. He had to take a step forward to try and regain his balance, and I moved to the side out of his way. His feet were hanging off the step, arms pin wheeling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. With a gentle push of my elbow, I helped on his journey downward. He took a long time to reach the bottom.
There was a look of surprise on the remaining bruiser's face, and a low growl escaped Arlo's throat. 'Get him! Hurt him!' These words, spoken with such venom, wounded me deep as I realized how much my old friend had changed. I tried not to dwell on that thought, as a fist speedily made it's way at my face.
I took a step back to avoid the first punch, and the other fighter stepped forward to press the attack. Two more punches and a kick aimed at my head. Weave left, right, then duck, and I took my own shots. Instead of moving, he blocked my blows with his own forearms, his face passive as he ignored the damage I know I inflicted. I could tell his style was harsher then mine, using his own body to stave off attacks so he could move forward with his own. I gave way, stepping back as we continued to exchange shots. The advantage was his; his close and dirty way of fighting coupled with the precariousness of moving about on stairs working against me. If the fight had continued much longer, I would have lost, either battered into submission, or taking a long fall. Worse, he knew this too, and grinned.
I needed to end it quickly. I let the next couple of shots in, dodging just enough to deflect some of the damage. As I hoped, he became more confident, and stepped in with the next punch, hoping to deliver a haymaker. His fist breezed past my face, and instead of countering, I trapped his arm against my neck. Locked up, I spun him around, trading places on the step. While he was off-balance, I brought my foot up between us, side-kicking him out into the air. He had time for a grunt of surprise before he joined the first thug at the bottom.
I turned to Arlo, who stood glowering at me. He sighed, and shook his head. Descending the stairs, he stopped next to me, and without turning to look at me, he said:
'You know, this is far from over.' With that, he continued down. I stared at his back, left with my face beginning to bruise and that cold pit in my stomach.
Judaius had seen the fight, but knew it to be too personal to interfere. Or maybe he had stayed back to see how I would fare, like a test. He often did that, odd little things that would leave me confused until I puzzled out that me was teaching me, in his own subtle way. We sat down for a cup of tea, and I told him all of what happened.
'So that was Arlo.' Judaius had detached the lower part of the mask, allowing him to blow on the hot tea. It was strange. In all the years I had known him, that was the most of his face I had ever seen.
'Yes, he . . . changed quite a bit.'
'Humph. Perhaps no more then you.'
I looked at him from my cup. He was right, of course. It had come upon me gradually, but I was no longer the same person I had been the night those guildsmen attacked me in the ally,
'If I have changed at all, it is thanks to you. As humbling as it is to say this, I probably wouldn't have survived this long if it wasn't for you and your teachings.' I saw him smile at the compliment. And once I had thought him emotionless.
'You do yourself a disservice. I merely showed you the way. You are the one who has had to travel it.' He set down the tea. 'You did well for your first real fight, but nevertheless, you did make some minor mistakes that might have saved you from that black eye. Come, we shall go over fighting in small spaces again before it gets dark.'
. . .
We knew Arlo would be good on his word to return, but two months passed without incident. We began to relax our guard, and fall into our routines. That is what allowed us to be caught unaware.
We were in the dojo, practicing before dinner. It was a weapon day, which meant that Judaius would choose a weapon at random, and I had to try and defend myself freehanded. That night was small to medium daggers, wielded in the right, then left hand. Judaius was in the middle of a particularly furious barrage, when he suddenly stopped, and turned to stare off in the distance.
'Someone is in the house.' I had heard nothing, but long since accepted that he was sometimes more attuned to things like that then I.
'Where do you-' Even as I spoke, I saw it. A flash of motion to the right, out of the corner of my eye. Things moved quicker then I could follow. Moving like a blur, Judaius went into action. I felt him grab me, whirling me behind him, whilst at the same time he flung the dagger he had been holding. I saw his eyes go wide behind the mask at the same moment I heard metal hitting flesh, and a small throwing knife went deep into his side. From the far side of the room, there was a short cry of pain, then a curse and shuffle. Before I could do anything, Judaius fell forward into my arms. For a second, I froze, still not exactly sure what had just happened. The warm sensation of blood began on my chest, and I looked down in horror to see a bright crimson stain spreading too rapidly to be healthy for Judaius. Lowering him to the ground, I scanned the area I thought I had heard the other voice, but nothing. Whoever had thrown the knife had left in a hurry. I set that aside; it was time for anger. I took off my shirt, wrapping it around the hilt of the knife. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the knife in a swift movement, and then tried to staunch the escape of blood. The design of the weapon was not one I recognized, wicked and efficient looking. The blade was coated red and dripping, but underneath was the hint of something black and viscous spread along the edge. It had been coated with a poison, and worse then that, it had been meant for me. My anger flared white hot, and I was a breath away from leaving Judaius there, and running off to find the goddess forsaken soul that had done this. He would pay. Not only had he tried to kill me, but he had killed the first person to be kind to me since my mother died. I would make sure he understood just what he had done, and that understanding would take a long, long ti-
'Gabriel.'
'Judaius! Who . . . Judaius, I think the knife . . .'
'Poisoned, I know, I can feel it. But Gabriel, listen to me, as I haven't much time.'
'I'll find who did this, Judaius, I swear. He and Arlo will pay!'
'Hush Gabriel, forget that for now. There is something important I need from you.' I tried to blink back my tears as I realized my friend was dying in my arms.
'Name it, Judaius.'
'First, understand this: that name, this mask . . . it's not who I really am; it's not who I was born. There were others who wore this face before me, and I need you to make sure that there will be others after me.'
'I don't understand what you're saying. What do you mean there were others?'
'The Judaius mask was created out of a need for atonement. For warriors who had dishonored themselves and their names, it was a second chance. It gets passed down from one to another, so that they might have the chance to regain a part of their souls. Each of us was guilty of some terrible mistake, and after the mask, we did all we could to make up for it. It came to me thus, and now against the wishes of my heart, it must go to you.'
It seemed to all make sense in my head. This was why he never spoke of himself or his past, why he never removed the mask. This was why he had taken me in, and taught me the Pathless Way. He had been grooming me to take this up for him. If it was my destiny, then so be it. I owed Judaius much, and this was but the least I could do. But Judaius's eyes burned into me, as if he had read my mind.
'No. Gabriel, this mask is not yours to wear. Listen to me in this and listen to me well: you may have made errors, done things you were not proud of, but it was not your fault. Nor your mother dying, not your father's rage, not even this now. It is simply fate, and the odd way it flows. Destiny has dealt you more wounds then most, but despite of that, you have stayed alive, and not let hate into your heart. I believe you are intended for great things. And not as Judaius, but as yourself, strong and proud. I am just sorry I must burden you with this task.'
'Wha, what do you need me to do, teacher?' Wet drops began to fall on his mask, and it took me a second to realize I was crying. There was a horrible lump in my throat, and it hurt to talk. Even in this awful moment, Judaius's eyes were smiling up at me.
'Ahh, Gabriel, you must do for someone else what you have done for me. You must give someone else the chance to redeem themselves. Before you, I hid myself away, thinking the mask would be enough. But it isn't. One must always try to do good, to better the world around them. That is what you brought to me, full of anger and potential. You must take this mask, and find the next person to wear it. They're out there, waiting for the chance to prove themselves. They're waiting for you. Help them. I know you can.'
'I will, I promise, Judaius.' His eyes began to grow cloudy, and there hung a great weight in the air as I knew he had not much longer.
'I wish, just once, for you to call me by my true name, though it's a funny thing. I think, that after all this time, I have forgotten it. Isn't that the odd?' He let out one last breath, and then his body went limp. The life left him, and I was left holding the dead body of my dear teacher.
'I know you're true name. I think I've known it all along. Father.' I wept, and time seemed to lose all meaning.
When I regained some semblance of myself, I began about my tasks. In his room, I found a box. It was lined with velvet, and adorned with dozens upon dozens of names, each in a different hand and language. I didn't even bother trying to discover which might have been my teacher's. It no longer mattered. I had already named him.
It took me some time to finally remove the mask. My mind balked at it, the thought of him without it on. It just seemed wrong. But I knew I must take it off if I was going to fulfill my promise. Had it been any other time, I might have been surprised at what I found, but my pain was too deep, too pure for even that discovery to penetrate it. For some reason, I had just assumed that the mask would hide horrible scars, or some other disfigurement, but underneath, my teacher was . . . normal. He was a comely human, but probably not someone I would have noticed walking down the street. What a strange thing perception can be.
I could not bare the thought of my teacher in the ground, rotting, so I laid him to rest how I heard the Fourth Kingdom does to their warriors. It happened to be something I was more then familiar with. I built the pyre in his garden, knowing how he liked it there, and watched the cleansing flames take him, till ashes were all that was left. I think he would have appreciated that.
Back in the house, I examined the area from where the intruder had thrown that hated knife. There was blood, and not a small amount. My teacher's aim had been true in the least. I followed the trail outside, but it stopped at the beginning of the trail northward. Nonetheless, I knew where it would have led me back to: Vespa.
Ten spokes to the nearest town, twice that to Vespa. I made the trip in a day. Back in the city, I was lost, unsure where to begin to find what I needed until I came across, by accident, the alley where I had first met my teacher. Things were clearer after. I'd like to think that in that time, I was burning out the last of my anger, as I had to press some tough man very hard before I find even the smallest bit of information. It is a relief to say that though I may have broken bones, stolen coins, and generally acted the scoundrel, I left a week later with no deaths on my conscience. That had take considerable self control in some instances, but it was worth it.
So, I began to make my way to Jermon, and as I did, I thought of Arlo. Fortuitously for him, there had been an 'opening' at the Hidden Wealth chapter house there, and he had been chosen to fill the spot. One of the more surprising things I learned in Vespa was about Arlo. After the death of Mika, Arlo was much in the same position I was: an outcast. His mother left to live with family, but he chose to stay in the guild's care. From what I heard, it was not easy. Even though he had been son of the First Leader, he had to start out at the bottom. All those years, he had worked so hard, not only to stay alive, but also to thrive. While I had been content to merely survive, he had flourished in the face of hardship, and grown into a strong man, and a good leader. Under his leadership, the guild had prospered, and gained a sense of civility not known before. He almost made thieving a respectable profession. If he had one weakness, it was the anger he felt at my father and I. That's why, after coming back the first time, his muscle defeated by me, his pride would not allow him to lose face again. He broke a few guild laws, and went to the assassins. My teacher had not been the target, only myself. Still, even though I know Arlo didn't want him dead, I knew there must be some sort of reckoning between the two of us. Even though I feared that the anger in his heart had already festered into hate, I had to try to resolve the bad blood, if I could."
Revenge Like Ashes
The room was still as Gabriel finished talking. Off to one side, a woman sobbed, moved by his story. He had gone on for quite a while, and now the people sat, unsure how to feel now that the story was over. Well, most of them.
The quiet was pierced by a single scream of rage. The man in black sitting at the bar suddenly leapt from his seat, a dagger raised high. He rushed at Gabriel, who was sitting with his back facing him. There was a slightly crazed look on the attacker's face as made to bring the dagger crashing down. At the last second, Gabriel kicked back from the table, the chair scooting back swiftly and making contact with the aggressor. Leaping from his seat, Gabriel allowed the man to mount no offense, lashing out so quickly with a flurry of punches, elbows and kicks. As a foot crashed into his midsection, the man doubled over, and Gabriel rolled off of his back to get behind him. With one hand, he held the wrist of the hand that contained the dagger. In the light, most could see the dark stain that ran thick along the killing edge. His face twisted in an angry scowl, Gabriel tugged at the collar of the man's cloak, pulling it down to reveal freshly scabbed wound, looking no more then two weeks old.
"My teacher would not approve of this, but I find that in this matter, I don't care." Gabriel hissed into the ear of the assassin as he held him tight. "I do this for myself as much as him." With that, he brought the dagger in the man's own hand up to his neck. The assassin's eyes were wide with fear as he tried to hold back, but there was a righteous anger that lent strength to Gabriel's hand.
"Die."
The blade flashed across the assassin's neck. He let out a choked noise of surprise, and surged forward, hands wrapped tightly around his throat to stem the fatal geyser of blood. He took two steps, then looked around in surprise. There was no rushing of blood, and he didn't feel the life flowing out of him. He turned, a wicked smile of victory on his lips, when he looked down at his hands, and saw the small thread of blood. His face went pale as his mouth trembled in a surprised O. On his neck was an angry red scratch.
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