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Author: Mordin
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Written By. Kjartan Marcotte.
Copyright © Kjartan Marcotte, 2004
This is an original unpublished work by me that loosely uses the EQ 2 world, races, and timeline. I have written this for the pleasure of writing. I love sharing with others especially creative writing hence its posting here. This also gives me the opportunity to write a back story for the EQ 2 character I plan creating. I hope you Enjoy the story. I plan on writing more chapters as time goes on. Please post your criticisms or encouragements, be constructive. If you have any ideas for further chapters or themes I could include please feel free to post or contact me, or adversely join the story. I do though reserve the right to retain ownership of any parts written by my self.
Chapter 1.
The scent of Lilac’s
A slight breeze gusted down Freeport’s dark streets carrying the scent of Lilac’s. It reminded Mordin of days past, long ago when the world had been so much younger. He sighed as his thoughts drifted, his mind turning on old memories, and morose musings. It seemed that the Lilac was an evil flower; its dark petals bruised purple, its scent cloying, and thick barring breath, almost toxic. Lilacs; the scent of evil.
A tight lipped smile tightened Mordin’s pale features as he mused, and considered life’s ironies. He was tall for an Erudite, little over six feet in height, his hair a long unkempt crown of dark curls. His face was symmetric which gave his oddly large eyes that were lit with a fierce fire of keen intelligence, and long nose, wide cruel bloodless mouth pretensions of beauty. He was dressed in dark woollen trousers, shirt and cloak that seemed to drink the night’s darkness. He wore hard used leather boots that were stained a dark brown from constant travel, with tops that stopped before his knee.
On a dark belt buckled around his waist he had attached a quiver carrying twenty of his best bodkin black shaft arrows fletched with black swans feathers, which he had collected him self from the rare birds. Each arrow bodkin point was tipped with a poison that could kill an Ogre with just mere scratch in moments. Hooked opposite his quiver was a long stiletto that verged on becoming a rapier also coated the same poison as his arrows. In addition he had throwing knives secreted about his person in case he ever needed them.
Mordin could feel his long yew bow tap his right leg as he strode down the streets of Freeport, a constant reminder of what he was. The enormous bow was hung over his right should its staff stained black would reach two hands over his head unstrung. The mighty bow took enormous strength to pull and had taken Mordin ten long years to master. He remembered fondly the old man who taught him in the woods; training the young Eudite into a bowman with out parallel. He had learned everything at the knee of the old Archer outside the city Qeynos.
Like the scent of Lilac’s his memory drifted. He recalled the day his father had found him with old man. He had stood there in shock as his fathers fury crested, and then vented itself on the old man who had been Mordin’s only real friend. He still could remember his sick shock as his father ordered the old man’s hands broken, and the house guardsmen leaping to obey his fathers will. He could remember the sicken crunch as each finger was pulverized by a guardsmen’s hammer. The old mans pitiful cries, his begging as each finger was destroyed.
Even know many years latter that memories pain still threatened to make him weep. His father had turned his attention to his weeping son as his men finished with Mordin’s mentor. His fathers face had been terrible to behold. His eyes flaming with their people magic his face twisted in contempt, bloodless and pale as he pronounced his son’s sentence, “You will be a mage!” his body shaking with wrath. “This… This…” his father spluttered his anger stealing his usual eloquence, “You’re of our blood! My son, you will be no common archer! Not ever.” He finished with finality that had terrified the boy.
With that final pronouncement his father had turned and stalked towards the city and Mordin’s doom. The guards grabbed the subdued boy his collar and towed him home with his mentor’s cries ringing in his ears.
The days that followed were horrible and had set events in motion that would govern the rest of his life. His father’s dominion was horrible, and he taken to torturing his son for imagined slights or scholastic failings. It really didn’t matter to Mordin, it was all the same. He lived in a perpetual fog of grief and worry. The old man lived alone and far from any one dependant on his skills to survive his lonely life in the woods. With his hands broken there was no way he could care for him self. As each day emerged Mordin’s worry grew.
A day dawned where his father had left him suspended by his arms for the entire night. In anguish as his bodies weight pulled on his wrists, and arm sockets. The pain was incredible, the boy was delirious. If he didn’t repeat the entire table of magic’s elements and principal forces perfectly he would be left here the entire day also. His thoughts murky and clouded with pain he barely noticed when his father entered the small room.
Mordin’s father prodded his chest with a stiff finger to gain his child’s attention, “The list boy?” he queried appearing untouched by his son’s suffering. Mordin had decided long ago his father was mad. He repeated the list as best he could leaving out nothing he could remember. His father seemed satisfied and lowered him to the floor, removing the chain. His father turned to place the chain on chest nearby.
This was his chance. The thought popped in to his head from the fogs deep murk, as he lay there on the floor almost immobile with a new much more sever pain; caused by finally being able to lower his arms to his side in relief. He willed him self to stand and looked at the back of his fathers head. He was almost surprised as he watched a manacled wrist strike his father in the back of the head. Mordin looked down in astonishment at his father’s unconscious body. He didn’t look so fearsome now. He felt his hate for the man on the floor explode and his vision dimmed. Mordin felt his consciousness flee the confines of his body spiralling down into a dark abyss surrendering to oblivion.
Slowly like water dripping from a sieve his consciousness returned. His head pounded and every joint in his body ached, especially his arms. He sat up slowly, with great difficulty and touched his forehead with his hands. He gave a start when his hands came away sticky and stared in horror. His hands were covered in blood. Thick sticky gore covered most of his body. He turned on his side and retched emptying what little he had in stomach on the room’s stone floor.
He rolled away from his vomit turning on to his other side panting his nostrils filled with the stench of blood. It was then as his eyes focused he saw his father’s body, or at least what was left of it. The body looked like a pack of wolves had been at it. Limbs were bent grotesquely at odd angles the body was naked and looked like some one had beat it for hours. His fathers face a mass of misshapen gore, its eyes gouged out ears ripped off and looked as if it had been beaten twice as long as the rest of him.
Mordin felt his gorge rise again and he dry retched there curled up with his arms hugging himself. He lay there on the cold stone floor oblivious to anything as he tried to come to grips with events. He could feel panic rising as he thought about what would happen to him once they found his fathers body. He was a murder, no one else could have done this.
He had to leave before some one came looking for his father. He stood slowly shakily and padded slowly towards the door leaving the room. He made his awkward way through the manor’s basement to a cistern nearby the provided water for the house. He washed there, cleaning as much blood off as he could before making his way to his room. If anyone saw what little he had missed on his arms or clothing would probably assume was his, since his father had been less the gentle with him in the past.
After changing into a fresh set of clothes, a black silk shit, trousers, and some sturdy boots and a dark blue cloak in his room he fled the city with little money he had. He made his way painfully eluding his father’s guards, and family members as they wandered about their business. He finally made his way to a small foresters cottage at the edge of the woods. He made his way carefully to the cottages door and knocked softly, but no one answered.
Mordin carefully opened the door lifting the latch quietly stepping inside. There in the small one room house he found what had become of the kind old man who taught a lonely boy to shoot a bow. He walked attentively towards the old man’s bed, but before he had even closed half the distance he knew what had happened. He had been trying to deny what his nose had been telling him, but the truth was unavoidable
The stench rising form the corpse was almost overwhelming. Insects buzzed through the thick air as Mordin stood still, grief stabbing his hart. The old Archer was dead, looked as though he had been for some time. Mordin collapsed there on the floor of the small cottage and wept for the old Archer as his corpse fouled the air. His kindness paying for his own death.
Eventually his tears stopped and reason reasserted itself. He had to leave soon. The guards would begin looking for him shortly, and he wasn’t that far from Qeynos to feel safe yet. He stood and glanced about the cottages interior before spotting what he needed. He took a flask of lamp oil and poured it over the Archer’s body. He turned to the hearth and started a small fire and went out side to get more wood. He made several trips stacking wood around, under, and on the old man’s body.
He went to the corner of the cottage and took a tall black yew staff, and a quiver of arrows. Searched the house for any thing else that might be useful and finally finished his task. He retrieved a small wooden taper from the hearths mantel and lit in the fire he had made.
Mordin walk slowly towards the funeral bier and lit it. Stood their pausing for a moment to say prayer, making sure it caught. With that done he turned striding form the cottage, glancing back only once to make sure the place burned to the ground before making for the road.
He trod the path taking deep breaths clearing the stench of death from his nose. He breathed in the night’s scents catching the Lilac’s distinctive cloying scent. He decided it was an evil flower, to precede his decent into darkness. He smiled and thought it appropriate; with that thought and the scent of Lilac’s, Mordin embarked on his long trek towards a new life, and a new name. He left for Freeport.
Chapter 2.
The Borderman.
Mordin gave a start as he was shoved roughly from behind; he stumbled forward almost falling on his face. His pale features flushed scarlet as a tide of anger flowed stemming from his foul memories. Spinning around to confront his antagonist, he was confronted by an irritated mule. Suddenly and as quickly as his anger had come it dissipated.
Defied by his surly mule, Mordin stepped forward to give the poor animal a pat on the neck. The beast was as weary as he was, and taking the long journey less stoically then he had. The mule it seemed was not to be trifled with so close to home.
Mordin had stopped walking in his fuddled musings leaving the mule standing behind him in the dark street. The mule gave him another angry reminder where they were, by biting him as he tried to comfort the unpleasant animal. Mordin jumped back swearing at the ungracious mule, rubbing his side where the bloody animal had gotten him. He had one more nice bruise to add too his collection, he thought sourly.
Turing away he gave a firm yank on the beasts lead hank snapping the chain fed through its halter across its nose as a firm reminder about manners. The mule snapped its head up in affront and seemed to give him a dark look. He smiled evilly at the beast and started to tow it home. Now moving in the right direction the animal seemed to perk up and almost seemed eager to be on his way.
The Erudite and mule moved through Freeport’s quiet streets. It was late and most would be at home done with the day’s business. Few others moved about the night’s stillness paying the duo no attention. Moving through darkness Mordin considered his companion. The mule was small about 13 hands tall at the withers, the stupid beast had a long head, and big furry ears that characterized the breed. It had a greasy furry grey coat that always looked like it needed currying. It was a taciturn animal at the best of times, now loaded heavily with a seasons spoils it was far from happy.
The spring raids had just ended with surprisingly good take this year. Mordin had also been able to find some contractual work from different families around the realm that feuded making him richer then he had expected. Now with summer’s break to look forward too, before fall’s raiding could begin, he found his mood lighten.
It was with a jaunty step that he and his ill-mannered companion made there way to the Borderman. The large Inn was a welcome sight as made his way through the forbidding streets of Longshadow; Freeport’s Teir’Dal district. Most people avoided this district unless invited since the local Elf’s preferred to keep foreigners out. Strictly speaking he didn’t live here, though the Inn was the closest thing he had to a home. Mordin was, if any puritans asked, just passing through.
Moving to the back of the immense Inn Mordin found the Borderman’s stable. It was almost as big as the Inn itself, boasting a large loft for grain storage, and sixty stalls. The Inn also ran a prosperous breeding venture with highly prized horse flesh “liberated” by Mordin from a number stables across the boarder.
He handed off the surly mule to a stable boy who eyed the beast warily, obviously familiar with it. He took a small cask off the mule leaving the rest to find there way to his room, and headed for the Inn’s common room. With the cask over his dusty shoulder he went in the privy door and walked towards the bar through the crowded room.
As he made his way weaving through tables and patrons he received a mixed welcome. Some smiled warmly giving him friendly nods and pats on the back, others stared coldly, clearly disliking his presence muttering curses at him. To the first he replied cordially promising to talk to them later and disengaged politely, the second group received nothing, not even an acknowledgement; they did not exist, he treated them with Erudite superiority and distaste. Almost all of the customers in the common room were Teir’Dal, the others; a mixed lot of servants and body guards from various races.
At the bar he plunked the heavy cask on it and pulled up a stool. He took his bow off shoulder and unstrung it, tucking the string in a cloak pocket, relaxing he waited for the barman to notice him. It didn’t take long the old warhorse thumped over, “Bloody hell!” He roared, “I thought you were dead for sure this time.” He reached across the bar and pumped Mordin’s arm in a fatherly fashion.
The old Teir’Dal was tall for an Elf, but still shorter then the bowman sitting at the bar in front of him. He wore a white linen shirt tucked into leather breaches open at the collar, and a sturdy leather boot on his remaining foot. The other leg was a peg after the knee. Dag had shaved his head long ago and continued to do so now, albeit for different reasons, or so Mordin thought.
The old man’s scarred visage was terrible; he had one eye missing covered by a leather patch its band wrapping his baldpate. It also appeared that he had missed placed some teeth in a long ago battle. His skin was a light blue, his eye a dark cobalt that made even the meanest tough anxious.
“Not yet Dag. I am, I expect in rather fine fettle, despite having to walk home.” Mordin replied laconically. The warm smoky air of the common room was making him feel tired, and his eyes were beginning to feel like they had lead weights on them.
“Ahh, that explains why you’re so late this year.” Dag said stating the obvious, “Gods! Son you really had us worried, and no bloody word for months,” He rumbled accusingly, with what seemed genuine anxiety. For a moment Mordin felt guilty but that soon dissipated with Dag’s next words, “Lel is going to murder you for that,” the old man paused and seemed to relish Mordin’s obvious discomfort. “She was all for going off to find your carcass, so she could give it a good beating before tossing it in a ditch.” He chuckled happily with his clumsy allusion towards his daughter’s feelings for Mordin.
As if mentioning her name had been a summons, the object of the their conversation swept into the room. She was spectacular; her beauty was almost a legend. Her face was perfect in every way, her eyes large, dark, holding fathomless depth radiating intelligence, and wit. Her mouth was wide, with full lips that were painted a dark ruby red that reminded him of dried blood. Lel’s nose was long, and aquiline balancing her features; giving her face a haunting symmetry that dried men’s mouths, stealing souls at a glance.
Lel’s skin was dark, even for a Teir’Dal; it was a purple dusted blue that glowed with radiant health. Her hair which was an untamed waterfall of luminous white silk tresses, hid glimpses of blue in its depths trailed down to the small of her back. At seventeen she was a woman grown; two hands shorter then he, her body, a full form of firm curves, long legs, and spectacular bosom filling everything out nicely. She was in every way the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Mordin quickly turned his head away, focusing on Dag’s scarred menace. The bloody man gave him a gaped tooth smile seeing his discomfort increase with every step Lel took in their direction. Mordin cleared his throat tapping the keg, “Brandy Dag. About 45 years old, you will find I am sure it is of an impeccable vintage.” He turned the barrel so the old man could read its markings, hopping to distract the old vulture from his obvious discomfort. Had it gotten hotter? Mordin was starting to sweat.
Dag just smiled his awful smile at him. Mordin hunched his shoulders, he could feel her stalking over. Well she never stalked anywhere, she glided, Lel just managed to make it seem so. How fast could she get here? He didn’t know, the last time some one had accosted Lel, the idiot had been picking his teeth out of his beard for a month, it didn’t seem likely any one would do it again. Maybe he could make a break for the stares a get to his room.
He sighed and took a deep breath calming his nerves; it was most infuriating that she had this effect on him. Silently he invoked the limited training he had received as a mage, he started to calm himself objectively using a form of meditation mages employed to distance them selves from the world. He found the exercise handy for archery and stress. It would be sorely tested in the next few minutes.
He was almost surprised when she silently settled onto the stool next to him giving him a level look. She didn’t seem irate, in fact she seemed a bit cool. Good, it would make this easier. She had entirely wrong-headed view on their relationship. He turned and gave her a brotherly smile, or at least he hoped so; the result might have been more cringe then smile. Damn girl! He thought.
The smile she gave him back put a lie to any of his brotherly pretensions. It was slow, warm, and so dazzling he almost fell of his stool. Putting a hand on counter top to steady himself, he absently noticed it shook a bit. Damn the girl! It wasn’t fair. He was cringing now, Gods it wasn’t fair at all. Well there was only one cure for this.
“Dag can you get me a pitcher of wine? That Lowle Red I looted last year mind you.” He almost squeaked, but managed to bring his voice into moderation. He glanced at the old bugger, and saw that his hideous smile was larger then ever as turned to thump away on his peg leg.
She was wearing a simple summer dress made of thin linen. It was the same shade of red as her lips; burgundy maybe? Like dark wine the cloth clung to her body covering it yet revealing so much. It was a simple affair with a small corset that was more show then support. It still managed to frame her bosom drawing the eye. She had matching slippers for her feet. Every thing matched and complemented her colouring, it looked as though considerable planning ha gone into her appearance. He had a sinking feeling it was just for him. She seemed to get more beautiful every time he went away.
“Why couldn’t you stay twelve?” he asked Lel after her father had gone. He looked into her lovely eyes and remembered the little girl she had been not so long ago. Like now she had been smitten by the mysterious archer who had helped her father home. Dag had lost his foot and some of his leg, and been abandoned by all his men except Mordin. The loyal young archer had managed to save Dag and get him home with most of his loot. Mordin had feathered a large number the mutinous mercenary troop that had turned on Dag after his injury.
The then fifteen year old Mordin had been flattered by the young girl’s attention, but had politely disinclined her efforts to woo him. He had treated her in a brotherly fashion, polite but distant. She had been pretty then but now she was the flower to that bud. With her new found blossoming she had pursued him with an ardent ferocity that he had found, and still did, freighting.
“What kind of question is that Bod?” She like most of every one new him by Bodkin Black, although she had weaseled out his real name long ago, she still called him Bod for short. “And is that any way to greet me after not writing or visiting for so long?” Her eyes misted a bit, “We thought you might be dead.”
He almost died right there of shame. The guilt was terrible, making her suffer in any way was like harming him self. Damn it! She really was a woman now, Lel wielded all her weapons as deftly as he did his bow. Tears, Guilt, and shame. Damn it all to the abyss! This was intolerable, she was the only reason he came back, the reason he stayed away so long. Not fair, not fair at all.
“A lament my dear.” He sighed looking away from her. “Your right though its no way to greet you. How are you Lel?”
“I am fine Bod. You call that a greeting? That was a bit lacklustre..” She leaned forward as if for a kiss. For a moment he was seriously tempted. He settled for some thing else. Leaning over he reached around and gave her a familial hug, and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. For a moment the smell of her hair was too much. Lilacs… with some thing else that seemed to balance its cloying smell.
“How’s that?” he murmured into the top of her head. Reluctantly he leaned back releasing her from his embrace. For a moment he thought he saw frustration on her face as she looked at him with a longing that made him clear his throat in embarrassment.
“Better Bod. Much better.” she gave him another dazzling smile, as her father returned with the wine and three cups. Lel remained close to him, almost leaning on him. He could feel her body heat radiate from her as a constant reminder.
“I’ve also sent for some supper for the three of us. Be here in a bit.” Dag said as he began to pour for the three of them. He picked up his cup and saluted Mordin with it, “To many more safe journeys.” He emptied his cup and began to pour again before Mordin had finished his first swallow. “God this stuff is magnificent, do you suppose you could make your way to get some more in the fall?”
Mordin gave a sardonic smile, “I suppose I’ll have to, with they way your going through it.” The old elf looked pleased and downed another. “What’s for supper?”
“Cheese, bread…., pigeon pie,…..stew.” Dag said between gulps. “And wine,” he said happily.
“Of course.” Mordin said fondly as watched Dag work his way through a pitcher the most expensive wine in the realm.
He waited patiently for the food to come, he was practically drooling by the time the cheese came with warm crusty bread. The meal passed quietly as they ate their fill. The cheese and wine were perfect the bread excellent. The stew absolutely delicious, although he had no idea what was in it. Finally the pie, which was delectable, filled his already crammed belly nicely.
A sense of well being suffused his whole body as he sat there relishing the company of the people who mattered the most to him. Gods it was good to be home, he thought gazing at the most beautiful woman in the world.
Dag the old sot wandered away after catching his daughter’s eye muttering some thing about “fools” and “idiot love”. It was beyond Mordin what the old horse meant, he was feeling good that’s all that mattered.
Lel offered him another cup of the excellent wine. He accepted it and thanked her graciously. For a moment he was disturbed by the smile he received, it seemed to hold secrets. Well no matter, they could sort this business of her loving him another day. For now he would just enjoy her company and let the night drift away. His last conscious thought was that she smelled good; like Lilac’s.
Chapter 3.
Portents of a smile.
A hazy mourning light filtered through the small attic casement that passed as a window, it lit the large chamber as Mordin blearily woke. Head pounding, mouth feeling like it was full of cotton, he slowly became aware of his surroundings.
He was in his room at the Borderman; it was large loft space where he had made something of a home. Everything was as he left it, tables piled with drying shafts, feathers, glue for fletching, but something felt wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, ahh the smell! That was it, his room smelled different. He absently rubbed his nose, looking around the dim interior.
He groaned discovering that his whole body ached, his arm felt like he strained it. Well there was no use worrying about it now, he decided. May as well sleep on it. He rolled over luxuriating in his large bed, taken a deep breath he sighed trying to sleep off the nights over indulgence.
Lilacs. He sat bolt up right clutching the bed sheets to his chest. He tried to gain some equilibrium but his head felt as though it was a rotten melon being stomped on by an Ogre. Stunned he looked at his companion, sleeping peacefully on the far side of the bed. The moan he expelled had nothing to do with his aching head.
In the dim light he gazed at Lel’s peaceful features. Even now with sleep collected in the corners of her eyes, and a small pool of drool accumulating under her parted mouth, she was beautiful. He franticly searched his memories to explain her presence here, but found nothing. He was completely blank, the last thing he recalled clearly was just after Dag left; fleeing his daughter’s will.
He gave Lel’s sleeping form a sharp look, and carefully disentangled himself from the covers getting out of the bed. This was a disaster, Dag was willing to indulge his daughter almost anything, but this? His thoughts strayed to the great hammer Dag kept hanging above the bar in the common room. It wasn’t for show, he had used that thing to pound imprudent heads for time out of mind.
Well that’s all there is to it. He’d have to leave as soon as possible, and give Dag a few months to cool off. He tiptoed around the room careful not to disturb the young woman in the bed, this would be difficult enough with out having to talk to her. He went to a washstand, and washed himself quietly, he was disturbed to find evidence of the nights activities. It seemed Lel had come to his bed a maiden, with this final evidence his panic crested. He was close to hysterics by the time he dressed, the temptation to cry was almost too much.
What the hell was wrong with him? He glanced at the bed and its occupant, ahh yes. Why did he feel this way? He felt unclean despite having washed. Was it because she had used him? Or was it the betrayal that he had sullied Lel? Dag’s opinion meant a lot too him, the elf had shown him how to survive, and prosper in a world he had been completely ignorant of.
His conflicting emotions combined with his hang over left him feeling ill. He abandoned the still slumbering Lel and vigilantly made his way down to the Inn’s kitchen. It was early yet and the only people moving about were the Baker and under cooks. He took a loaf of fresh bread and a pot of tea to the common room. He sat and ate a bit of the bread with copious amounts of tea. No one else occupied the room and he was left alone with his whirling thoughts.
The food settled his troubled stomach, and his heads ache was muted to a dull throbbing by the time he finished the tea. He had made up his mind; he was going to flee. He’d just grab that ugly mule, some supplies, and be on his way. Now that he had made up his mind, he was about to go about this business of escaping, Dag settled into the chair opposite him with grunt.
Trouble. Was the first thought to pop in his head, but Dag appeared unconcerned, he seemed affable as he said, “Rough night eh?” He shook his head as if to dismiss the excesses of the young. A sense of unreality settled over him, as Dag continued, “Well that’s no fit breakfast for you my boy, one of the girls will be along with some thing proper.”
This was insane! Did Dag know, or was he ignorant? No Dag had to know, the bloody elf was aware of everything that happened in his bloody Inn. So what now? The building pressure in his bladder gave him inspiration. Mumbling some thing about going to the privy he stood and made for the back door. Exiting the privy door he stood in the Inn’s backcourt taking deep breaths of fresh mourning air. Sunlight was just peeking over the rooftops giving Longshadow its namesake.
The yard was quiet with a few grooms moving about the stable, non paying him any mind. He made his way to the privy along the back wall. The Privy‘s was a small windowless rectangular building made of stone, it had large door on either end separating the men’s from the woman’s. Inside it had several stalls with small saloon like doors that swung shut for the users privacy.
He knocked once on a stall to make sure it was unoccupied and entered. A foul aroma that had been tickling his sense of smell, assaulted his nose, no doubt drifting up from the sewer which the privy stood over. He paused relieving himself when the door to the privy opened and closed. He had only been aware of it since it let light in from the outside. The privy’s silence that had seemed fine before now sounded ominous.
Mordin finished quickly, and listened, but could detect no movement or even the presence of another living thing. Had some one entered of left the privy? Why couldn’t he hear footsteps, or breathing? He became more tense as each silent moment passed. He had left his room with out a weapon of any kind, what could he use to defend him self? Looking about the stall for some thing, his eyes lit on the privy whole cover; it was a solid piece of wood, cut round and attached by a thin leather thong. He easily pulled the cover off, holding it in both hands.
Mordin stained his hearing trying to detect any thing, the silence remained deafeningly complete. What now? Was it his imagination? Suddenly he detected a faint rustling, where was it coming from? He looked up at the thatch and saw his antagonist, like a spider the thing had crawled along the roofs thatch clinging with its dexterous hands.
It was a shock to notice that it was throwing some thing at him, the small projectile glinted dully in the privy’s dim interior. Almost in slipshod fashion he raised the privy cover to shield himself from what turned out to be a rain of razor sharp metal. Mordin flung himself out of the stall as the small blades thumped into him, and his impromptu shield, ducking behind a partition to gain some cover from the deadly onslaught.
His body stung from countless cuts, as he hunkered there, he reached over and delicately removed one of the blades from his arm. The pain was excruciating, the blades were balanced disks with jagged points favoured by assassins that did as much damage coming out as going in. He had a couple others sticking out of him but he couldn’t bother with them now, if they were poisoned he was as good as dead any way.
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere that seemed to surprise both the Assassin and himself. A Ratonga! He thought, thank gods it wasn’t Dag or Lel. He had been a bit worried Dag had come to smash his head for him. The laugh had given the bloody Rat a surprise, using this; Mordin sprang to his feet and flung the heavy privy cover at the little bastard. It was surprisingly good throw, the lid spun evenly and struck the vermin, flinging it from its precarious perch.
The Rat tumbled to the floor landing awkwardly on its shoulders, the pest must have struck its head because it seemed dazed. Springing forward Mordin grabbed the disgusting thing by its hairless tail, and swung its small body around like a pickaxe using all his strength; smashing its head on the edge of the privy box. Blood, fur, and brain matter exploded towards the wall, painting it in a gory motif.
Dropping the Ratonga’s lifeless body he staggered out of the stall, falling heavily; he drove one of the blades further in his side. The pain exploded, and seemed to radiate from it, as the blade ground against his innards. Blood was everywhere, he was having trouble focusing, his vision clouded with nebulous spots. Was this a poisons effect? Or was it blood loss… the thought drifted around his fogging mind, but he dismissed it as inconsequential; he was dead either way.
He heard thudding steps and let out a bubbling laugh. Dying in the shitter with bloody Rat next to him, he thought; It really wasn’t his day. He was aware of some one moving him, but the sensation was distant.
The darkness came like a cold blanket, it was an impenetrable murk stopping thought and leaching consciousness. Was this a release, or binding for all eternity he wondered? No matter, it was an end that’s what death was he supposed. With that last thought he spiralled into the abyss.
Eons or seconds passed and he was nothing, simple existing or the lack of didn’t even apply, no mortal comprehension could encompass this plain. He was simply not aware. Could some one exist without being aware? Were they even there if unperceived by them selves? Or others? Did thought combine with awareness or was it a by product? Was it separate and as intangible as this plain? Thoughts drifted that were and weren’t.
Like a fish caught by an angler he was pulled from the depths of nothing. Through layers of time and perception he was inexorably towed. Slowly awareness like a horrible burden returned, it inescapably anchored him, surrounded him, and defined him. Mordin again was, and time passed perceived.
He was genuinely surprised to wake in his bed, feeling like he had slept an eternity. He had a horribly metallic tang in his mouth, some what reminiscent of copper, or maybe blood. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t, he settled for lifting an incredibly heavy arm. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his chin and shielding his eyes from the dim light provided by a lamp on a table across the room. His eyes felt incredibly sensitive to the light and ached from this low exposure.
Slowly his eyes focused surprisingly keen despite the low light. He felt the warm presence along the right side of his body, snuggled up against him under the covers. He looked knowing before he did so who it was. Lel looked haggard but still beautiful as ever, sleeping next to him. She was fully dressed still, but under the covers warming his body with hers.
He reached over with his left arm and touched her face gently moving her silky locks away from her troubled brow. She looked like she had done a great deal of crying, her face a bit puffy, and he could still see evidence of tears on her cheeks. Poor girl, poor foolish girl, wasting tears on him. He couldn’t help but be touched by it.
She stirred and gave a start, sitting up and starring at him as if he had goosed her, and then she lunged. He tried to raise his hands to fend her off, or protect himself, but they were too heavy, and Lel a whole heap quicker then he. She was crying, and hugging him, and managed to shower him with kisses at the same time mumbling incoherent babble about him being dead.
Well this wouldn’t do at all. He was at loss at how to comfort her, but did the only thing he could think off. He enfolded her in his arms, and gave her a firm hug, letting her calm herself. It seemed the right thing under the circumstances, and it worked…. Eventually.
When she finally quieted she leaned back and gave him a direct look saying, “That was awful Bod, I thought we’d lost you.” Her eyes watered a bit and she looked about to go into hysterics again, Mordin nipped that by murmuring something reassuring.
All this comforting was making him drowsy, he’d drop off soon if he wasn’t careful. Lel seemed to have more to say, “Things are going to have to change Bod, we can’t go on like this.” he didn’t have the faintest idea what she referred too? Ahh was she referring to her drugging him, and having her way with his comatose body? Maybe something else, woman had a peculiar way of seeing things.
“I suppose they will Lel,” he said smiling sadly. He really did feel very tired, his eyes drooped and his breathing slowed. He drifted of there, holding her as sleep consumed him. Comfortable dreams danced in his head of Lel fishing in a river a smiling at him as she caught what she most desired.
Chapter 4.
Allies and Adversaries.
The aromas of breakfast greeted Mordin’s burgeoning awareness. Smiling wanly as he opened his eyes, Mordin received a welcome sight. Dag stood over him holding a tray piled high with victuals that tickled his nose, and teased his rumbling belly. Lifting his arms in a mourning stretch, he sat up with an energetic bounce.
“Good mourning Dag.” Mordin greeted his menacing friend. He sniffed expectantly at the tray, trying not to drool. “What have you got for me?” He was famished despite having spent the last three days convalesced in his bed. It was the result of the rough and ready healing he had received after nearly dying from countless lacerations.
His mood was buoyant as he sat there casting a surreptitious eye at the scrumptious breakfast. Dag just smiled and set the tray in his lap, with a laconic, “Eat.” And thumped away to rest his backside in a comfortable arm chair in the corner. Mordin only took this in peripherally as gorged himself, moaning in rapture as he sampled everything on the tray.
The feast consisted of scrambled eggs with ham, peppers, mushroom, onions all generously sprinkled with a rich cheese, toasted bread buttered lightly, boiled potatoes heavily salted, some preserved fruit, all washed down with a thick rich caff slightly sweetened with honey. The bitter brew was expensive and a luxury rarely indulged, and Mordin‘s favourite mourning repast. It was what Dag would call, “a proper breakfast.”
Shortly after starting his meal Lel entered his room. She took one look at the tray and stormed across the room, her face a clouding in anger. Mordin already stuffing his face, managed to increase the pace of his gluttony. She reached his bedside bending to steal the tray, but he had firm grip on it. She thrashed a bit trying to lift the tray from him, but couldn’t budge it, so settled with snatching his plate of eggs.
“Mine!” Mordin growled around a glutted mouthful of eggs, his face a mess of cheese, and grease. He chewed quickly so he could swallow and harangue her properly. Steal his eggs would she! He scowled ferociously at her, but the effect was rather comical with his messy face. She just arched an eyebrow and delicately took some egg and ate it with her fingers.
She swallowed, “This,” she indicated the plate of eggs in her hands “shouldn’t have been given too you.” She took another finger full of eggs and ate it, he was sure just to torture him! Bloody girl! He looked pleading at Dag, but the old codger just shrugged; unwilling to tangle with his daughter.
She followed his look and scowled at her father as he sat complacently in the corner, like an ugly rock. “The healers said nothing but broth for a week father!” Lel snarled, “He had his intestines shredded by that knife in his side…” she spluttered at her fathers intractability. “And you bring him solid food! Are you trying to kill him?” She lividly growled, hefting the plate of eggs as if she were going to pitch it at him.
Well Dag was going to take the wrap for this one, so Mordin took the opportunity to spread some preserve on a piece of bread, and munched happily on it. It looked like it was going to be an interesting mourning.
Some time later with Dag cleaning the remains of Mordin’s breakfast from his front, glowering at his daughter as she warily kept the bed between them. Mordin carefully poured a cup of caff smirking at his companions.
The room was a mess, spattered with egg, potatoes, and preserves, Mordin had only been able to rescue the caff as Lel pelted her father with what she could grab off the tray, Dag chasing her around the room. If Dag got her; she was in for one hell of spanking, grown up or not. Sadly Dag’s peg leg seemed to hamper him as he dashed after her.
Mordin leaned back in his bed luxuriating as sipped his caff, ignoring the antics of his two companions. He contemplated recent events, ordering and examining his memories. It seemed that little fellow in the privy had been very good with those knives of his, very good…
It would appear that some one had marked him for a shorter subsistence then he had planed. But who? Mordin could count the number of his living enemies on one hand. None though would dare start anything in Freeport, or at east he had thought so.
Looking up from his contemplation to catch Lel shriek out of the room, her father slammed the door behind her and hit it with his fist, “Damn girl!” he rumbled. He fastened the latch and hobbled back to his chair in the corner. Mordin grimaced when he sat, smearing the chair’s soft leather with a breakfast smeared rump. Well that would need a good cleaning with the rest of the room.
He considered his friend sitting there a bit winded, rubbing his forehead where the plate of eggs had bruised it for him. Dag was looking tired, old and tired. His face sagged a bit, wrinkles marked times passage on his weathered face. Despite this when Dag met his eye, it still twinkled with mirth.
“Well old horse,” Mordin ventured to break the silence. “ You finely found a fight you couldn’t win.” He smirked a bit at Dag’s look of consternation.
“Not my job to settle her, not any more.” He gave Mordin a look that pointedly indicated whose it was. Really this was ridiculous! He couldn’t expect him to exercise any control over Lel? Mordin affected not to notice plucking a peace of egg off the coverlets.
Clearing his throat noisily Mordin changed the subject, “Why was that little chap so determined to decorate me with those knives of his?” He looked up from the piece of egg he had been contemplating. Dag blinked and he could almost see the gears in his head change direction.
“Well the whisper is that some fellow up in Stonestair has put a few gold’s on your noggin.” Dag paused, and warily fashioned his next contention. “Quite a few in fact, enough to warrant you trouble for a bit. Fellows name is Gwin something…” Dag trailed off there with puzzled look at Mordin’s horrified expression. “You know him then?” Dag extrapolated.
“Yes.” Mordin faintly affirmed. He leaned back sagging in his bed, his good cheer having fled with that name. It had to happen sooner or later. He sighed resignedly and queried, “Where is he staying then?”
Which was how he found himself perched across from a large Manor House in Stonestair belonging too Layuin Leuwrint the following night. His muscles ached from the exertion of scaling the building’s wall. He was slightly winded, and took the opportunity to rest catching his breath as he surveyed the Manor’s courtyard.
It was a small unlit, cobbled area used to receive carriages before the Manor’s front entrance, opposite which a large wooden gate blocked the streets entrance. In front of the gate stood a massive silhouette that could only be an Ogre. Peering closely at the immense figure Mordin saw that the Ogre stood sheathed in rusty platemail, leaning on an gigantic staff with a spiked ball affixed to the top, sleeping; chin resting on its chest.
He sat patiently waiting to see if any one else moved about. After a few turns of a glass, and no change he moved stealthily down to the street. His fingers burned, and felt rubbed raw from the walls coarse stone. His arms shook with fatigue and strain, as he descended from his perch.
Not for the first time he questioned the decision to come so soon after being in a sick bed. Was he up to this task? Lel certainly seemed to think not; she had thrown another fit when she’d seen him out of the bed. Dag had abstained from comment but he given a worried look when he outlined his plan, but he hadn’t protested either.
Making it to the street with out incident bolstered his waning commitment. He worked a cramp out of his arm in the walls shadow, stretching the muscles as he considered his chances of success. Well there was nothing for it, he was already here and wasn’t going to go back to Lel like the invalid she thought he was.
First things first; get inside. He couldn’t just scale over the wall because they were probably warded with some magery. So that left only the gate, and the Ogre. Odds were that door wasn’t spelled or the Ogre wouldn’t be standing guard.
Putting a pair of fine black leather gloves to hide his calloused hands, he pulled his long stiletto. The blade gleaming oily in the night’s starlight, held in his left hand behind his back he strode forward and knocked on the gate. His voluminous black cloak hood pulled forward hiding all but the fell glow emanating from his eyes. No answer.
He knocked again a bit louder careful not to disturb any one in the Manor. This time he heard movement and muted grumbling from the other side. The gate’s dog door swung open and the Ogre leaned down to peer out. It blinked stupidly at him, sleep clouding its already slow deliberations.
Mordin moved closer and said with quiet authority, “I have a message for your master.” He reached with his right hand, and removed a letter from his cloaks pocket. The pale parchment seemed to glow in the dim moon light. The Ogre ponderously reached for the letter, its eyes blinking trying to focus, still drowsy.
The moment before the Ogre’s fingers had completely grasped the letter he let it go. It tumbled between the Ogre’s sausage like fingers, falling between them on the courts cobles. Mordin made a disgusted sound, making as if too turn away his job done. The Ogre glared at him, but seeing him turning away, thought better of it, and bent to retrieve the letter.
The Ogre gave a grunt of surprise as Mordin’s long stiletto skewered its neck neatly, its eyes rolled toward him in abject horror. It made as if to bellow but he sawed downward with the stilettos razor sharp blade severing its throat. Already bent double to reach the letter, it staggered to its knees clutching its neck in a doomed attempt to staunch gouts of its life blood. Making a bubbling cry as it slowly succumbed, sinking on its side it gave one last mewling plea for mercy and was still. Its eyes never left Mordin’s, even as they slowly glazed with death, they pleaded and accused.
Bending over he picked up the letter, its parchment spattered with the Ogre’s blood. He tucked it in his pocket and stepped through gate closing it behind him. Carefully avoiding the increasing radius of the Ogres blood, he made his way toward the Manor. For a moment he felt pity, but the emotion was passing.
* * *
Gwin sat on his bed and worried at a piece of fruit. He was a small Erudite little over five feet tall, like most his head was shaved pail as an egg. He had small squinty eyes that burned faintly with an inner fire. He had a long beak of a nose and large lipped mouth that made him look like a rodent. The effect was only amplified by ears that stuck out like barn doors.
He couldn’t sleep despite this late hour, he was consumed with the task set him by his master. It had seemed a simple thing at first, but complications kept cropping up. No one could get near him and the Inn was surprisingly exclusive despite its clientele. Many had been scared off after hearing of Ringwell Rainblade’s death. That blasted Ratonga had got itself killed, and failed to complete its task.
Gwin sat thinking furiously nibbling absently at the pear in his hand when a loud knock made him jump and glance nervously around the dim chamber. Was it mourning? He sighed, getting up and padded towards the door. He drew nearer and looked down in surprise at a letter that had been slipped under the door.
He bent to pick it up with out thinking, noticing dark stains on the otherwise spotless parchment. That last thing he thought before the chamber door flung inward striking him on the crown of his skull, was that stains looked like blood, then consciousness flew beyond his grasp.
Chapter 5.
Familial Tenderness
Candle light flickered restlessly illuminating Gwin’s pale countenance as he lay tied quartered to the bed. Bow strings that cut cruelly into flesh secured him preventing movement. He moaned unconscious, struggling against them as they stretched each frail limb to a corner post. Mordin absently plucked at a taught gut string making it hum softly in the dim chamber, like a bard tuning an instrument. He counted slowly, waiting for the vial of opiates he’d administered to the little mage to take effect. Given orally the vile concoction would cloud Gwin’s mind preventing him from casting any spells.
Mordin was pleased he had gained his quarry so easily. Nothing made him happier then an easy task. He smiled smugly absently plucking at the bowstring securing Gwin’s ankle. He had managed to convince a second guard that he was a personnel servant just catching up his master Gwin. Having the helpful fellow lead him right to the room where he was staying had been genius.
Mordin still felt remorseful about killing him, he had been an amiable enough lad and far to young to die. The guards horror-struck look as the stiletto cut his throat for him would trouble Mordin for some time. His smile soured as glanced over his shoulder at body in the antechamber. Far too young he thought.
Taking a pitcher of water from a nearby table, he emptied it on the supine mages head. The little Erudite spluttered and jerked conscious, moaning pitifully as he writhed in his bonds. Gwin blinked slowly trying to focus on his tormentor, “What?” he mumbled groggily peering at Mordin. The chamber faintly lit by candles advantageously placed behind Mordin, outlined his silhouette revealing nothing of his wan features.
Mordin leaned over viciously backhanding the mage, bloodying his nose. Gwin squealed and wept as he tested his bonds, his cries concealed to others by the chambers thick walls. The gut string bit deeper, tightening with every pull the mage made against them. Mordin smacked him, leaving a hand print on Gwin’s pale cheek. He continued venting his anger and taking pleasure in his own sadism. Gwin bucked and screamed, wretchedly crying, “Why?” over and over again, finding he couldn‘t complete a spell. He vomited messily on himself, a result no doubt from the opiates and his own terror.
Springing back Mordin avoided most of the bile spewing from Gwin’s small form. Some spattered his shoulder filling his nose with its repugnant smell, his own gorge rose and he gagged, stuffing a bloody hand against his mouth. Mordin moved away from the heaving mage swearing silently, Gods blood! The little Bastard got most of the opiate out of himself. He would have to work quickly.
Mordin drew his stiletto holding it up so that it caught the candle light on its oily blade. With his face still veiled in shadow Mordin held the knife as if considering it for a job. He waited patiently for the panting mage to notice him, before speaking in a cheerful manner, “Hello Uncle.”
Gwin had gone very still on the bed, his beady eyes glowing softly as he strained to pierce the gloom. Mordin languorously moved to a candle picking it up, holding the stub so that it illuminated his face in its fragile light. He smiled kindly moving to the trembling Erudite’s side, “I have some questions to put you Uncle.” Mordin looked down at his vomit saturated uncle; blood slowly dripped from Gwin’s ruined nose, trickling down a face that was a mass of bruises to mingle in a pool of reeking vomit that his body rested in.
Gwin liked his split lips croaking, “I didn’t want too…”
But Mordin interrupted him pleasantly, “How’s Aunty Ilcene?” he paused as if waiting for answer but continued, “Well never mind about that, she can’t possibly be well. We share a similar problem.”
“Mad… both mad.” Gwin wept. “Runs in the family,” he moaned splitting his bloody lips worse. “Should’ve never married her. You’re all mad, you know.”
Mordin remembered his Aunt as a kindly eccentric woman who loved to garden. She had been a bit odd but Mordin had loved her for it. She had sat telling madcap tales holding him in her lap, creating a happier childhood for her odd nephew. She had at least until his father like an unforgiving winter, wilted Aunty Ilcene like the flowers she loved so much. Marrying her off too his lackey like some prize for good service. That had finished what ever tenuous grasp she had on reality. He smiled sadly at the bitter memory.
“Genius does have its foibles.” Mordin frowned, “That is besides the point though. What I would like, is some answers.” he absently toyed with his stiletto, spinning it so the blade flashed above Gwin‘s face.
Gwin gulped and gabled his account, eyes warily watching the blade dance. He would pause to catch his breath, at which time Mordin would neatly slice his forehead. By the time Gwin finished, he had a half dozen vertical incisions tidily in a row. They bled copiously like all scalp wounds, rivulets of blood ran into Gwin’s eyes; blinding him.
Gwin wept bitterly his small frame shaking with racking sobs. Mordin pondered his Uncles wretched form. Was there any thing else? He glanced at a clock on a nearby mantel; time was short. Sunrise was less then two hours away. He had to slip out before the guard changed, or the servants rose. There was still work to be done.
“You know uncle I’ve never considered madness a problem, and I don’t think Aunty Ilcene did. You see…” Mordin paused to make sure he did, “Our mutual problem is you.” He smiled crookedly at the broken mage. “I think I’ll elucidate that problem presently.” With that last contention Mordin cut his uncles throat.
Gwin bucked and kicked, choking on his blood as it ran down into his lungs drowning him. He writhed against his bonds mouthing curses at Mordin. A moment later he lay still, the only movement was the diminishing pump of his blood. Mordin gazed into Gwin’s eyes watching the glow slowly fade, then deaths glaze creep in with its dull consummation.
Mordin stood regarding his Uncles stillness feeling sick with its finality. Remorse would come later after guilt’s anguish. Trying to convince himself this had been necessary he went about his task. His gorge rose again when he caught a whiff of his Uncle’s aroma. It seemed he fouled himself thoroughly, out both ends as it were. The combined scents of blood, vomit, and faeces were too much. He gagged tasting bile and rushed.
Pulling the blood stained letter from his pocket, along with a black swans feather clipped for calligraphy, he finished his missive. Using a nearby bed stand Mordin wrote a single name on the parchment with his Uncle’s clotting blood. Then left both parchment and feather striding from the room, fleeing what he had done; his own wraith appalling in its brutality.
A surprisingly little amount of time had passed, just a few turns of the glass. Sunrise was still hours away, and provided him ample time to make good his escape. Navigating his way through the manor proved more difficult with out a guide. On more then one occasion he was forced to quick step away from some of the cleaning staff wandering about their tasks. Despite this he managed to find a door to the yard. Once outside he had little trouble finding the front court.
Keeping to the shadows Mordin warily moved, slipping shadow to shadow. He paused just before entering the court letting his gaze wander, searching for anything that might be amiss. Nothing. Feeling better he stood and skulked his way to the gate. Glancing at the Ogre’s carcass in passing, he noticed its eyes reflect the nights gentle light as it vacantly stared up in to the sky. From its back! It had been moved.
Crouching instinctively he felt more then saw a blast of parasitic energy arc over his head in the space his chest had occupied. The bolt struck the gate behind him turning the wood rotten, eating a hole slowly as its parasitic energy consumed what it touched. Rolling away into the walls shadow keeping low to avoid a silhouette against its pale stone, he drew the stiletto left handed, reserving his right for a throwing knife.
He searched frantically for his attacker, eyes darting before settling on the far corner of the court just in time to see another bolt arc towards him. Mordin spun away, almost graceful as he threw a leaf shaped throwing knife narrowly avoiding the mages bolt. The throw was poor and the blade clattered on the cobles. He swore luridly in his head. Working with more luck then skill, Mordin dropped to the ground as bolts of terrible power flew like arrows sizzling and consuming everything they touched with smoky fumes.
He lay prone for a moment before rolling as circumspectly as possible into a deeper shadow. Resting for a moment, he panted reaching for another knife. He stayed prone and still, staining his senses trying to pierce the smoky air, using his brief reprieve to find his antagonist.
Nearby there was a clatter, his eyes darted to the Ogre’s corpse to see it sit up, armour grinding on the cobbles. Necromancer! He realized mutely horror-struck. Now seriously outclassed, and outnumbered, he did what any sensible person would. He ran like Hell.
Bounding up from his precarious concealment Mordin launched himself at the rotting gate in a leaping dive over the Ogre, praying that luck was still his mistress. Hands first, weapons clenched in fists he felt a bolt of energy pass over his shoulder. It slammed the gate with another dose a moment before he smashed the dry rotting wood in a shower of splinters to sprawl inelegantly on the streets cobbles.
Springing up from his clumsy escape, he pelted down the street like a Hare fleeing a swooping Owl. Adrenalin fed his aching muscles as he ran gasping down Freeport’s dark streets. Turning down an alley he shucked his smouldering cloak that was slowly being consumed by a Necromantic bolts residue. He sheathed his knives and looked about warily before quickly taking the long way home. Mordin stewed on his attackers identity as his steps took him away.
Chapter 6.
Departure
Time seemed insubstantial, passing quickly with out making an indelible impression on Mordin’s psyche. He inhabited a daze of guilt and worry, spending most of his time moping about his room thinking. The truth was he worried over that nights events, and the more he thought about it, the more apprehensive he became. The whole thing smelled bad, like a clever trap.
His pessimistic moodiness appeared to encourage Lel’s mothering, that and rumours filtering in from Stonestair. He had been deliberately vague about the details of his task, making little of the Necromancers ambush. But the talk in the common room put a lie too everything he had made little of. Crumbling walls, a shattered gate and a servant’s petrified tavern account had put things in too mythical proportions.
By the time these whispers reached the Borderman the tale had been embellished with every telling. Common belief had him stalking the manor in a cloak of black swan feathers, shrouded in shadow and tearing out throats willy-nilly like some fiend from the abyss on a rampage of vengeful ire. Apparently an eye witness saw him dodge and bat aside bolts of magery with ease, throwing hundreds of knives in a duel of epic proportions with an as yet unnamed Necromancer. Idiocy! His expedient escape was now a feat of unbelievable strength and mystery; smashing a gate into splinters and vanishing into the night seemingly.
There were still more unbelievable versions floating around that didn’t even have basis in truth. Some had him plucking living hearts from the owner’s cleaved chests, possessing their souls as he consumed bloody flesh. Pure unmitigated absurdity! Didn’t anyone have common sense any more? Every time he went any where a hush descended if he was recognized and people whispered and pointed! No doubt repeating whatever idiot version of the tale was their favourite. Daft men and women looking to make a name for themselves constantly challenged him or attempted to murder him clumsily.
What puzzled him was that he was connected at all, especially so soon after and so firmly. Yes he was known for using black swan feathers, others did too. He’d gone in direct retaliation for the attempt on his own life, so it was reasonable that he’d gone. But these stories? There was no concrete proof to connect him, it was all hearsay. The problem was that every one just “Knew” it was him. It was incredibly infuriating.
Mordin scratched irritably at some tender knew skin on his forearm, dead skin flaking off as he worried it. Bolts of deadening energy that the Necromancer pelted at him had passed too close for comfort. Killing skin and rotting everything they had come close too, the clothing he had worn was full of decomposing wholes.
He looked up meeting Lel’s worried eyes as she sat comfortably on his bed legs crossed, dressed in a dark green summer dress of light silk. He leaned back with a sigh stretching his legs slouching in his comfortable arm chair. He had come to a decision.
“I have to leave,” he said casually, warily watching her. “Soon.” Mordin added, Interrupting Lel before she could say anything. “The city is no longer safe for me…For now.”
Lel just nodded and stood with an, “I’ll tell father,” Over her shoulder as she left the room, almost as if she had been waiting for him to say it. Odd he thought, but then again she was no dunce and his sudden notoriety was a rotten business.
If rumours persisted of his fame certain parties might take an interest in his doings. Many guilds might be put out with his apparent lethal infamy, making it their business to debunk him, proving their own supremacy with his obligatory demise. Then there was good old D’Lere; If he didn’t have Mordin murdered he’d put a leash around his neck and call him servant. Neither alternative was appealing.
Leaving was sensible, it allowed him to keep his freebooter status and his life. Mordin enjoyed both a great deal. He’d come back after the fall when things had chilled sufficiently and people had some thing else to gossip about. There was only one problem; How to get out of the city unobserved? It was problem he’d have to ponder. Standing he moved about the room and began to pack absently thinking.
Night crept over Freeport muting the summer’s oppressive heat, the cities occupants stirred from a lethargic doze and the city came alive. Mordin moved along busy streets as people went abo
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