KMC Forums - It's the "Get Revenge on FeceMan!" thread!

Cyaros Ithraile stood along a cobbled street that lay on the outskirts of Qeynos’ central hub, his back to an alleyway. The rising sun softened the crispness of the morning air but had not begun to scorch the earth with its midday heat. Across from him several human children played, kicking and tossing a roughly-sewn leather ball. A wild kick sent the ball rolling to him. Cyaros picked it up and his thin lips pulled back into a brief smile as he threw the ball back to the children. One of them turned to regard him suspiciously before returning to play. Once again, Cyaros smiled, but inwardly this time. The deep hood on his sand-colored robe obscured almost his entire face in shadow, leaving only his mouth and wisps of scarlet hair visible. The black lining of the robe’s interior aided in swallowing any light that penetrated the darkness of the makeshift disguise. It gave him an ominous air, especially to one so young.

Cyaros had just begun to tap his sandal-clad feet in irritation—usually he did not have to wait this long for his contact—when he heard a soft thump behind him. He moved to turn but someone snaked an arm around his chest and pulled him backwards into the alley while a knife was brought to his throat. Cyaros’ azure eyes widened in alarm although he recognized the voice of his assailant.

“Oh, my love, when are you going to do me?” a lilting voice asked. “I so want you to.” Cyaros said nothing, forcing his muscles to go limp even as the cold steel of the blade caressed his throat. The woman’s grip on him tightened and her voice grew husky. “You know I’ve always wanted to sleep with an Elf, but I was intimidated by their height. But you, my sexy, short High Elf, are exactly what I want in a man.” She yanked back Cyaros’ hood.

“Do me,” she whispered, tracing her tongue along the pointed tips of his ears. “Make it hurt so good.” She withdrew her tongue and pulled back a little harder on the knife. “Tell me how much you love me.” Cyaros remained silent and the blade bit deeper into his neck. “Tell me or I’ll do it.”

Cyaros’ resistance crumbled, his defiant silence replaced with a resigned sigh. “I love you more than anything, beautiful one. Should Innoruuk’s cruelty and malice on day be turned to love, even he could not fathom my love for you. Should Erollisi Marr herself gather all her worshipers in order to contain the purest of love, they need look no farther than what I feel for you.”

“Mmm, you remembered it all. And I so wanted to taste just a bit of your blood, but it looks like I’ll have to wait. Wouldn’t be fair to take it without cause,” she murmured, taking his ear between her incisors and nibbling thoughtfully. The woman removed the knife from Cyaros’ throat and sheathed it in one swift motion. “Now that you’ve got it in here,” she said as she tapped his right temple, “I just have to get it into here.” The arm across his chest loosened and the woman put her index finger to his heart. The tip pushed through the robe and underlying clothing with ease, puncturing his flesh, for on that hand she wore a most horrific device.

Originally used as an implement of torture, the woman had acquired one—through thievery or purchase it was unknown—and had it modified for her own use. It was a plate mail glove that extended up to her forearm in a snug fit, and the fingers lengthened into wicked talons that cut through both bone and soft tissue alike with little resistance. The exterior had the luster of polished obsidian, and jagged points rose along the top of the device from the wrist back.

She ran her fingers through his shoulder-length hair and whispered to him.

“Remember: I’ll be watching and listening.” Then she left as suddenly as she had come. Cyaros didn’t bother looking for her, having learned from experience that there was no trace of the woman. Whether by magic or skill alone, she could come and go as swiftly and silently as a wraith. He replaced his hood and slumped against the side of the building, eyes closed and breathing heavily.

“An old friend of yours?” someone asked. Cyaros’ eyes flew open. Standing in front of him was his contact, a wiry man in peasant garb.

“How long have you been there?” he demanded.

“Well…” the man drawled, “I was on my way over when your lovely, not-so-secret admirer made herself known. I edged over to eavesdrop, afraid I might have to rescue you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t—I assume Vorath prefers that his employees return to him with all their appendages attached to their respective parts of their bodies.”

The man looked putout. “I’d like to think I could put up a better fight than that.”

Cyaros shook his head. “I’ve seen the training Vorath gives his errand boys. You’re good enough to beat a thug or survive a barroom brawl, but I’ve witnessed Vaya in action. She’s taken apart the best of the elite.”

“I guess it’s a good thing she’s your problem and not mine. Anyhow, here’s your assignment.” The man handed Cyaros a sheet of parchment. He turned away, then turned back. “I had no idea you were a High Elf.”

To another Elf or one who had seen many Elves, Cyaros’ slender face, high cheekbones, and tall, narrow bridge of his nose were subtle clues to his heritage. However, to many in Qeynos who spent their lives among other humans, he seemed a youth with effeminate features.

“I try not to show it off. I suppose it was the height that fooled you.”
“And the ears. I’d never seen them before. But,” he continued, “it was also the fact that you don’t act like a High Elf. You’re not snooty or arrogant as I’ve heard they are.”

Being a victim of those prejudices and subsequently outcast from one’s own society tends to dissolve any ties to it. “My father was a diplomat,” Cyaros lied. “He acted outside of the influences of High Elven society, even dining with Dark Elven lords. At times I would accompany him. I suppose his social graces became mine as time passed.” This answer seemed to suffice for the contact.

Few crimes in High Elven society were unforgivable. Not displaying the proper lack of respect to Erudites or other, less-liked races was acceptable, as was not killing a Dark Elf on sight, if one had a good reason. However, there were three sins that led to the path of the exile. The first was being a Half-Elf. The offspring of a Human and a High Elf, Halfbreeds were treated by both as though they had done something to deserve their status. Half-Elves were snubbed, bullied, and teased, and they were often forced out of their homes because of the adverse effects they might have on their parent’s (or parents’) social standing. The second sin was heresy. Cyaros was partially guilty of this. Instead of worshiping Tunare, the Mother of All and creator of High Elves, he elected to serve the Tribunal, the vanquishers of evil and injustice. This, though not wholly heresy, earned frequent looks of distaste from Tunare’s devout. However, when combined with a significant physical difference from birth—such as a deficiency in height—put one on par with Half-Elves. At first, some suspected that Cyaros was a Half-Elf, which is where most of the problems began, but he was born to a High Elf and looked enough like his father that, on closer inspection, it was decided that he was just a genetic aberration. Unfortunately, this did nothing to help how Cyaros was viewed in the public eye, so he had left Faydark and his heritage.

Cyaros studied the parchment after the contact had left him. The paper included a name and description of the target, additional information that could prove useful, a listing of the target’s crimes, and a sketch of his or her face.

Baelnor Agas, a Barbarion. Seven foot nine, about three hundred stones. Enjoys gambling and prostitutes—and murdering the latter. Three in the past month, throats slit and left in rented rooms. Cyaros looked disdainfully at the man in the drawing. He was clean-shaven, his cheeks full but not fat. He had bushy eyebrows and long, tousled hair. More importantly, he had a key identifying characteristic: a diagonal scar across his upper lip that extended to his jaw line.

“Bastard,” Cyaros muttered. Technically, the target’s crimes were only suspected in most cases, but the assignments given always had evidence behind them. At the worst, an innocent target would be brought in, questioned, and released. At the best, a guilty target would be brought to justice. As far as Cyaros knew, no target had ever been killed or unjustly sentenced.

Before beginning his search, Cyaros checked the bottom of the paper. He nodded to himself. As he suspected, the writing below the sketch read WANTED: ALIVE.
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As the last rays of the sun faded, Cyaros turned his cloak inside out, the black interior more suitable for nighttime skulking. He slunk through side streets towards his destination, where he was certain he would find Baelnor. Several times he slipped into dark doorways and hide in shadowy alleys to avoid the thieves—who were probably murderers, too—that prowled about the area known as Skull Alley. Ruthless cutthroats took a liking to Skull Alley, its darkness and lack of lawmen perfect for their activities. With stealthy movement and a bit of cunning, Cyaros managed to reach his goal without incident.
He paused for a moment outside of the place where all forms of unsavory folks found respite, a vile den known affectionately as “The Rat’s Ass”. The entrance sloped downward under a ruined edifice. No wall-mounted torches or street lamps lit the entrance or surrounding area as a means of dissuading inquisitive wanderers or lawful men.