Journey's End

[Vyrrian Wren]

Rain splattered down relentlessly upon the turgid path, churning the mud into perilous puddles. It had been raining constantly since the morning began, and the blacked clouds on the horizon offered a chilling foreshadowing of what was to come. The flashes in the distance indicated a torrential storm in far off lands. And it was coming closer.

Something else was moving closer too, but this time a rather more welcome and generally accepted sight to be encountered in the depths of Wolfenden Forest. The oxcart trundled slowly onward, churning up the saturated path and leaving a muddied frieze on it's side. The contents of the cart wasn't particularly noteworthy - several barrels of Firestorm Mead to be delivered to the Crazed Heifer (a delicacy from the Sandstone Mountains - the liquid equalivant of having your kidneys diced with a stout stick) and a rather comfy looking pile of hay. All in all, there was nothing about the cart and it's humerously soaked pipe-smoking driver to put anyone looking at it on their guard.

Except, maybe, for the cloaked figure.

He was sitting with his legs crossed and his eyes closed in the open topped back of the cart, seemingly not bothered with the torrents of water soaking through his clothes. A varnished wooden scabbard was laid against his shoulder, it's point facing behind him. He looked like a man who was at total peace with his surroundings.

Beside him sat a black velvet bag, a quite expensive one with a flattened bottom and an array of pockets and what looked like small buttons attached to the handle. There was nothing particularly sinister looking about the bag from the outside - by normal standards, it looked positivly dull, something a doctor would carry around. But anyone trying to open the bag who didn't know of it's contents or, more importantly, how to open it would find themselves suffering from a rather severe case of indigestion to which the term 'gaping hole' would be appropriate.

The driver continued on his slow pace, blissfully puffing away at his pipe, which was obscured from the worst of the rain by the incredibly wide-brimmed hat he wore. It mattered not to him the appearence of his mysterious passenger. After all, he was a well-paying mysterious passenger, that was the important thing. All in all, weather aside, this was turning out to be quite a good day.

Ironic, really, that something like that should be his last ever thought.

The crossbow bolt flew out of nowhere, hitting the driver square between his eyes. He was thrown back in his seat, causing his oxen to squeal in protest and rapidly bolt forward.

The figure's eyes instantly opened with the sound of the oxen, and as he glanced to his right his eyes narrowed as he spotted the rapidly expiring driver, a shard of metal potrouding from his forehead. Operating solely on reflex, he grabbed his sword and his bag and lept off the back of the cart, his cloak billowing in the wind, hands outstretched...

[Vyrrian Wren]

He landed, his feet slipping on the sodden path, his hands thrown forward to balance him. There was a shattering crash behind him as the cart, spurred on by the madded oxen, failed to take the upcoming turn and crashed into the forest, coming to a sudden rest in a marshy ditch.

He staggered upwards, clutching his sword and trying to locate his bag. It had slipped from his grip in his journey through the air, and was lying on the pathway, miraculously the right way up. He started towards it -

- and promptly lept back as another arrow thudded into the path in front of him.

'Another step and it'll be through your head, mate.'

He sharply looked up. Three ruggedly dressed bandits were standing in front of him, ten feet away. One of them was clutching a crossbow, and was slotting in another nasty barb. The others carried short swords and battle axes, which they had all drawn and were pointing at him. They handled them with the air of people who knew what they were doing, and had ways of dealing with those who didn't.

'Now then. Kindly throw your sword towards us, quickly like.'

He slowly picked up his sword from where it lay next to him. As he grasped the hilt, he watched with mirth as the crossbowman tightened his grip on his trigger. Defiantly, he threw his sword towards them, landing next to his bag. Upon seeing his victim unarmed, the bandit leader cracked a toothy grin.

'Good lad. Nice to see a bit of comm'n sense in the young folk today. Linx, take his gear.'

The smallest of them inched forward towards the items lying on the footpath. As he stooped to pick up the bag, the stranger spoke for the first time.

'You don't want to be doing that.'

His voice was cold and raspy, like the sound of metal being scraped by flint. The brigand looked up, and gave him a humourless grin.

'Oh, I think I do.' And with that, he reached down and grabbed the bag.

The sound of the sheethed dagger shooting out and peircing the brigand's stomach was surprisingly quiet. Not so quiet was the agonised squealings as he toppled backwards, blood spurting upwards, a surpised look plastered on his twitching face.

'What the- MARCUS! Nail 'im!'

The ranger cocked his bow and took aim. His eyes widened.

The figure had vanished.

[Vyrrian Wren]

*Phase with us once more...*

'What the HELL is going on?' gasped Marcus, dropping his bow arm until his weapon hung limply beside him. The ranger was in shock. Within the last ten seconds, his late comrade had seemingly been disembowlled by a satchel, and their prey had vanished into thin air. It was almost too much for him to bear.

Raptor was in shock too, although he recovered quickly. He sprinted towards the twitching body of Linx, and knelt down beside him. There was nothing that could be done for him now. A pity really. It was Opposition policy not to get too attached to the people you were working with (a wise precaution, since Lord Fear tended to wipe out vast sums of his own side in disciplinary exercises these days), but Raptor had quite admired the small man's spirit. [ModNote: Raptor, previously a member in his own right, was last seen in Raptor's Back.]

He pulled out the blade from the late Brigand, and eyed it carefully.

'Spring loaded. I'll be damned. Must be worth it's weight in gold, whatever's in that bag.'

'What d'you wanna do boss? Take it back to his Lordness?'

'No! We lost Linx, and we let the scum away. D'you REALLY think Fear will want to hear about this? No, we take the bag, and whatever's in that cart, and flog it to ol' Scaramonger. Get back to the cart and grab what you can. Do it!'

Raptor looked up at Marcus, who was staring at his leader as though he had seen a ghost.

'What the hell is wrong with you, fool?!? Get moving!'

'Don't worry, Boss... He's dying the best he can.'

The voice was even more colder than before, but this time it contained a terrible anger behind it. As Raptor watched in horror, Marcus gurgled, and toppled forward. Sticking out of the small of his back was a silver-pommeled dagger, which glinted brightly in the rain.

Standing where Marcus had been was the cloaked stranger, but suddenly he looked far more sinister and dangerous than he had been. His hood had been cast back to reveal the scarred face of a young man, with a long darkned mane of hair and blood red eyes which resembled diamond cutters. His face was creased into a sneer of pure hatred and disgust.

And in his hands, two daggers appeared.

Raptor stared at him, eyes opened. How could have have just reappeared like that? Suddenly it hit him. The daggers. The clothes. The sword. The sudden disappearence as though he had vanished into thin air.

An assassin.

[Vyrrian Wren]

Raptor was shaken. He had heard stories of Assassins. The opposition used them in earlier ages of 'The Greater Game', but despite a terrifying persona they were easily dispatched, normally by showing the merest sign of resistance to their presence. But this figure appeared different. No obvious weakness. Which was a very bad sign.

Recovering quickly, Raptor plunged into the depths of his coat and withdrew an all-too familiar looking horn. He might have been reassigned, but the many feral goblin packs who patrolled the forest would still amass at the sound of a blast from their horns. Lets see how Mister Slim & Sharp would fare against against them...

He put the horn to his mouth, and prepared to blow. Reacting instantly, the assassin hurled his knife at the brigand. It struck the horn, sending it backwards at great speed and striking the hapless Raptor under his chin. He was thrown back, landing spreadeagled and dazed on the path, staring up at the sky.

The cloaked figure smirked, and strode forward towards the brigand, twirling his second dagger as he did so. Raptor began whimpering as he came closer, finally coming to a stop next to him. He stooped, and picked up the horn, smiling humorously.

'A goblin horn, eh, Opposition scum?' sneered the assassin, looking up sharply and causing Raptor to quail.

'You have seriously inconvenienced me, Brigand. It's raining, night is an hour away, and I am five miles from a safe bed. And you have just tried to rob me in broad daylight. As you might have guessed, I am not a happy fellow.'

Crouching, he picked up his scabbard from where it lay beside his bag, and slowly withdrew an extremely thin curved sword. To Raptor's trained eye, it looked very well maintained. And incredibly sharp.

'You have a choice. Give me all the ill gotten gold you have collected today, and I let you live. Failing that...'

He moved like lightning, and Raptor swallowed as the sword found itself inches away from his throat.

'... you die.'

Seemingly without breathing, Raptor dipped into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a leather purse. The irony of what was happening was not lost on him. The robber had become the robbed. How humiliating.

He cast it towards the assassin, who caught it in the air. It felt like 10 gold pieces. A respectable sum. Enough to get him a room for a week. He removed his sword from the air above Raptor's throat. He could almost hear him start breathing again.

'Thank you. By my reckoning, it's about 2 and a half hours to Wolfenden town. If you were to run fast, I think you'll make it.'

Raptor looked at him with an expression of gormlessness. Then, as the stranger grasped the horn, the expression dissolved into one of terror.

'Farewell, Opposition Scum. Tell Lord Fear that Vyrrian Wren gives his regards.'

And with that revelation, the figure put his lips to the goblin horn and blew.

As the final note died, Vyrrian Wren slowly vanished into the air, leaving behind a haunting laugh.

((Continued in 'A Slightly Soaked Start'))