as written by Kordera
The summer breeze blew through the plains and fields of Lohar with a good comfortable clip. Plants and trees swayed in the wind as workers tended the fields. Houses and barns and burrows littered the landscape with few clustered together in small complexes near a central market area.
A man of tall stature and venerable age with his face covered, as always, walks through the market picking vegetables and asking short questions to the local folk. Farmers and their families load and refresh their stock as the town square gets busier. Taking a step back and taking in the peaceful scene Drak smiles beneath his mask realizing how hard it was fought for and how much loss went into this gain.
Though a seemingly peaceful marketplace, the reaches of a past life could still be seen by those with an eye for such things. The rugged figure of a man smoking a pipe at the market corner, or the old fishmonger whose customers always seemed to come by in the dwindling hours of twilight. The Obsidian Ridge's reach was far, even this far south from the hustle and bustle of Tiria’s capital. On this day it was a young boy, scarcely more than seven years old that made his presence known to Drak. Shoving his way through the crowd, the lad forcefully bumped against Drak's arm, slipping a folded bit of parchment into his weathered hand. The seal upon it remained unbroken, but the parchment was stained and smudged with dirt; it had come a long ways to reach him.
Seeing the figure had taken his time in finding him, and then had made several blatant error to deliver the document, he quickly made his way out of town with his purchases. Instead of heading to his home he went to a small alcove in the hills. Entering a small dugout in the rock face nearing the woods, he took out a candle and it it. He trekked a while into the cave and lit a hooded lantern and sat in a small wooden chair he had left for himself. Perusing his knives and uniforms from a life seeming long past, he carefully opened the seal to the letter.
‘Blackadder. We regret to inform you that Gilnaes of Troubthorn has fallen. Circumstances unknown. You are most likely in peril. Arm and report.’
The letter was signed with a black dot and a gold scrawl in the shape of a nightingale. He closed the letter and sighed . He put his purchased food into a pack and then began to dress in the style which was more common to him than the dress of a farmer. Taking care to tuck each fold and a blade into each one of them, he then took his curved blades and strapped them to his back and took his pack from the floor. He loaded his kunai and his katars into his sleeves and then headed for the entrance with the hooded lantern in hand.
‘To what do I owe the honor?’ he asked.
A shrouded figure emerged from the shadows and looked at him past his own mask. The figure stood much shorter than him and was dressed accordingly. His robes were much darker than Drak’s showing his inexperience. The lighter the robe the better the assassin. Drak’s robes in comparison were pristine bright red with obsidian inlaid markings on the epaulets and wrists. The man’s robes were dark grey with no inlaid markings. Higher level field assassins were in white, showing their prowess in combat. Red was reserved for those in the higher part of the order and for trainers of assassins. The blood cloak, as it was called was always the highest honor one could receive in the Obsidian Ridge.
“You have been summoned Drakara Morvon Blackadder. But you were not permitted weapons,” said the man.
“A novice like you is willing to dictate than at old man should travel unarmed with all of the rumors of monsters and beasts?” Drak retorted.
“I am not to dictate to you what you do. But the Grand One is. Retired ones are not allowed to carry the katars and kunai of the order. You must remove them or I must remove you.”
“Remove me?” Drak snorted.
Drak made a quick gesture and then grabbed his lower back and groaned in pain for a moment. He began walking off as the man slumped to the floor in a bloody mess. The man’s throat was slashed in two places with clinical precision. Drak crouched down to the man and looked at him.
“You come to me with a recall order. Slip it into my possession and then tell me to come unarmed. Then this little thing. You are an un-donned novice with a sharp tongue. You are here to silence me as is our way. Your mistake was not killing me in the market. Sleep well with your knowledge.”
With that he slipped away tucking his kunai back into his sleeve. He needed to find his old companions soon, for now he was truly alone in the world with no support or communications. He started south with a decent pace heading to the ruined wastes known as the barrens. The only way he would be able to figure out what was going on was to get into the barrens to ask an old friend what was beginning to unfold.
The summer breeze blew through the plains and fields of Lohar with a good comfortable clip. Plants and trees swayed in the wind as workers tended the fields. Houses and barns and burrows littered the landscape with few clustered together in small complexes near a central market area.
A man of tall stature and venerable age with his face covered, as always, walks through the market picking vegetables and asking short questions to the local folk. Farmers and their families load and refresh their stock as the town square gets busier. Taking a step back and taking in the peaceful scene Drak smiles beneath his mask realizing how hard it was fought for and how much loss went into this gain.
Though a seemingly peaceful marketplace, the reaches of a past life could still be seen by those with an eye for such things. The rugged figure of a man smoking a pipe at the market corner, or the old fishmonger whose customers always seemed to come by in the dwindling hours of twilight. The Obsidian Ridge's reach was far, even this far south from the hustle and bustle of Tiria’s capital. On this day it was a young boy, scarcely more than seven years old that made his presence known to Drak. Shoving his way through the crowd, the lad forcefully bumped against Drak's arm, slipping a folded bit of parchment into his weathered hand. The seal upon it remained unbroken, but the parchment was stained and smudged with dirt; it had come a long ways to reach him.
Seeing the figure had taken his time in finding him, and then had made several blatant error to deliver the document, he quickly made his way out of town with his purchases. Instead of heading to his home he went to a small alcove in the hills. Entering a small dugout in the rock face nearing the woods, he took out a candle and it it. He trekked a while into the cave and lit a hooded lantern and sat in a small wooden chair he had left for himself. Perusing his knives and uniforms from a life seeming long past, he carefully opened the seal to the letter.
‘Blackadder. We regret to inform you that Gilnaes of Troubthorn has fallen. Circumstances unknown. You are most likely in peril. Arm and report.’
The letter was signed with a black dot and a gold scrawl in the shape of a nightingale. He closed the letter and sighed . He put his purchased food into a pack and then began to dress in the style which was more common to him than the dress of a farmer. Taking care to tuck each fold and a blade into each one of them, he then took his curved blades and strapped them to his back and took his pack from the floor. He loaded his kunai and his katars into his sleeves and then headed for the entrance with the hooded lantern in hand.
‘To what do I owe the honor?’ he asked.
A shrouded figure emerged from the shadows and looked at him past his own mask. The figure stood much shorter than him and was dressed accordingly. His robes were much darker than Drak’s showing his inexperience. The lighter the robe the better the assassin. Drak’s robes in comparison were pristine bright red with obsidian inlaid markings on the epaulets and wrists. The man’s robes were dark grey with no inlaid markings. Higher level field assassins were in white, showing their prowess in combat. Red was reserved for those in the higher part of the order and for trainers of assassins. The blood cloak, as it was called was always the highest honor one could receive in the Obsidian Ridge.
“You have been summoned Drakara Morvon Blackadder. But you were not permitted weapons,” said the man.
“A novice like you is willing to dictate than at old man should travel unarmed with all of the rumors of monsters and beasts?” Drak retorted.
“I am not to dictate to you what you do. But the Grand One is. Retired ones are not allowed to carry the katars and kunai of the order. You must remove them or I must remove you.”
“Remove me?” Drak snorted.
Drak made a quick gesture and then grabbed his lower back and groaned in pain for a moment. He began walking off as the man slumped to the floor in a bloody mess. The man’s throat was slashed in two places with clinical precision. Drak crouched down to the man and looked at him.
“You come to me with a recall order. Slip it into my possession and then tell me to come unarmed. Then this little thing. You are an un-donned novice with a sharp tongue. You are here to silence me as is our way. Your mistake was not killing me in the market. Sleep well with your knowledge.”
With that he slipped away tucking his kunai back into his sleeve. He needed to find his old companions soon, for now he was truly alone in the world with no support or communications. He started south with a decent pace heading to the ruined wastes known as the barrens. The only way he would be able to figure out what was going on was to get into the barrens to ask an old friend what was beginning to unfold.