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It was rare that one single soul should leave the brotherhood. No being that became a part of the Creed was ever to leave it. Not unless it was to taste the waters of the Styx and face the God of Hades himself. To be extinguished from the life of the brethren was permissible. To replace the brotherhood with some other value, some life of normalcy and independent identity... Such a thing of unforgiveable. For the oath of the Creed was to give oneself, body and soul. To never and no longer hold an identity purely your own. But to belong to something larger. Something greater. A creed of justice against those who had slain and sold their ancestors like property... The Creed were fighters for justice. For recompense. For equalising the world and refusing to follow the chain of hierarchy between nobles and commonborn. For no matter your birth, you screamed when on fire and ran when afraid.
Death, after all, was the great equaliser.
Which was why death was the only means through which one could leave the brotherhood - leave the sworn blooded. It was the only means by which one could leave in peace and with the honour of their Shade. To step outside of the darkness, to find a life of your own attributed to only you was a sort of rank - a deliberate definition and boundary of self and world. And that was exactly what the Creed fought against. It was an inequality that they could not withstand or permit. It was the greatest betrayal and injustice.
Which was why this particular Creeder had been sent to loiter and hover like a shadow in the recesses of a broken building. It was to this location - that of one of the Creeder's communicae - that he had been assigned. What was once perhaps some sort of tavern or brothel before it had fallen into disrepair, was now used by the Creed and had been for several months. No bandaged figure ever went there in the day time, for the Creed were supposed to be removed from Taengea. Instead, Shadow Walkers only appeared here one at a time, with the masks of their own faces, to read the messages left by one another scrawled in the dust and in a language only they could read. To all others, it looked like simple scratches - the markings of rats or vermin. To the Creed they were notes and instructions, passed down from the Shade himself. Here, the Creed found their orders and their purpose.
But they did so without the wrappings and cloth that identified them as part of their native cult.
Until this night.
The Creeder that had melted himself into the corner of the room, no more easily identified from wall than the worn and disintegrated rug was from the floor, was in full uniform of mummifying black bandages. For he intended to meet one of his brothers here... when the man appeared. And the Creeder's own identities were hidden from one another as much as the rest of the world. His own and real face would be kept from the man he was due to meet and yet the reverse would likely not be true.
For this man had not returned to the fold since the fires at the circus. There had been battles since then - the defending of their temporary home at the gorge, the fight with the Mikaelidas brood that had led to one of their own being tortured at the hand of the prince. This brother... this Creeder... had not returned to fight alongside his brethren. He had vanished.
And now it was this Creeder's duty to ensure that such a disappearance was entirely and completely permanent...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was rare that one single soul should leave the brotherhood. No being that became a part of the Creed was ever to leave it. Not unless it was to taste the waters of the Styx and face the God of Hades himself. To be extinguished from the life of the brethren was permissible. To replace the brotherhood with some other value, some life of normalcy and independent identity... Such a thing of unforgiveable. For the oath of the Creed was to give oneself, body and soul. To never and no longer hold an identity purely your own. But to belong to something larger. Something greater. A creed of justice against those who had slain and sold their ancestors like property... The Creed were fighters for justice. For recompense. For equalising the world and refusing to follow the chain of hierarchy between nobles and commonborn. For no matter your birth, you screamed when on fire and ran when afraid.
Death, after all, was the great equaliser.
Which was why death was the only means through which one could leave the brotherhood - leave the sworn blooded. It was the only means by which one could leave in peace and with the honour of their Shade. To step outside of the darkness, to find a life of your own attributed to only you was a sort of rank - a deliberate definition and boundary of self and world. And that was exactly what the Creed fought against. It was an inequality that they could not withstand or permit. It was the greatest betrayal and injustice.
Which was why this particular Creeder had been sent to loiter and hover like a shadow in the recesses of a broken building. It was to this location - that of one of the Creeder's communicae - that he had been assigned. What was once perhaps some sort of tavern or brothel before it had fallen into disrepair, was now used by the Creed and had been for several months. No bandaged figure ever went there in the day time, for the Creed were supposed to be removed from Taengea. Instead, Shadow Walkers only appeared here one at a time, with the masks of their own faces, to read the messages left by one another scrawled in the dust and in a language only they could read. To all others, it looked like simple scratches - the markings of rats or vermin. To the Creed they were notes and instructions, passed down from the Shade himself. Here, the Creed found their orders and their purpose.
But they did so without the wrappings and cloth that identified them as part of their native cult.
Until this night.
The Creeder that had melted himself into the corner of the room, no more easily identified from wall than the worn and disintegrated rug was from the floor, was in full uniform of mummifying black bandages. For he intended to meet one of his brothers here... when the man appeared. And the Creeder's own identities were hidden from one another as much as the rest of the world. His own and real face would be kept from the man he was due to meet and yet the reverse would likely not be true.
For this man had not returned to the fold since the fires at the circus. There had been battles since then - the defending of their temporary home at the gorge, the fight with the Mikaelidas brood that had led to one of their own being tortured at the hand of the prince. This brother... this Creeder... had not returned to fight alongside his brethren. He had vanished.
And now it was this Creeder's duty to ensure that such a disappearance was entirely and completely permanent...
It was rare that one single soul should leave the brotherhood. No being that became a part of the Creed was ever to leave it. Not unless it was to taste the waters of the Styx and face the God of Hades himself. To be extinguished from the life of the brethren was permissible. To replace the brotherhood with some other value, some life of normalcy and independent identity... Such a thing of unforgiveable. For the oath of the Creed was to give oneself, body and soul. To never and no longer hold an identity purely your own. But to belong to something larger. Something greater. A creed of justice against those who had slain and sold their ancestors like property... The Creed were fighters for justice. For recompense. For equalising the world and refusing to follow the chain of hierarchy between nobles and commonborn. For no matter your birth, you screamed when on fire and ran when afraid.
Death, after all, was the great equaliser.
Which was why death was the only means through which one could leave the brotherhood - leave the sworn blooded. It was the only means by which one could leave in peace and with the honour of their Shade. To step outside of the darkness, to find a life of your own attributed to only you was a sort of rank - a deliberate definition and boundary of self and world. And that was exactly what the Creed fought against. It was an inequality that they could not withstand or permit. It was the greatest betrayal and injustice.
Which was why this particular Creeder had been sent to loiter and hover like a shadow in the recesses of a broken building. It was to this location - that of one of the Creeder's communicae - that he had been assigned. What was once perhaps some sort of tavern or brothel before it had fallen into disrepair, was now used by the Creed and had been for several months. No bandaged figure ever went there in the day time, for the Creed were supposed to be removed from Taengea. Instead, Shadow Walkers only appeared here one at a time, with the masks of their own faces, to read the messages left by one another scrawled in the dust and in a language only they could read. To all others, it looked like simple scratches - the markings of rats or vermin. To the Creed they were notes and instructions, passed down from the Shade himself. Here, the Creed found their orders and their purpose.
But they did so without the wrappings and cloth that identified them as part of their native cult.
Until this night.
The Creeder that had melted himself into the corner of the room, no more easily identified from wall than the worn and disintegrated rug was from the floor, was in full uniform of mummifying black bandages. For he intended to meet one of his brothers here... when the man appeared. And the Creeder's own identities were hidden from one another as much as the rest of the world. His own and real face would be kept from the man he was due to meet and yet the reverse would likely not be true.
For this man had not returned to the fold since the fires at the circus. There had been battles since then - the defending of their temporary home at the gorge, the fight with the Mikaelidas brood that had led to one of their own being tortured at the hand of the prince. This brother... this Creeder... had not returned to fight alongside his brethren. He had vanished.
And now it was this Creeder's duty to ensure that such a disappearance was entirely and completely permanent...
Kyros felt.... lost. He hadn't been around Brothers in weeks. He felt haunted that he'd fled the fight. Even more so when he'd heard about the devastation the "new king" had wrought on the Sanctuary while he had been laid up with broken ribs and unable to return, to do his part in defending the cause, to fight with the rest of the only family he'd ever known. For over a month, Kyros had been having nightmares. All of them of the Shade ordering his head on a pike for his cowardice. As Kyros had regained a bit of his strength everyday, he began to convince himself that the Shade would have mercy on him and welcome him back if he explained what had happened, what had kept him away. He'd also been trying to garner information on the ruling family of Taengea, in the hopes of to gain the Shade's favor despite his absence.
Kyros still was not fully recovered from his injuries. His ribs were still tender if he moved too quickly or breathed too deeply. His upper right arm sported a nasty new scar, all raised and pink as the skin was still growing back - the was even still some bruising remaining around the wound. But Kyros was healed enough he believed, to try to regain his position in the Creed. It was the only life he knew. A life he craved to return to. He felt exposed out here, without contact with the others.
Kyros knew where messages could be left to and from the Creed. And he knew, too, how to read and write the secret language of symbols. He glanced about as he approached one such place. He was not dressed in the black wrappings of a Creeder. Instead he wore a simple white tunic and black trousers. He turned his attention to the ground near a specific wall, casually leaned against this wall, his right booted toes deftly sliding through the dirt. To an outsider, it appeared as though he were just passing time and kicking up dust, perhaps waiting for someone. In truth he was leaving a message for his Brothers to find. A message asking for a meeting. The leaving of this message took only a few moments, and the Kyros was moving again. Moving across the road to a pass before a dilapidated structure. Distracted by his thoughts and worries, Kyros did not sense a member of his own order watching him from the shadows.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Kyros felt.... lost. He hadn't been around Brothers in weeks. He felt haunted that he'd fled the fight. Even more so when he'd heard about the devastation the "new king" had wrought on the Sanctuary while he had been laid up with broken ribs and unable to return, to do his part in defending the cause, to fight with the rest of the only family he'd ever known. For over a month, Kyros had been having nightmares. All of them of the Shade ordering his head on a pike for his cowardice. As Kyros had regained a bit of his strength everyday, he began to convince himself that the Shade would have mercy on him and welcome him back if he explained what had happened, what had kept him away. He'd also been trying to garner information on the ruling family of Taengea, in the hopes of to gain the Shade's favor despite his absence.
Kyros still was not fully recovered from his injuries. His ribs were still tender if he moved too quickly or breathed too deeply. His upper right arm sported a nasty new scar, all raised and pink as the skin was still growing back - the was even still some bruising remaining around the wound. But Kyros was healed enough he believed, to try to regain his position in the Creed. It was the only life he knew. A life he craved to return to. He felt exposed out here, without contact with the others.
Kyros knew where messages could be left to and from the Creed. And he knew, too, how to read and write the secret language of symbols. He glanced about as he approached one such place. He was not dressed in the black wrappings of a Creeder. Instead he wore a simple white tunic and black trousers. He turned his attention to the ground near a specific wall, casually leaned against this wall, his right booted toes deftly sliding through the dirt. To an outsider, it appeared as though he were just passing time and kicking up dust, perhaps waiting for someone. In truth he was leaving a message for his Brothers to find. A message asking for a meeting. The leaving of this message took only a few moments, and the Kyros was moving again. Moving across the road to a pass before a dilapidated structure. Distracted by his thoughts and worries, Kyros did not sense a member of his own order watching him from the shadows.
Kyros felt.... lost. He hadn't been around Brothers in weeks. He felt haunted that he'd fled the fight. Even more so when he'd heard about the devastation the "new king" had wrought on the Sanctuary while he had been laid up with broken ribs and unable to return, to do his part in defending the cause, to fight with the rest of the only family he'd ever known. For over a month, Kyros had been having nightmares. All of them of the Shade ordering his head on a pike for his cowardice. As Kyros had regained a bit of his strength everyday, he began to convince himself that the Shade would have mercy on him and welcome him back if he explained what had happened, what had kept him away. He'd also been trying to garner information on the ruling family of Taengea, in the hopes of to gain the Shade's favor despite his absence.
Kyros still was not fully recovered from his injuries. His ribs were still tender if he moved too quickly or breathed too deeply. His upper right arm sported a nasty new scar, all raised and pink as the skin was still growing back - the was even still some bruising remaining around the wound. But Kyros was healed enough he believed, to try to regain his position in the Creed. It was the only life he knew. A life he craved to return to. He felt exposed out here, without contact with the others.
Kyros knew where messages could be left to and from the Creed. And he knew, too, how to read and write the secret language of symbols. He glanced about as he approached one such place. He was not dressed in the black wrappings of a Creeder. Instead he wore a simple white tunic and black trousers. He turned his attention to the ground near a specific wall, casually leaned against this wall, his right booted toes deftly sliding through the dirt. To an outsider, it appeared as though he were just passing time and kicking up dust, perhaps waiting for someone. In truth he was leaving a message for his Brothers to find. A message asking for a meeting. The leaving of this message took only a few moments, and the Kyros was moving again. Moving across the road to a pass before a dilapidated structure. Distracted by his thoughts and worries, Kyros did not sense a member of his own order watching him from the shadows.
It was to be expected that the target would not be dressed in the clothes of his cause. In the wrappings and bindings that entirely removed all sense of identity and condemned and aligned a man solely with the mind, aims and desires of the Shade. It was part of their order, part of their faith, to abandon all that was theirs, all that was unique and to surrender to the collective cult of the Creed. Only in their abandonment of all that would render them outsiders could they truly be a part of something larger than themselves.
So, when a coward was greedy and selfish enough to desire something for themselves - to wish for a life outside of the Creed... they would think nothing of dressing in their own clothes. Instinctively ridding themselves of the skin that made them a Drowned One.
This particular Creeder felt his lip curl beneath his own wrappings, his skin burned with anger. For he had been raised as Creed. He had learnt to walk and talk in the shadow of the Shade. He had devoted all that he was, is and all that he would be to the cause of the Creed and would never have been so selfish as to give himself a name, a place and a purpose outside of that which had been given to him. Devout in the extreme, his anger was personal. And when the one who was using the name Kyros appeared with an open face and limbs left free of wrappings, his frustration only intensified.
Holding off until he could be sure that just such a civilian was indeed his target - for only the Shade knew the faces of the Creeders - the Shadow Walker that kept himself in the shadows of the dilapidated building did not move until he watched the boy draw symbols in the dirt. It was dark and his eyes were covered with the normal dark gauze of the Creed's mask, so reading them now was not something that was possible. But he could watch the shape and movement of this man's leg. He could imagine the symbols that were being created and note them as the language of the Creed. Not to mention the location was good for little else than the Creed's secret message point.
This was, without a doubt, the man he had been sent to kill.
When the boy slipped through the building, leaving his message in the dust, the Shadow Walker followed him. Diverting his steps so that an angry kick would eradicate the boy's message to a brotherhood that was no longer his to call his own, the Creeder stalked his prey quietly, knowing that his presence would be noticed soon enough. For his target had had the same careful training as he in reflexes and sensory attention. But he only needed to be quiet long enough to find a clear shot...
And there it was!
Just as the young man turned in order to exit back onto the street, the Creeder saw his chance. With a flick of his hand and a slicing gesture of his arm, three little shuriken blades were released into the air, all aimed directly for the traitor's back...
A small smile lingered on the Drowned One's lips. For what better way to deal with a traitor, than to stab him in the back?
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was to be expected that the target would not be dressed in the clothes of his cause. In the wrappings and bindings that entirely removed all sense of identity and condemned and aligned a man solely with the mind, aims and desires of the Shade. It was part of their order, part of their faith, to abandon all that was theirs, all that was unique and to surrender to the collective cult of the Creed. Only in their abandonment of all that would render them outsiders could they truly be a part of something larger than themselves.
So, when a coward was greedy and selfish enough to desire something for themselves - to wish for a life outside of the Creed... they would think nothing of dressing in their own clothes. Instinctively ridding themselves of the skin that made them a Drowned One.
This particular Creeder felt his lip curl beneath his own wrappings, his skin burned with anger. For he had been raised as Creed. He had learnt to walk and talk in the shadow of the Shade. He had devoted all that he was, is and all that he would be to the cause of the Creed and would never have been so selfish as to give himself a name, a place and a purpose outside of that which had been given to him. Devout in the extreme, his anger was personal. And when the one who was using the name Kyros appeared with an open face and limbs left free of wrappings, his frustration only intensified.
Holding off until he could be sure that just such a civilian was indeed his target - for only the Shade knew the faces of the Creeders - the Shadow Walker that kept himself in the shadows of the dilapidated building did not move until he watched the boy draw symbols in the dirt. It was dark and his eyes were covered with the normal dark gauze of the Creed's mask, so reading them now was not something that was possible. But he could watch the shape and movement of this man's leg. He could imagine the symbols that were being created and note them as the language of the Creed. Not to mention the location was good for little else than the Creed's secret message point.
This was, without a doubt, the man he had been sent to kill.
When the boy slipped through the building, leaving his message in the dust, the Shadow Walker followed him. Diverting his steps so that an angry kick would eradicate the boy's message to a brotherhood that was no longer his to call his own, the Creeder stalked his prey quietly, knowing that his presence would be noticed soon enough. For his target had had the same careful training as he in reflexes and sensory attention. But he only needed to be quiet long enough to find a clear shot...
And there it was!
Just as the young man turned in order to exit back onto the street, the Creeder saw his chance. With a flick of his hand and a slicing gesture of his arm, three little shuriken blades were released into the air, all aimed directly for the traitor's back...
A small smile lingered on the Drowned One's lips. For what better way to deal with a traitor, than to stab him in the back?
It was to be expected that the target would not be dressed in the clothes of his cause. In the wrappings and bindings that entirely removed all sense of identity and condemned and aligned a man solely with the mind, aims and desires of the Shade. It was part of their order, part of their faith, to abandon all that was theirs, all that was unique and to surrender to the collective cult of the Creed. Only in their abandonment of all that would render them outsiders could they truly be a part of something larger than themselves.
So, when a coward was greedy and selfish enough to desire something for themselves - to wish for a life outside of the Creed... they would think nothing of dressing in their own clothes. Instinctively ridding themselves of the skin that made them a Drowned One.
This particular Creeder felt his lip curl beneath his own wrappings, his skin burned with anger. For he had been raised as Creed. He had learnt to walk and talk in the shadow of the Shade. He had devoted all that he was, is and all that he would be to the cause of the Creed and would never have been so selfish as to give himself a name, a place and a purpose outside of that which had been given to him. Devout in the extreme, his anger was personal. And when the one who was using the name Kyros appeared with an open face and limbs left free of wrappings, his frustration only intensified.
Holding off until he could be sure that just such a civilian was indeed his target - for only the Shade knew the faces of the Creeders - the Shadow Walker that kept himself in the shadows of the dilapidated building did not move until he watched the boy draw symbols in the dirt. It was dark and his eyes were covered with the normal dark gauze of the Creed's mask, so reading them now was not something that was possible. But he could watch the shape and movement of this man's leg. He could imagine the symbols that were being created and note them as the language of the Creed. Not to mention the location was good for little else than the Creed's secret message point.
This was, without a doubt, the man he had been sent to kill.
When the boy slipped through the building, leaving his message in the dust, the Shadow Walker followed him. Diverting his steps so that an angry kick would eradicate the boy's message to a brotherhood that was no longer his to call his own, the Creeder stalked his prey quietly, knowing that his presence would be noticed soon enough. For his target had had the same careful training as he in reflexes and sensory attention. But he only needed to be quiet long enough to find a clear shot...
And there it was!
Just as the young man turned in order to exit back onto the street, the Creeder saw his chance. With a flick of his hand and a slicing gesture of his arm, three little shuriken blades were released into the air, all aimed directly for the traitor's back...
A small smile lingered on the Drowned One's lips. For what better way to deal with a traitor, than to stab him in the back?
Kyros was just about to return to the street when he heard a movement behind him. IT pulled him from his thoughts, and he was instantly on the alert. His hands flew to his two daggers, drawing them as he turned. He saw the shuriken blade flying towards him - if he hadn't turned they would have embedded into his spine! Kyros tried to dodge the blades, but he was only semi successful. The first flew over his shoulder as he crouched, the second narrowly deflected by his blade, but the third embedded it deadly tip into his arm, right below still healing scar. Kyros grunted through the pain as he yanked the thing free and blood spilled down his arm. He looked to the man that had thrown the stars; a Brother. Not bothering to tend to the wound just now, Kyros turned his full attention of the Drowned One. He put his blades away, thinking he was among an ally. This also freed his hands so that he could 'talk' in the silent language of the Creed. "Brother. I am not your enemy. I am one of you, we are the same. Of the same being. Please, I need to speak to the Shade. Can you get a message to him?" Naive Kyros, thought that he could talk, explain his way back into the Creed. He was one of them! He belonged with them!
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Kyros was just about to return to the street when he heard a movement behind him. IT pulled him from his thoughts, and he was instantly on the alert. His hands flew to his two daggers, drawing them as he turned. He saw the shuriken blade flying towards him - if he hadn't turned they would have embedded into his spine! Kyros tried to dodge the blades, but he was only semi successful. The first flew over his shoulder as he crouched, the second narrowly deflected by his blade, but the third embedded it deadly tip into his arm, right below still healing scar. Kyros grunted through the pain as he yanked the thing free and blood spilled down his arm. He looked to the man that had thrown the stars; a Brother. Not bothering to tend to the wound just now, Kyros turned his full attention of the Drowned One. He put his blades away, thinking he was among an ally. This also freed his hands so that he could 'talk' in the silent language of the Creed. "Brother. I am not your enemy. I am one of you, we are the same. Of the same being. Please, I need to speak to the Shade. Can you get a message to him?" Naive Kyros, thought that he could talk, explain his way back into the Creed. He was one of them! He belonged with them!
Kyros was just about to return to the street when he heard a movement behind him. IT pulled him from his thoughts, and he was instantly on the alert. His hands flew to his two daggers, drawing them as he turned. He saw the shuriken blade flying towards him - if he hadn't turned they would have embedded into his spine! Kyros tried to dodge the blades, but he was only semi successful. The first flew over his shoulder as he crouched, the second narrowly deflected by his blade, but the third embedded it deadly tip into his arm, right below still healing scar. Kyros grunted through the pain as he yanked the thing free and blood spilled down his arm. He looked to the man that had thrown the stars; a Brother. Not bothering to tend to the wound just now, Kyros turned his full attention of the Drowned One. He put his blades away, thinking he was among an ally. This also freed his hands so that he could 'talk' in the silent language of the Creed. "Brother. I am not your enemy. I am one of you, we are the same. Of the same being. Please, I need to speak to the Shade. Can you get a message to him?" Naive Kyros, thought that he could talk, explain his way back into the Creed. He was one of them! He belonged with them!
The Creeder that stood before the betrayer stood mostly in shadow, his expressions hidden behind dark gauze that covered not only his features but his eyes too. Any sense of anger, of sympathy or anything in between was hidden from view and disguised a killer as someone who might have listened to a brother. At least, that was clearly what the face before him thought, signing his excuses and his begging with his hands.
The loyal one of the two of them felt his lip curl back in disgust. The man that stood before him wore his own face, his own tunic and his own identity. He came to the meeting place of the brethren and expected to be heard by their leader after disappearing from their ranks. After remaining gone as those they swore loyalty to died by the dozens in the attack of the Mikaelidas bloodline upon the Gorge. No brother who bit the hand that fed so completely would ever be permitted to step into the presence of the Shade. They shouldn't have been permitted even to say the word 'Shade' without their fingers being removed.
With that exact intent, the Shadow Walker gave no reply. He said nothing - not verbally, nor in the secret language of the Creed. His hands remained fastened around weaponry rather than dialect and were quick to launch another volley of blades at a man he had once called brother. He might have been with this man at any point. He might have fought by his side or he might have saved his life. Yet, none of that was important now. The being before him was only a betrayer. A traitor. And traitors were required only to die...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The Creeder that stood before the betrayer stood mostly in shadow, his expressions hidden behind dark gauze that covered not only his features but his eyes too. Any sense of anger, of sympathy or anything in between was hidden from view and disguised a killer as someone who might have listened to a brother. At least, that was clearly what the face before him thought, signing his excuses and his begging with his hands.
The loyal one of the two of them felt his lip curl back in disgust. The man that stood before him wore his own face, his own tunic and his own identity. He came to the meeting place of the brethren and expected to be heard by their leader after disappearing from their ranks. After remaining gone as those they swore loyalty to died by the dozens in the attack of the Mikaelidas bloodline upon the Gorge. No brother who bit the hand that fed so completely would ever be permitted to step into the presence of the Shade. They shouldn't have been permitted even to say the word 'Shade' without their fingers being removed.
With that exact intent, the Shadow Walker gave no reply. He said nothing - not verbally, nor in the secret language of the Creed. His hands remained fastened around weaponry rather than dialect and were quick to launch another volley of blades at a man he had once called brother. He might have been with this man at any point. He might have fought by his side or he might have saved his life. Yet, none of that was important now. The being before him was only a betrayer. A traitor. And traitors were required only to die...
The Creeder that stood before the betrayer stood mostly in shadow, his expressions hidden behind dark gauze that covered not only his features but his eyes too. Any sense of anger, of sympathy or anything in between was hidden from view and disguised a killer as someone who might have listened to a brother. At least, that was clearly what the face before him thought, signing his excuses and his begging with his hands.
The loyal one of the two of them felt his lip curl back in disgust. The man that stood before him wore his own face, his own tunic and his own identity. He came to the meeting place of the brethren and expected to be heard by their leader after disappearing from their ranks. After remaining gone as those they swore loyalty to died by the dozens in the attack of the Mikaelidas bloodline upon the Gorge. No brother who bit the hand that fed so completely would ever be permitted to step into the presence of the Shade. They shouldn't have been permitted even to say the word 'Shade' without their fingers being removed.
With that exact intent, the Shadow Walker gave no reply. He said nothing - not verbally, nor in the secret language of the Creed. His hands remained fastened around weaponry rather than dialect and were quick to launch another volley of blades at a man he had once called brother. He might have been with this man at any point. He might have fought by his side or he might have saved his life. Yet, none of that was important now. The being before him was only a betrayer. A traitor. And traitors were required only to die...
Kyros silently lamented, for his Brother seemed not to respond to his pleas - other than to grasp his weapons. Since he was facing the man, Kyros was able to dodge the next volley of deadly weapons. He ducked and rolled sidelong, scooping up the blade he'd pulled from his arm dropped to the ground before. As the skilled fighter came back up to his feet, he launched the shuriken at the other. NOt aiming for a lethal kill, simply to wound - and to stop the barrage of flying blades! His aim was for the the Shadow Walker's hand. He'd been one of the best marksmen among the ranks of the Creed. His aim would be true, but he'd never fought against one of his own, someone just as skilled as he. Would it land the mark? Kyros didn't wait to see, instead his daggers flashed back into his hands and he called out with his voice - since the silent language had gone unheeded. "It does not have to be like this, Brother I am not your enemy!" he gasped, reiterating his early statement, more emphatically this time. His feet crossed over each other as he side stepped to get a better if this came to a full out duel.
Blood continued to spill from his arm. The roll he'd executed had taken his breath from him. His ribs had not fully healed, and now pain was coursing through his torso. His vision blurred. Then the black wrapped fighter was on him. And Kyros barely managed to bring his blades up to defend himself.
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Kyros silently lamented, for his Brother seemed not to respond to his pleas - other than to grasp his weapons. Since he was facing the man, Kyros was able to dodge the next volley of deadly weapons. He ducked and rolled sidelong, scooping up the blade he'd pulled from his arm dropped to the ground before. As the skilled fighter came back up to his feet, he launched the shuriken at the other. NOt aiming for a lethal kill, simply to wound - and to stop the barrage of flying blades! His aim was for the the Shadow Walker's hand. He'd been one of the best marksmen among the ranks of the Creed. His aim would be true, but he'd never fought against one of his own, someone just as skilled as he. Would it land the mark? Kyros didn't wait to see, instead his daggers flashed back into his hands and he called out with his voice - since the silent language had gone unheeded. "It does not have to be like this, Brother I am not your enemy!" he gasped, reiterating his early statement, more emphatically this time. His feet crossed over each other as he side stepped to get a better if this came to a full out duel.
Blood continued to spill from his arm. The roll he'd executed had taken his breath from him. His ribs had not fully healed, and now pain was coursing through his torso. His vision blurred. Then the black wrapped fighter was on him. And Kyros barely managed to bring his blades up to defend himself.
Kyros silently lamented, for his Brother seemed not to respond to his pleas - other than to grasp his weapons. Since he was facing the man, Kyros was able to dodge the next volley of deadly weapons. He ducked and rolled sidelong, scooping up the blade he'd pulled from his arm dropped to the ground before. As the skilled fighter came back up to his feet, he launched the shuriken at the other. NOt aiming for a lethal kill, simply to wound - and to stop the barrage of flying blades! His aim was for the the Shadow Walker's hand. He'd been one of the best marksmen among the ranks of the Creed. His aim would be true, but he'd never fought against one of his own, someone just as skilled as he. Would it land the mark? Kyros didn't wait to see, instead his daggers flashed back into his hands and he called out with his voice - since the silent language had gone unheeded. "It does not have to be like this, Brother I am not your enemy!" he gasped, reiterating his early statement, more emphatically this time. His feet crossed over each other as he side stepped to get a better if this came to a full out duel.
Blood continued to spill from his arm. The roll he'd executed had taken his breath from him. His ribs had not fully healed, and now pain was coursing through his torso. His vision blurred. Then the black wrapped fighter was on him. And Kyros barely managed to bring his blades up to defend himself.
It wasn't enough for him to leave, for him to abandon his brotherhood and brethren. It wasn't enough for him to disappear when they had needed all hands that had sworn loyalty to the Shade to be there in that moment, to side with their oath-takers and become the parts of a singular whole. It wasn't enough for him to remove the wrappings and show his real face to the meeting point of the Creed, revealing his identity. Now he had to break his oath of silence. Disgrace the name of the Creed further by giving himself not just a face but a voice.
Angered beyond measure at this alien being who was no more his brother now than the uppity nobles against whom the Creed stood, the man's words phased him not, nor stilled his hand. Instead, he launched for the man who that was a betrayer to all he had held dear in his existence, removing all traces of doubt that he might have served alongside this one at one time or another. Instead, he reached with deadly precision, knocking away the shuriken the boy had tossed back at him and securing his hands around the man's wrists.
He knew not his name, but he knew he had a name - he had claimed one. And that was enough for him to justify his orders of assassination. Pushing hard against the man's arms - one of which was already giving out through his injury, he encouraged the two blades - one in each of his enemy's palms - to cross blades and inch closer and closer to the traitor's neck...
What the shadow walker didn't see, nor hear, over the scuffle and struggle of the two men upon the ground, was the approach of a soldier in official garb.
He heard the keening metallic noise of an unsheathed blade in enough time to roll out of the way, hoping that his assailant would spear his own target. But, instead, the soldier stilled his blade, not wishing to injure the man on the floor and the Creeder himself was forced into the path of a second and third attacker. The second he avoided the strike of with his own daggers. The third was a touch too quick.
Having dodged the work of two highly trained fighters, it was the third that caught the Creeder in the shoulder with his blade, spearing him through the joint and into the ground below. Agony ripped through the socket, burning down his limb and sending him biting down onto his lower lip to restraint all and any noise as was his oath and creed.
His eyes adjusting to the blinking black dots that had infected his sight, the shadow walker watched in horror as the room steadily filled with a half dozen soldiers in purple and white markings and himations. A new kind of fire - wrathful and ferocious over a prey snatched from a predator's jaws, the Brother was left to squawk inside his own head in protest when one of them stepped forwards, a hand held out to the man the Creeder had been sent to kill.
"Come with us." The voice suggested to the man that would now be left bloodied and lifeless upon the ground of the Drowned One had had but two heartbeats more alone with him. "Our benefactor would like to speak with you."
The Creeder struggled against the wound in his shoulder, where he was spiked into the earth and stone beneath him. Tempted to lose the arm and wrench himself free regardless, he was stilled by the knowledge that he would be of no use to the Shade as a three-legged dog. The soldiers had not killed him yet. They would not dispatch him if he remained still. Then... he would have another chance to complete his mission. A chance that would go far more successfully if he had all of his limbs intact.
The only option to him now was to wait and stew in a silence filled with ire and hatred.
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It wasn't enough for him to leave, for him to abandon his brotherhood and brethren. It wasn't enough for him to disappear when they had needed all hands that had sworn loyalty to the Shade to be there in that moment, to side with their oath-takers and become the parts of a singular whole. It wasn't enough for him to remove the wrappings and show his real face to the meeting point of the Creed, revealing his identity. Now he had to break his oath of silence. Disgrace the name of the Creed further by giving himself not just a face but a voice.
Angered beyond measure at this alien being who was no more his brother now than the uppity nobles against whom the Creed stood, the man's words phased him not, nor stilled his hand. Instead, he launched for the man who that was a betrayer to all he had held dear in his existence, removing all traces of doubt that he might have served alongside this one at one time or another. Instead, he reached with deadly precision, knocking away the shuriken the boy had tossed back at him and securing his hands around the man's wrists.
He knew not his name, but he knew he had a name - he had claimed one. And that was enough for him to justify his orders of assassination. Pushing hard against the man's arms - one of which was already giving out through his injury, he encouraged the two blades - one in each of his enemy's palms - to cross blades and inch closer and closer to the traitor's neck...
What the shadow walker didn't see, nor hear, over the scuffle and struggle of the two men upon the ground, was the approach of a soldier in official garb.
He heard the keening metallic noise of an unsheathed blade in enough time to roll out of the way, hoping that his assailant would spear his own target. But, instead, the soldier stilled his blade, not wishing to injure the man on the floor and the Creeder himself was forced into the path of a second and third attacker. The second he avoided the strike of with his own daggers. The third was a touch too quick.
Having dodged the work of two highly trained fighters, it was the third that caught the Creeder in the shoulder with his blade, spearing him through the joint and into the ground below. Agony ripped through the socket, burning down his limb and sending him biting down onto his lower lip to restraint all and any noise as was his oath and creed.
His eyes adjusting to the blinking black dots that had infected his sight, the shadow walker watched in horror as the room steadily filled with a half dozen soldiers in purple and white markings and himations. A new kind of fire - wrathful and ferocious over a prey snatched from a predator's jaws, the Brother was left to squawk inside his own head in protest when one of them stepped forwards, a hand held out to the man the Creeder had been sent to kill.
"Come with us." The voice suggested to the man that would now be left bloodied and lifeless upon the ground of the Drowned One had had but two heartbeats more alone with him. "Our benefactor would like to speak with you."
The Creeder struggled against the wound in his shoulder, where he was spiked into the earth and stone beneath him. Tempted to lose the arm and wrench himself free regardless, he was stilled by the knowledge that he would be of no use to the Shade as a three-legged dog. The soldiers had not killed him yet. They would not dispatch him if he remained still. Then... he would have another chance to complete his mission. A chance that would go far more successfully if he had all of his limbs intact.
The only option to him now was to wait and stew in a silence filled with ire and hatred.
It wasn't enough for him to leave, for him to abandon his brotherhood and brethren. It wasn't enough for him to disappear when they had needed all hands that had sworn loyalty to the Shade to be there in that moment, to side with their oath-takers and become the parts of a singular whole. It wasn't enough for him to remove the wrappings and show his real face to the meeting point of the Creed, revealing his identity. Now he had to break his oath of silence. Disgrace the name of the Creed further by giving himself not just a face but a voice.
Angered beyond measure at this alien being who was no more his brother now than the uppity nobles against whom the Creed stood, the man's words phased him not, nor stilled his hand. Instead, he launched for the man who that was a betrayer to all he had held dear in his existence, removing all traces of doubt that he might have served alongside this one at one time or another. Instead, he reached with deadly precision, knocking away the shuriken the boy had tossed back at him and securing his hands around the man's wrists.
He knew not his name, but he knew he had a name - he had claimed one. And that was enough for him to justify his orders of assassination. Pushing hard against the man's arms - one of which was already giving out through his injury, he encouraged the two blades - one in each of his enemy's palms - to cross blades and inch closer and closer to the traitor's neck...
What the shadow walker didn't see, nor hear, over the scuffle and struggle of the two men upon the ground, was the approach of a soldier in official garb.
He heard the keening metallic noise of an unsheathed blade in enough time to roll out of the way, hoping that his assailant would spear his own target. But, instead, the soldier stilled his blade, not wishing to injure the man on the floor and the Creeder himself was forced into the path of a second and third attacker. The second he avoided the strike of with his own daggers. The third was a touch too quick.
Having dodged the work of two highly trained fighters, it was the third that caught the Creeder in the shoulder with his blade, spearing him through the joint and into the ground below. Agony ripped through the socket, burning down his limb and sending him biting down onto his lower lip to restraint all and any noise as was his oath and creed.
His eyes adjusting to the blinking black dots that had infected his sight, the shadow walker watched in horror as the room steadily filled with a half dozen soldiers in purple and white markings and himations. A new kind of fire - wrathful and ferocious over a prey snatched from a predator's jaws, the Brother was left to squawk inside his own head in protest when one of them stepped forwards, a hand held out to the man the Creeder had been sent to kill.
"Come with us." The voice suggested to the man that would now be left bloodied and lifeless upon the ground of the Drowned One had had but two heartbeats more alone with him. "Our benefactor would like to speak with you."
The Creeder struggled against the wound in his shoulder, where he was spiked into the earth and stone beneath him. Tempted to lose the arm and wrench himself free regardless, he was stilled by the knowledge that he would be of no use to the Shade as a three-legged dog. The soldiers had not killed him yet. They would not dispatch him if he remained still. Then... he would have another chance to complete his mission. A chance that would go far more successfully if he had all of his limbs intact.
The only option to him now was to wait and stew in a silence filled with ire and hatred.
If Kyros had been at full strength. If he had been more honed to his fighting edge, he was sure he could have over powered his assailant and convinced him to at least listen! But he was not at his best, he was weak - and it sickened him to be so. He saw Death coming for him, knew he couldn't hold off the powerful killer much longer. Just as he felt his body begin to fully betray him, his would be killer was forced back by the sudden flash of a sword. Kyros collapsed, gasping, to the ground. Too weakened to get up and fight or flee from the guards, he lay there. Defeated in body, and defeated in mind. For there was only one explanation for how this played out. He'd been gone too long. He couldn't go back. And now this one knew his face! How foolish he'd been in thinking he could pull this off! Thinking that he could leave a message and not be seen by his Brethren! He should have known that the Shade would know he was missing. He should have known that the secret places would be watched. He should have...
Any further thoughts were forced from his mind when one of the guards turned to him, holding out a hand. "Come with us. Our benefactor would like to speak with you." What? The injured man's brows kitted together deeply and his grey eyes narrowed dangerously. Not that he could have put up much of a fight. His gaze fell to the one he'd been fighting, the one that would have killed in if he'd had just a moment more. The wrapped figure was pinned to the ground by a sword through his shoulder - yet he was utterly silent. As was the way of the Creed. His instincts told him, screamed at him, to fight these men and aid his comrade. But his head told him that he would be useless to that effect. Even more so, that if he did manage to free the pinned man, the deadly struggle would resume and his life would be forfeit.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he looked back to the guard and nodded. He had no choice. It was lay here and die, or go along with these men and live to fight another day. He managed to put away his short blades and lift a hand for assistance to his feet. Gasping through the pain in his ribs, and dizzy from the loss of blood, Kyros stood, and silently waited for the uniformed men to lead the way.
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If Kyros had been at full strength. If he had been more honed to his fighting edge, he was sure he could have over powered his assailant and convinced him to at least listen! But he was not at his best, he was weak - and it sickened him to be so. He saw Death coming for him, knew he couldn't hold off the powerful killer much longer. Just as he felt his body begin to fully betray him, his would be killer was forced back by the sudden flash of a sword. Kyros collapsed, gasping, to the ground. Too weakened to get up and fight or flee from the guards, he lay there. Defeated in body, and defeated in mind. For there was only one explanation for how this played out. He'd been gone too long. He couldn't go back. And now this one knew his face! How foolish he'd been in thinking he could pull this off! Thinking that he could leave a message and not be seen by his Brethren! He should have known that the Shade would know he was missing. He should have known that the secret places would be watched. He should have...
Any further thoughts were forced from his mind when one of the guards turned to him, holding out a hand. "Come with us. Our benefactor would like to speak with you." What? The injured man's brows kitted together deeply and his grey eyes narrowed dangerously. Not that he could have put up much of a fight. His gaze fell to the one he'd been fighting, the one that would have killed in if he'd had just a moment more. The wrapped figure was pinned to the ground by a sword through his shoulder - yet he was utterly silent. As was the way of the Creed. His instincts told him, screamed at him, to fight these men and aid his comrade. But his head told him that he would be useless to that effect. Even more so, that if he did manage to free the pinned man, the deadly struggle would resume and his life would be forfeit.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he looked back to the guard and nodded. He had no choice. It was lay here and die, or go along with these men and live to fight another day. He managed to put away his short blades and lift a hand for assistance to his feet. Gasping through the pain in his ribs, and dizzy from the loss of blood, Kyros stood, and silently waited for the uniformed men to lead the way.
If Kyros had been at full strength. If he had been more honed to his fighting edge, he was sure he could have over powered his assailant and convinced him to at least listen! But he was not at his best, he was weak - and it sickened him to be so. He saw Death coming for him, knew he couldn't hold off the powerful killer much longer. Just as he felt his body begin to fully betray him, his would be killer was forced back by the sudden flash of a sword. Kyros collapsed, gasping, to the ground. Too weakened to get up and fight or flee from the guards, he lay there. Defeated in body, and defeated in mind. For there was only one explanation for how this played out. He'd been gone too long. He couldn't go back. And now this one knew his face! How foolish he'd been in thinking he could pull this off! Thinking that he could leave a message and not be seen by his Brethren! He should have known that the Shade would know he was missing. He should have known that the secret places would be watched. He should have...
Any further thoughts were forced from his mind when one of the guards turned to him, holding out a hand. "Come with us. Our benefactor would like to speak with you." What? The injured man's brows kitted together deeply and his grey eyes narrowed dangerously. Not that he could have put up much of a fight. His gaze fell to the one he'd been fighting, the one that would have killed in if he'd had just a moment more. The wrapped figure was pinned to the ground by a sword through his shoulder - yet he was utterly silent. As was the way of the Creed. His instincts told him, screamed at him, to fight these men and aid his comrade. But his head told him that he would be useless to that effect. Even more so, that if he did manage to free the pinned man, the deadly struggle would resume and his life would be forfeit.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he looked back to the guard and nodded. He had no choice. It was lay here and die, or go along with these men and live to fight another day. He managed to put away his short blades and lift a hand for assistance to his feet. Gasping through the pain in his ribs, and dizzy from the loss of blood, Kyros stood, and silently waited for the uniformed men to lead the way.
The benefactor in question was a man that most would have assumed from the purple and white uniforms worn by the soldiers that had attended to the young ex-Creeder's safety. The young man - practically a boy - hight Kyros, had been under the care and guidance of two Fotios knew on shallow business terms. The married couple that had come to his attention when the young woman had lost track of her spouse on his lands, had been taking care of a wounded Creeder for the last few months. This, Fotios had known for weeks.
What he hadn't known, until now, was exactly what he wished to do with this information. Break into his medicinal leave from the cult too early and he would have attempted to return to the brotherhood, and perhaps tried to use the connections that Fotios had accumulated with the Creed to secure his role back among their ranks. By waiting until it was justified for the Creed to have wanted the man dead for breaking ranks, Fotios ensured that his minimal chatter with those that called themselves shadow walkers, was something he might offer to the lad in security and safety, rather than a return to his roots.
Now, Fotios sat in a chamber that he often favoured within the Outer City. It was a room in the upper levels of a busy tavern that he often frequented when intending to meet individuals that he had no desire to see inside his own property. The Leventi estate was his domain and there was a certain amount of power in mystery and uncertainty. He wasn't about to open doors and welcome inside all those he dealt with on nefarious means.
Instead, this particular tavern and brothel worked well for his purposes and the owner of it was well paid to keep his mouth shut of any happenstance he witnessed. Not to mention leaving the back entrance open so that Fotios' men could bring the criminal inside and upstairs without anyone in the main rooms being any the wiser of his presence.
The room itself was simple enough, for Fotios neither claimed it as his own on a permanent basis nor desired a decorating job every time he frequented it. There was nothing of his own possession in the room - just a bed in the far corner for use by patrons or travellers and a table that had been moved into the centre of the space. A single chair sat on either side, facing one another and Fotios occupied the one with his front to the door. There he sat, awaiting the arrival of the man he had sent soldiers to save from the 'brotherly love' his old brethren had sicced upon him...
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The benefactor in question was a man that most would have assumed from the purple and white uniforms worn by the soldiers that had attended to the young ex-Creeder's safety. The young man - practically a boy - hight Kyros, had been under the care and guidance of two Fotios knew on shallow business terms. The married couple that had come to his attention when the young woman had lost track of her spouse on his lands, had been taking care of a wounded Creeder for the last few months. This, Fotios had known for weeks.
What he hadn't known, until now, was exactly what he wished to do with this information. Break into his medicinal leave from the cult too early and he would have attempted to return to the brotherhood, and perhaps tried to use the connections that Fotios had accumulated with the Creed to secure his role back among their ranks. By waiting until it was justified for the Creed to have wanted the man dead for breaking ranks, Fotios ensured that his minimal chatter with those that called themselves shadow walkers, was something he might offer to the lad in security and safety, rather than a return to his roots.
Now, Fotios sat in a chamber that he often favoured within the Outer City. It was a room in the upper levels of a busy tavern that he often frequented when intending to meet individuals that he had no desire to see inside his own property. The Leventi estate was his domain and there was a certain amount of power in mystery and uncertainty. He wasn't about to open doors and welcome inside all those he dealt with on nefarious means.
Instead, this particular tavern and brothel worked well for his purposes and the owner of it was well paid to keep his mouth shut of any happenstance he witnessed. Not to mention leaving the back entrance open so that Fotios' men could bring the criminal inside and upstairs without anyone in the main rooms being any the wiser of his presence.
The room itself was simple enough, for Fotios neither claimed it as his own on a permanent basis nor desired a decorating job every time he frequented it. There was nothing of his own possession in the room - just a bed in the far corner for use by patrons or travellers and a table that had been moved into the centre of the space. A single chair sat on either side, facing one another and Fotios occupied the one with his front to the door. There he sat, awaiting the arrival of the man he had sent soldiers to save from the 'brotherly love' his old brethren had sicced upon him...
The benefactor in question was a man that most would have assumed from the purple and white uniforms worn by the soldiers that had attended to the young ex-Creeder's safety. The young man - practically a boy - hight Kyros, had been under the care and guidance of two Fotios knew on shallow business terms. The married couple that had come to his attention when the young woman had lost track of her spouse on his lands, had been taking care of a wounded Creeder for the last few months. This, Fotios had known for weeks.
What he hadn't known, until now, was exactly what he wished to do with this information. Break into his medicinal leave from the cult too early and he would have attempted to return to the brotherhood, and perhaps tried to use the connections that Fotios had accumulated with the Creed to secure his role back among their ranks. By waiting until it was justified for the Creed to have wanted the man dead for breaking ranks, Fotios ensured that his minimal chatter with those that called themselves shadow walkers, was something he might offer to the lad in security and safety, rather than a return to his roots.
Now, Fotios sat in a chamber that he often favoured within the Outer City. It was a room in the upper levels of a busy tavern that he often frequented when intending to meet individuals that he had no desire to see inside his own property. The Leventi estate was his domain and there was a certain amount of power in mystery and uncertainty. He wasn't about to open doors and welcome inside all those he dealt with on nefarious means.
Instead, this particular tavern and brothel worked well for his purposes and the owner of it was well paid to keep his mouth shut of any happenstance he witnessed. Not to mention leaving the back entrance open so that Fotios' men could bring the criminal inside and upstairs without anyone in the main rooms being any the wiser of his presence.
The room itself was simple enough, for Fotios neither claimed it as his own on a permanent basis nor desired a decorating job every time he frequented it. There was nothing of his own possession in the room - just a bed in the far corner for use by patrons or travellers and a table that had been moved into the centre of the space. A single chair sat on either side, facing one another and Fotios occupied the one with his front to the door. There he sat, awaiting the arrival of the man he had sent soldiers to save from the 'brotherly love' his old brethren had sicced upon him...
Bewildered and off balance, Kyros followed the guards. Of course following was a loose term as one was before him and one behind as they navigated the alleyways to a tavern that doubled as a brothel. The whole walk, the injured man held his right hand over his sliced left bicep, trying to stem the flow of crimson blood. He tried to keep his breaths shallow as well, as his injured ribs ached from the recent strain of the fight. By the time they reached the designated room, the bleeding seemed to have slowed, though he was still a bit dizzy and weak. However, he wasn't sure it it was because of his in ability to breath properly or if it was because his world had just been turned inside out.
One of his brethren had been sent to kill him. There was no mistaking the way the man had targeted him with would be deadly strikes. He would be dead even now, if this man sitting at the table in this small room had not sent his guards after him. But why? One of his escorts motioned for him to enter the room. Kyros narrowed his eyes. Tentatively, an on the alert, he stepped across the threshold. He walked a few paces into the room and stood there, eyeing the man before him. He recognized him. Of course he did. Fotios Leventi. Kyros narrowed his eyes dangerously, but said nothing. His hands twitched at his sides, conveniently moving closer to his daggers.
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Bewildered and off balance, Kyros followed the guards. Of course following was a loose term as one was before him and one behind as they navigated the alleyways to a tavern that doubled as a brothel. The whole walk, the injured man held his right hand over his sliced left bicep, trying to stem the flow of crimson blood. He tried to keep his breaths shallow as well, as his injured ribs ached from the recent strain of the fight. By the time they reached the designated room, the bleeding seemed to have slowed, though he was still a bit dizzy and weak. However, he wasn't sure it it was because of his in ability to breath properly or if it was because his world had just been turned inside out.
One of his brethren had been sent to kill him. There was no mistaking the way the man had targeted him with would be deadly strikes. He would be dead even now, if this man sitting at the table in this small room had not sent his guards after him. But why? One of his escorts motioned for him to enter the room. Kyros narrowed his eyes. Tentatively, an on the alert, he stepped across the threshold. He walked a few paces into the room and stood there, eyeing the man before him. He recognized him. Of course he did. Fotios Leventi. Kyros narrowed his eyes dangerously, but said nothing. His hands twitched at his sides, conveniently moving closer to his daggers.
Bewildered and off balance, Kyros followed the guards. Of course following was a loose term as one was before him and one behind as they navigated the alleyways to a tavern that doubled as a brothel. The whole walk, the injured man held his right hand over his sliced left bicep, trying to stem the flow of crimson blood. He tried to keep his breaths shallow as well, as his injured ribs ached from the recent strain of the fight. By the time they reached the designated room, the bleeding seemed to have slowed, though he was still a bit dizzy and weak. However, he wasn't sure it it was because of his in ability to breath properly or if it was because his world had just been turned inside out.
One of his brethren had been sent to kill him. There was no mistaking the way the man had targeted him with would be deadly strikes. He would be dead even now, if this man sitting at the table in this small room had not sent his guards after him. But why? One of his escorts motioned for him to enter the room. Kyros narrowed his eyes. Tentatively, an on the alert, he stepped across the threshold. He walked a few paces into the room and stood there, eyeing the man before him. He recognized him. Of course he did. Fotios Leventi. Kyros narrowed his eyes dangerously, but said nothing. His hands twitched at his sides, conveniently moving closer to his daggers.
Despite his face being familiar to the ex-Creeder, the same was not true in reverse. Whilst Fotios knew all of the man and how he had been found in the circus, his rate of recovery and his former plans to return to the Creed, he had never personally laid eyes on the man before. And upon doing so, he was slightly surprised by the youth of him. A number of a piece of paper, after all, was hardly much when different beings lived different lives of varying hardship. Lives that could prolong the healthy glow of skin or escalate the signs of aging. Living a hard life as a warrior and fighter had, Fotios had assumed, stripped away any virility and youthfulness in this Kyros' appearance. And yet clearly the constant shading from the sun by his Creeder uniform had done the opposite. Mummifying him from the passing drain of the years. The boy looked hardly out of his teen years.
Not dissuaded by the boy's appearance, Fotios allowed none of his surprise to show on his face and, instead, simply leant back in the little wooden chair that he had been forced to reside in for a near half hour. He had not been entirely aware of the exact timeframe that the boy would investigate the Creeder hideout, and their hub of communications. Which meant by the time it was made clear that he was to have ventured there that night, Fotios had had to leave his estate with impetus. The rest had been sheer guess work. The time it would take for the young man to reach the hub, if he took detours or dawdled... the time it would take for the Creeder that had been lying in wait for him to make it clear that death was the only plan that the Cult held in store for the man who was once their brother. Then, and only then, the men under his own command had been charged with the duty of stepping in. Not that Fotios had had any control over the shadow walker... This evening might have ended with a few less Leventi soldiers and the man before him dead in a ditch. But one did not make great advanced in connections without a little risk...
Watching the man as he approached over the threshold of the chamber, Fotios stretched out his shoulders a little and extended his legs. The movement was indicative of a few physical aches but he showed no nervousness over Kyros' tense stance and determined figure. He even happened to notice the way the man's fingers hovered near his waist - a common place for blades to be hidden.
"I wouldn't reach for those if I were you." Fotios commented, taking a calculated guess upon his natural leaning towards the Creeder way... Fotios simply leant back more comfortably in his seat, his fingers interlacing over his chest. "Any damage comes to me and I can assure you that the next visit from your old friends will be fairly imminent. And not so easily evaded..."
Taking a moment to unlock his hands and gesture to the seat on the other side of the table from him, Fotios returned his fingers to their mesh quickly after. His gaze was firm and stoic. Ever watchful. As he invited the man to partake in his company.
As the former shadow walker decided how to take such an invitation, Fotios' look shifted over his shoulder to one of the guardsmen on the door.
"Perhaps we can find some fresh water for our friend here." His eyes flickered to the arm that still seeped scarlet between Kyros' fingers. "First for medicinal needs and second for potation."
It was only when he was left alone in the room save Kyros and single soldier in Leventi colours that Fotios turned his gaze back to the invitee to this little meeting. His eyes were challenging on whether or not he would accept anything from the Head of the Dynasteia. Be it water, a chair or any form of discussion. Just how thankful was the boy to have had his life saved from those he had once pledged it to?
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Despite his face being familiar to the ex-Creeder, the same was not true in reverse. Whilst Fotios knew all of the man and how he had been found in the circus, his rate of recovery and his former plans to return to the Creed, he had never personally laid eyes on the man before. And upon doing so, he was slightly surprised by the youth of him. A number of a piece of paper, after all, was hardly much when different beings lived different lives of varying hardship. Lives that could prolong the healthy glow of skin or escalate the signs of aging. Living a hard life as a warrior and fighter had, Fotios had assumed, stripped away any virility and youthfulness in this Kyros' appearance. And yet clearly the constant shading from the sun by his Creeder uniform had done the opposite. Mummifying him from the passing drain of the years. The boy looked hardly out of his teen years.
Not dissuaded by the boy's appearance, Fotios allowed none of his surprise to show on his face and, instead, simply leant back in the little wooden chair that he had been forced to reside in for a near half hour. He had not been entirely aware of the exact timeframe that the boy would investigate the Creeder hideout, and their hub of communications. Which meant by the time it was made clear that he was to have ventured there that night, Fotios had had to leave his estate with impetus. The rest had been sheer guess work. The time it would take for the young man to reach the hub, if he took detours or dawdled... the time it would take for the Creeder that had been lying in wait for him to make it clear that death was the only plan that the Cult held in store for the man who was once their brother. Then, and only then, the men under his own command had been charged with the duty of stepping in. Not that Fotios had had any control over the shadow walker... This evening might have ended with a few less Leventi soldiers and the man before him dead in a ditch. But one did not make great advanced in connections without a little risk...
Watching the man as he approached over the threshold of the chamber, Fotios stretched out his shoulders a little and extended his legs. The movement was indicative of a few physical aches but he showed no nervousness over Kyros' tense stance and determined figure. He even happened to notice the way the man's fingers hovered near his waist - a common place for blades to be hidden.
"I wouldn't reach for those if I were you." Fotios commented, taking a calculated guess upon his natural leaning towards the Creeder way... Fotios simply leant back more comfortably in his seat, his fingers interlacing over his chest. "Any damage comes to me and I can assure you that the next visit from your old friends will be fairly imminent. And not so easily evaded..."
Taking a moment to unlock his hands and gesture to the seat on the other side of the table from him, Fotios returned his fingers to their mesh quickly after. His gaze was firm and stoic. Ever watchful. As he invited the man to partake in his company.
As the former shadow walker decided how to take such an invitation, Fotios' look shifted over his shoulder to one of the guardsmen on the door.
"Perhaps we can find some fresh water for our friend here." His eyes flickered to the arm that still seeped scarlet between Kyros' fingers. "First for medicinal needs and second for potation."
It was only when he was left alone in the room save Kyros and single soldier in Leventi colours that Fotios turned his gaze back to the invitee to this little meeting. His eyes were challenging on whether or not he would accept anything from the Head of the Dynasteia. Be it water, a chair or any form of discussion. Just how thankful was the boy to have had his life saved from those he had once pledged it to?
Despite his face being familiar to the ex-Creeder, the same was not true in reverse. Whilst Fotios knew all of the man and how he had been found in the circus, his rate of recovery and his former plans to return to the Creed, he had never personally laid eyes on the man before. And upon doing so, he was slightly surprised by the youth of him. A number of a piece of paper, after all, was hardly much when different beings lived different lives of varying hardship. Lives that could prolong the healthy glow of skin or escalate the signs of aging. Living a hard life as a warrior and fighter had, Fotios had assumed, stripped away any virility and youthfulness in this Kyros' appearance. And yet clearly the constant shading from the sun by his Creeder uniform had done the opposite. Mummifying him from the passing drain of the years. The boy looked hardly out of his teen years.
Not dissuaded by the boy's appearance, Fotios allowed none of his surprise to show on his face and, instead, simply leant back in the little wooden chair that he had been forced to reside in for a near half hour. He had not been entirely aware of the exact timeframe that the boy would investigate the Creeder hideout, and their hub of communications. Which meant by the time it was made clear that he was to have ventured there that night, Fotios had had to leave his estate with impetus. The rest had been sheer guess work. The time it would take for the young man to reach the hub, if he took detours or dawdled... the time it would take for the Creeder that had been lying in wait for him to make it clear that death was the only plan that the Cult held in store for the man who was once their brother. Then, and only then, the men under his own command had been charged with the duty of stepping in. Not that Fotios had had any control over the shadow walker... This evening might have ended with a few less Leventi soldiers and the man before him dead in a ditch. But one did not make great advanced in connections without a little risk...
Watching the man as he approached over the threshold of the chamber, Fotios stretched out his shoulders a little and extended his legs. The movement was indicative of a few physical aches but he showed no nervousness over Kyros' tense stance and determined figure. He even happened to notice the way the man's fingers hovered near his waist - a common place for blades to be hidden.
"I wouldn't reach for those if I were you." Fotios commented, taking a calculated guess upon his natural leaning towards the Creeder way... Fotios simply leant back more comfortably in his seat, his fingers interlacing over his chest. "Any damage comes to me and I can assure you that the next visit from your old friends will be fairly imminent. And not so easily evaded..."
Taking a moment to unlock his hands and gesture to the seat on the other side of the table from him, Fotios returned his fingers to their mesh quickly after. His gaze was firm and stoic. Ever watchful. As he invited the man to partake in his company.
As the former shadow walker decided how to take such an invitation, Fotios' look shifted over his shoulder to one of the guardsmen on the door.
"Perhaps we can find some fresh water for our friend here." His eyes flickered to the arm that still seeped scarlet between Kyros' fingers. "First for medicinal needs and second for potation."
It was only when he was left alone in the room save Kyros and single soldier in Leventi colours that Fotios turned his gaze back to the invitee to this little meeting. His eyes were challenging on whether or not he would accept anything from the Head of the Dynasteia. Be it water, a chair or any form of discussion. Just how thankful was the boy to have had his life saved from those he had once pledged it to?
'I wouldn't reach for those if I were you.'
The Creeder calmly directed his gaze to the guards in the room, wondering whether or not he could get a dagger thrown and lodged into this man's neck before the guards over powered him. A fire rose in his grey eyes, but he stamped it down. He was injured. The guards were not. He would most likely be dead before he could make a move against them, even if he could take out their patron. The mention of his Brethren gave Kyros pause as well. The man back in the dilapidated building had possessed and austere determination to facilitate his death. A Shadow Walker turning on him in such a manner - for he'd obviously been lying in wait for Kyros - could only mean that the Shade had orchestrated the attempt. That survival instinct that was so unlike a true member of the Creed rose up in him - with a steely gaze locked upon the Leventi, he flexed his fingers and slowly lowered his hand from his hidden dagger.
At the mention of water for his wound, Kyros looked to his arm. He lifted his bloodied hand away from the gash the flying blade had inflicted; the blood had slowed considerably, but there was still a trickle it seemed. A tic started in his jaw when he once again met the gaze of the man that had summoned him here. He knew he had to think carefully about his next move. He sensed that this meeting would be some sort of tipping point for him. He'd just been officially targeted by the Creed. That particular Drowned One that had seen his face was now, no doubt, being held captive and tortured for information or was dead already. The Shade knew his face still. He was an exile now. A fugitive. The Shade had labeled him a traitor! - and from this point on he would forever have a target on his back. For the only true way out of the Creed was through death. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought. He'd officially lost the only form of family - of camaraderie - he had ever known.
Kyros felt cornered and defeated in that moment. But the well trained man did not show it in the least. Silent still and his gaze never wavering from the noble, Kyros stepped forward and sat at the table. He would at least listen to what the man had to say.
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'I wouldn't reach for those if I were you.'
The Creeder calmly directed his gaze to the guards in the room, wondering whether or not he could get a dagger thrown and lodged into this man's neck before the guards over powered him. A fire rose in his grey eyes, but he stamped it down. He was injured. The guards were not. He would most likely be dead before he could make a move against them, even if he could take out their patron. The mention of his Brethren gave Kyros pause as well. The man back in the dilapidated building had possessed and austere determination to facilitate his death. A Shadow Walker turning on him in such a manner - for he'd obviously been lying in wait for Kyros - could only mean that the Shade had orchestrated the attempt. That survival instinct that was so unlike a true member of the Creed rose up in him - with a steely gaze locked upon the Leventi, he flexed his fingers and slowly lowered his hand from his hidden dagger.
At the mention of water for his wound, Kyros looked to his arm. He lifted his bloodied hand away from the gash the flying blade had inflicted; the blood had slowed considerably, but there was still a trickle it seemed. A tic started in his jaw when he once again met the gaze of the man that had summoned him here. He knew he had to think carefully about his next move. He sensed that this meeting would be some sort of tipping point for him. He'd just been officially targeted by the Creed. That particular Drowned One that had seen his face was now, no doubt, being held captive and tortured for information or was dead already. The Shade knew his face still. He was an exile now. A fugitive. The Shade had labeled him a traitor! - and from this point on he would forever have a target on his back. For the only true way out of the Creed was through death. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought. He'd officially lost the only form of family - of camaraderie - he had ever known.
Kyros felt cornered and defeated in that moment. But the well trained man did not show it in the least. Silent still and his gaze never wavering from the noble, Kyros stepped forward and sat at the table. He would at least listen to what the man had to say.
'I wouldn't reach for those if I were you.'
The Creeder calmly directed his gaze to the guards in the room, wondering whether or not he could get a dagger thrown and lodged into this man's neck before the guards over powered him. A fire rose in his grey eyes, but he stamped it down. He was injured. The guards were not. He would most likely be dead before he could make a move against them, even if he could take out their patron. The mention of his Brethren gave Kyros pause as well. The man back in the dilapidated building had possessed and austere determination to facilitate his death. A Shadow Walker turning on him in such a manner - for he'd obviously been lying in wait for Kyros - could only mean that the Shade had orchestrated the attempt. That survival instinct that was so unlike a true member of the Creed rose up in him - with a steely gaze locked upon the Leventi, he flexed his fingers and slowly lowered his hand from his hidden dagger.
At the mention of water for his wound, Kyros looked to his arm. He lifted his bloodied hand away from the gash the flying blade had inflicted; the blood had slowed considerably, but there was still a trickle it seemed. A tic started in his jaw when he once again met the gaze of the man that had summoned him here. He knew he had to think carefully about his next move. He sensed that this meeting would be some sort of tipping point for him. He'd just been officially targeted by the Creed. That particular Drowned One that had seen his face was now, no doubt, being held captive and tortured for information or was dead already. The Shade knew his face still. He was an exile now. A fugitive. The Shade had labeled him a traitor! - and from this point on he would forever have a target on his back. For the only true way out of the Creed was through death. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought. He'd officially lost the only form of family - of camaraderie - he had ever known.
Kyros felt cornered and defeated in that moment. But the well trained man did not show it in the least. Silent still and his gaze never wavering from the noble, Kyros stepped forward and sat at the table. He would at least listen to what the man had to say.
Fotios watched as the man stood stock still. He showed no expression on his face, no worry or tension in his frame. He simply remained where he was, a hand locked over his opposing arm to stem the flow of lingering injury and his eyes darting around the room. There was no evidence that he was nervous or frightened. But his very stillness gave him away to a man like Fotios who applied the exact same techniques upon his own features. The glances to relevant means of escape were the betrayals of his inner thoughts. Like a rat in a cage, he was attempting to work out his best means of liberation and extraction from this entire mess.
And yet, when he finally decided upon his course of action, it was to step forward into the room. He moved steadily and carefully, with the fluid grace of a shadow walker. He moved as if he were made from the very waters of the river Styx, no longer completely human but at risk of being summoned back to Hades at any moment. A single drop in a stream of violence. Which was exactly as the Creed liked to orchestrate their men... singular units of an entire whole.
Fotios said nothing initially as the man took his seat. He watched him assess the table before him, the man beyond it and reposition his hand over his wound so that he could sit with greater ease. Likely so that his free hand was closer to his weapons too. Yet, Fotios made no move to instruct his guardsmen to unarm the man. He knew that his threat of the Creed was significant enough. For, if the man before him recognised that he had some kind of connection to the cult, he would know that Fotios could bring down a world of pain upon a Creeder fugitive, even from beyond the grave.
When Kyros had gotten comfortable and the guard at the door had ensured the portal was closed, Fotios waited a moment before speaking. The fire in the hearth crackled lowly, the noise merging into part of the atmosphere surrounding them and the candlelight from the holder on the table flickered back and forth in a manner that threw elements of Fotios' appearance into sharp relief here and there.
"As I understand it... you're out of a job, Kyros." Fotios stated, using the name that he had been informed of through his watchful eyes over the little cottage that the Creeder had been recovering in. "I am simply here to offer you a replacement occupation..."
Conversation was interrupted for a moment by the return of the second guard. He entered the room after a single, short knock and then stepped through with a shallow but wide dish. Over its rim hung an old but clean rag and the soft slosh of water could be heard from within. Hooked over his fingers was the arm of a wooden flagon that offered the same noise from within. Each item was placed upon the table, the guard keeping clear of Kyros's reach, and Fotios waited until the armoured soldier had returned to his spot, the mirror opposite of his partner on the other side of the exit. Only then did he indicate with a calm and simple gesture that Kyros help himself to the items needed to clean his wound and whet his tongue...
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Fotios watched as the man stood stock still. He showed no expression on his face, no worry or tension in his frame. He simply remained where he was, a hand locked over his opposing arm to stem the flow of lingering injury and his eyes darting around the room. There was no evidence that he was nervous or frightened. But his very stillness gave him away to a man like Fotios who applied the exact same techniques upon his own features. The glances to relevant means of escape were the betrayals of his inner thoughts. Like a rat in a cage, he was attempting to work out his best means of liberation and extraction from this entire mess.
And yet, when he finally decided upon his course of action, it was to step forward into the room. He moved steadily and carefully, with the fluid grace of a shadow walker. He moved as if he were made from the very waters of the river Styx, no longer completely human but at risk of being summoned back to Hades at any moment. A single drop in a stream of violence. Which was exactly as the Creed liked to orchestrate their men... singular units of an entire whole.
Fotios said nothing initially as the man took his seat. He watched him assess the table before him, the man beyond it and reposition his hand over his wound so that he could sit with greater ease. Likely so that his free hand was closer to his weapons too. Yet, Fotios made no move to instruct his guardsmen to unarm the man. He knew that his threat of the Creed was significant enough. For, if the man before him recognised that he had some kind of connection to the cult, he would know that Fotios could bring down a world of pain upon a Creeder fugitive, even from beyond the grave.
When Kyros had gotten comfortable and the guard at the door had ensured the portal was closed, Fotios waited a moment before speaking. The fire in the hearth crackled lowly, the noise merging into part of the atmosphere surrounding them and the candlelight from the holder on the table flickered back and forth in a manner that threw elements of Fotios' appearance into sharp relief here and there.
"As I understand it... you're out of a job, Kyros." Fotios stated, using the name that he had been informed of through his watchful eyes over the little cottage that the Creeder had been recovering in. "I am simply here to offer you a replacement occupation..."
Conversation was interrupted for a moment by the return of the second guard. He entered the room after a single, short knock and then stepped through with a shallow but wide dish. Over its rim hung an old but clean rag and the soft slosh of water could be heard from within. Hooked over his fingers was the arm of a wooden flagon that offered the same noise from within. Each item was placed upon the table, the guard keeping clear of Kyros's reach, and Fotios waited until the armoured soldier had returned to his spot, the mirror opposite of his partner on the other side of the exit. Only then did he indicate with a calm and simple gesture that Kyros help himself to the items needed to clean his wound and whet his tongue...
Fotios watched as the man stood stock still. He showed no expression on his face, no worry or tension in his frame. He simply remained where he was, a hand locked over his opposing arm to stem the flow of lingering injury and his eyes darting around the room. There was no evidence that he was nervous or frightened. But his very stillness gave him away to a man like Fotios who applied the exact same techniques upon his own features. The glances to relevant means of escape were the betrayals of his inner thoughts. Like a rat in a cage, he was attempting to work out his best means of liberation and extraction from this entire mess.
And yet, when he finally decided upon his course of action, it was to step forward into the room. He moved steadily and carefully, with the fluid grace of a shadow walker. He moved as if he were made from the very waters of the river Styx, no longer completely human but at risk of being summoned back to Hades at any moment. A single drop in a stream of violence. Which was exactly as the Creed liked to orchestrate their men... singular units of an entire whole.
Fotios said nothing initially as the man took his seat. He watched him assess the table before him, the man beyond it and reposition his hand over his wound so that he could sit with greater ease. Likely so that his free hand was closer to his weapons too. Yet, Fotios made no move to instruct his guardsmen to unarm the man. He knew that his threat of the Creed was significant enough. For, if the man before him recognised that he had some kind of connection to the cult, he would know that Fotios could bring down a world of pain upon a Creeder fugitive, even from beyond the grave.
When Kyros had gotten comfortable and the guard at the door had ensured the portal was closed, Fotios waited a moment before speaking. The fire in the hearth crackled lowly, the noise merging into part of the atmosphere surrounding them and the candlelight from the holder on the table flickered back and forth in a manner that threw elements of Fotios' appearance into sharp relief here and there.
"As I understand it... you're out of a job, Kyros." Fotios stated, using the name that he had been informed of through his watchful eyes over the little cottage that the Creeder had been recovering in. "I am simply here to offer you a replacement occupation..."
Conversation was interrupted for a moment by the return of the second guard. He entered the room after a single, short knock and then stepped through with a shallow but wide dish. Over its rim hung an old but clean rag and the soft slosh of water could be heard from within. Hooked over his fingers was the arm of a wooden flagon that offered the same noise from within. Each item was placed upon the table, the guard keeping clear of Kyros's reach, and Fotios waited until the armoured soldier had returned to his spot, the mirror opposite of his partner on the other side of the exit. Only then did he indicate with a calm and simple gesture that Kyros help himself to the items needed to clean his wound and whet his tongue...
Confidence. Confidence in himself, in his abilities to fight - and his abilities to know when he was outmatched - was paramount. Course it wasn't often that the skilled man was overpowered. Even amongst the ranks of the Creed. BUt he was still healing. And having already been bested once this day, Kyros had no interest in fighting again so soon. But he remained alert and ready, his hand near a weapon even as he sat down across from Fotios, just in case.
At the use of the moniker he had taken on, his grey eyes flickered with a seething fire, but this was the only outward response. So the Leventi had indeed been watching him. Kyros had expected this when the guards had told him of this meeting, but had thought perhaps the man had simply been watching that location for someone to show up seeking the Creed. Now Fotios revealed that Kyros had been his target all along. He didn't like that this man had had eyes on him without his knowledge. Before any elaborations on the direction this parley was heading, the missing guard returned with the sought after water. Kyros did not move his head, did not flinch any muscle, but his eyes followed the man as soon as he came into his view. He took note that the guard gave him a wide berth. He laughed inwardly at this.
The guard was once again out of his immediate view. But the assassin was fully aware of the two men at his back standing on either side of the only easy exit from the room. His gaze flicked to the bowl of water, but he made no immediate move to use it. He knew how easy it was to hide poison even in water. How, even if he did not drink from the flagon - as he was sure they suspected he would not - they could be hoping to poison him through his open wound. He would put nothing past a noble of Taengea, especially where a member of the Creed was concerned.
He did not catch himself quickly enough to hide the outward wince at the thought of the Creed. He was no longer a part of the Creed. He had been cast out of the brotherhood. He lamented that loss - wishing he had not allowed himself to escape the fighting when he'd been injured. He should have let that soldier finish him off! As a true Shadow Walker would have done! Perhaps allowing himself to be poisoned, rather than used against the Creed - as surely that was what this was all about! - would be a better fate.
The wince, the thoughts, happened in less than half a second; he released his hold on his injured arm and stuck his hand in the water bowl, rinsing the blood from his fingers and wetting the cloth. Kyros silently placed the dripping thing over the cut in his bicep even as he leveled his gaze on the Leventi lord once more - watching for a confirming look that his suspicions of poison were true.
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Confidence. Confidence in himself, in his abilities to fight - and his abilities to know when he was outmatched - was paramount. Course it wasn't often that the skilled man was overpowered. Even amongst the ranks of the Creed. BUt he was still healing. And having already been bested once this day, Kyros had no interest in fighting again so soon. But he remained alert and ready, his hand near a weapon even as he sat down across from Fotios, just in case.
At the use of the moniker he had taken on, his grey eyes flickered with a seething fire, but this was the only outward response. So the Leventi had indeed been watching him. Kyros had expected this when the guards had told him of this meeting, but had thought perhaps the man had simply been watching that location for someone to show up seeking the Creed. Now Fotios revealed that Kyros had been his target all along. He didn't like that this man had had eyes on him without his knowledge. Before any elaborations on the direction this parley was heading, the missing guard returned with the sought after water. Kyros did not move his head, did not flinch any muscle, but his eyes followed the man as soon as he came into his view. He took note that the guard gave him a wide berth. He laughed inwardly at this.
The guard was once again out of his immediate view. But the assassin was fully aware of the two men at his back standing on either side of the only easy exit from the room. His gaze flicked to the bowl of water, but he made no immediate move to use it. He knew how easy it was to hide poison even in water. How, even if he did not drink from the flagon - as he was sure they suspected he would not - they could be hoping to poison him through his open wound. He would put nothing past a noble of Taengea, especially where a member of the Creed was concerned.
He did not catch himself quickly enough to hide the outward wince at the thought of the Creed. He was no longer a part of the Creed. He had been cast out of the brotherhood. He lamented that loss - wishing he had not allowed himself to escape the fighting when he'd been injured. He should have let that soldier finish him off! As a true Shadow Walker would have done! Perhaps allowing himself to be poisoned, rather than used against the Creed - as surely that was what this was all about! - would be a better fate.
The wince, the thoughts, happened in less than half a second; he released his hold on his injured arm and stuck his hand in the water bowl, rinsing the blood from his fingers and wetting the cloth. Kyros silently placed the dripping thing over the cut in his bicep even as he leveled his gaze on the Leventi lord once more - watching for a confirming look that his suspicions of poison were true.
Confidence. Confidence in himself, in his abilities to fight - and his abilities to know when he was outmatched - was paramount. Course it wasn't often that the skilled man was overpowered. Even amongst the ranks of the Creed. BUt he was still healing. And having already been bested once this day, Kyros had no interest in fighting again so soon. But he remained alert and ready, his hand near a weapon even as he sat down across from Fotios, just in case.
At the use of the moniker he had taken on, his grey eyes flickered with a seething fire, but this was the only outward response. So the Leventi had indeed been watching him. Kyros had expected this when the guards had told him of this meeting, but had thought perhaps the man had simply been watching that location for someone to show up seeking the Creed. Now Fotios revealed that Kyros had been his target all along. He didn't like that this man had had eyes on him without his knowledge. Before any elaborations on the direction this parley was heading, the missing guard returned with the sought after water. Kyros did not move his head, did not flinch any muscle, but his eyes followed the man as soon as he came into his view. He took note that the guard gave him a wide berth. He laughed inwardly at this.
The guard was once again out of his immediate view. But the assassin was fully aware of the two men at his back standing on either side of the only easy exit from the room. His gaze flicked to the bowl of water, but he made no immediate move to use it. He knew how easy it was to hide poison even in water. How, even if he did not drink from the flagon - as he was sure they suspected he would not - they could be hoping to poison him through his open wound. He would put nothing past a noble of Taengea, especially where a member of the Creed was concerned.
He did not catch himself quickly enough to hide the outward wince at the thought of the Creed. He was no longer a part of the Creed. He had been cast out of the brotherhood. He lamented that loss - wishing he had not allowed himself to escape the fighting when he'd been injured. He should have let that soldier finish him off! As a true Shadow Walker would have done! Perhaps allowing himself to be poisoned, rather than used against the Creed - as surely that was what this was all about! - would be a better fate.
The wince, the thoughts, happened in less than half a second; he released his hold on his injured arm and stuck his hand in the water bowl, rinsing the blood from his fingers and wetting the cloth. Kyros silently placed the dripping thing over the cut in his bicep even as he leveled his gaze on the Leventi lord once more - watching for a confirming look that his suspicions of poison were true.
Fotios did nothing as the man before him tried to assess his situation. It was one tactic to bash over another's head their lack of options, to push them into a corner so that they might surrender to your will and whim. But Fotios didn't want a singular capitulation from this man. He wanted a long-term, working relationship with him. Which required some semblance of trust - however false.
Therefore, it was a necessary for the ex-Creeder to settle within his mind the options that now lay before him, to work through the realisations of his current circumstances and to convince himself of the most sensible choice in the paths that lay before him. In doing so, he would commit far more to that way and that opportunity than he would were he dragged along it kicking and screaming.
When the man was cautious over the water, and of the guard that brought it, Fotios said nothing and moved not an inch. His whole frame was relaxed - not static in paralysis - but calm and casual. His eyes were on the man's facial features, reading him carefully.
Eventually, Kyros took to the opportunity to reach over and whetted the cloth provided to him. The piece was then transferred to his arm and used to press against his wound, slowly turning the underside of the white linen to a pinkish hue that seeped darker as the second passed. The man looked to Fotios was if assessing if he had just made the right decision.
"If I had wished you dead, I would have simply refrained from sending my guards to assist you tonight." Fotios stated calmly. "Not saved your life only to end it here with myself in attendance." This simple logic was all he seemed willing to offer upon the subject. Instead, he simply waited for the man on the opposing side of the table to speak regarding his earlier offer of a job...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Fotios did nothing as the man before him tried to assess his situation. It was one tactic to bash over another's head their lack of options, to push them into a corner so that they might surrender to your will and whim. But Fotios didn't want a singular capitulation from this man. He wanted a long-term, working relationship with him. Which required some semblance of trust - however false.
Therefore, it was a necessary for the ex-Creeder to settle within his mind the options that now lay before him, to work through the realisations of his current circumstances and to convince himself of the most sensible choice in the paths that lay before him. In doing so, he would commit far more to that way and that opportunity than he would were he dragged along it kicking and screaming.
When the man was cautious over the water, and of the guard that brought it, Fotios said nothing and moved not an inch. His whole frame was relaxed - not static in paralysis - but calm and casual. His eyes were on the man's facial features, reading him carefully.
Eventually, Kyros took to the opportunity to reach over and whetted the cloth provided to him. The piece was then transferred to his arm and used to press against his wound, slowly turning the underside of the white linen to a pinkish hue that seeped darker as the second passed. The man looked to Fotios was if assessing if he had just made the right decision.
"If I had wished you dead, I would have simply refrained from sending my guards to assist you tonight." Fotios stated calmly. "Not saved your life only to end it here with myself in attendance." This simple logic was all he seemed willing to offer upon the subject. Instead, he simply waited for the man on the opposing side of the table to speak regarding his earlier offer of a job...
Fotios did nothing as the man before him tried to assess his situation. It was one tactic to bash over another's head their lack of options, to push them into a corner so that they might surrender to your will and whim. But Fotios didn't want a singular capitulation from this man. He wanted a long-term, working relationship with him. Which required some semblance of trust - however false.
Therefore, it was a necessary for the ex-Creeder to settle within his mind the options that now lay before him, to work through the realisations of his current circumstances and to convince himself of the most sensible choice in the paths that lay before him. In doing so, he would commit far more to that way and that opportunity than he would were he dragged along it kicking and screaming.
When the man was cautious over the water, and of the guard that brought it, Fotios said nothing and moved not an inch. His whole frame was relaxed - not static in paralysis - but calm and casual. His eyes were on the man's facial features, reading him carefully.
Eventually, Kyros took to the opportunity to reach over and whetted the cloth provided to him. The piece was then transferred to his arm and used to press against his wound, slowly turning the underside of the white linen to a pinkish hue that seeped darker as the second passed. The man looked to Fotios was if assessing if he had just made the right decision.
"If I had wished you dead, I would have simply refrained from sending my guards to assist you tonight." Fotios stated calmly. "Not saved your life only to end it here with myself in attendance." This simple logic was all he seemed willing to offer upon the subject. Instead, he simply waited for the man on the opposing side of the table to speak regarding his earlier offer of a job...