Post by alendral on Jan 30, 2009 4:46:21 GMT -6
Rat face. That was Ulnor's name, from his days as a mere footpad to his initiate into the arts of the dagger in the dark. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man, with thin black hair in a receding hairline and a deeply elongated face. Beady eyes and a shifty demeanor seemed to all lend itself to the obvious distinction, but Ulnor still carried a distaste for it. He was, by nature, untrustworthy. But to dismiss Ulnor was a mere rat was how many a fool met their end.
It was Gottschalk who first saw the potential in Ulnor, the many layered mind, the insight into the human mind that seemed to penetrate even the most guarded man, and the sheer, unadulterated viciousness that permeated it. He recognized that, by nature, Ulnor himself would not excel in the craft he had so perfected, for no matter how sincere the words. It was simply a design. but Ulnor's destiny was not to be the master of his craft. Ulnor was a facilitator. Ulnor could arrange the fates. He found talent where none was to be found, crafted elaborate traps, and preyed on people--their fear, their desire. He was brilliant, and nearly every single one of his contracts met their end with little a hitch, as he accounted for every angle.
Until the Lady Aramoire. Until Gottschalk's first. The bastard. It was supposed to be simple. He knew the Lady Aramoire was clever. Knew of her history, of her skill set. It was planned. He had evaluated her and chose just the man to take her eye, arranged for just a meeting. Of course she would be suspicious--but she would fancy herself in control of the situation, too wonderful in the game. The bytch. She was the kind he delighted in failing. The kind that would never look his way. Entertaining the likes of fair nobility, playing her coy little games, all on the surface. He had prepared for every variable. The bastard guard, her own guile, anyone else. Then he showed up.
In hindsight he should have known. He'd heard rumors, of course, but when he saw him... He was certain. They had only met once, briefly, and it was long after Gottschalk's death. There was no recognition there--they met as simple associates and departed on neutral terms. He knew, of course, of his own distaste for his former masters art, but he cared little for it. His master's legacy, in the long run, meant nothing to Ulnor. But apparently it mattered to him. Alexander. Funny that they share the same name.
Soon after, Ulnor's plans fell apart. His accomplice lie dead, and he was forced to hide. He knew of Alexander--knew that him a match in any his facilitations. Knew that he was aware of Ulnor's operation--and more importantly knew his limits. Ulnor could never be direct, it was a weakness he could never address... but under the scrutiny of a man like Alexander, his usual tactics wouldn't work. To make matters worse, while this all happened... Aramoire disappeared! Another operative! How had he missed that? The bastard!
It had taken him a long time to decide to retreat, but retreat he must. It wasn't worth it. Not this. Let his record be tarnished. At least he would live to enjoy it. He had arranged passaged and now, swaddled in robes, hunched and at the height of paranoia, he waited. He was almost free, almost rid of this planet. His employer could go to hell. Whatever was happening in Skye wasn't worth the reward. A few hours, and he'd be gone. He ducked down alley, glad to finally be behind him, before Alexander--
"Hello Ulnor." The voice trickled along his spine, like ice-water. His entire body froze, paralyzed, before training took over. He spun, withdrew a hidden blade and lunged out against the source of the voice, but found only empty air. A flicker of cloth passed through the corner of his vision, and suddenly the world exploded around him. There was pain, sharp, in his abdomen, so sharp in its clarity he cried out, lifted bodily up and slammed against the wall. Panic seized his heart, his eyes flung wide, and he thought, deliriously. I'm going to die!
"I need answers Ulnor. I need answers and I'm going to get them. I'm going to get them with a minimum of fuss and without the usual games between spies. If I don't, then you are going to suffer, Rat-face. And believe me, I can ensure you take a very, very long time to die" Some strange part of Ulnor's training kicked in, and he dimly took aware of where the pain radiated from--no vital organs were pierced, it was an exact strike--a mere twist in either direction would find his heart or lung. Oh god, it would to take a mere twitch. Suddenly he felt the knife twist inside him, pain suddenly exploding around the damaged nerves. He groaned painfully, his body lifted again, so close...!
"Where is she Ulnor? Where is she!?" He asked, hooded in darkness. God, he looked so much like his old master. The eyes...
"I... I don't know!" Ulnor stammered, practically gibbered. The knife twisted again. He screamed and added, frantically. "I said I don't know! You... you killed my bait! I was forced to go into hiding, to facilitate another scenario, to account for you!"
"Who took her, Ulnor?" the voice asked, cold and merciless. He began to force Ulnor's body back downward--the only thing that was saving Ulnor's life.
"It's not one of mine! I swear it!" His plea went unanswered. He felt a sudden pressure and a blossom of pain, his frenzied bodies' warning of imminent danger. "Wait... wait wait! There was another. Another factor, another working agent! I recognized the signs in my initial assessment!" He drew back to the most clinical terms of his plot.
"Who?" he demanded, a shadow of his old master.
"I don't know, Alexander!"
"Don't. Don't ever call me that. Don't ever use that name. "
"They're not someone from my employers. Not even from the Church--you know there are agents of the Church here, right! I was in contact with them, but I was the only one set after the Whore..! Whoever was watching her. They were clever. They covered it well... I don't think... I don't think she even knew she was being watched! But they're deranged. Kept waiting. Opportunities presented themselves. I almost acted myself but I had my plan, so much work in my plan! I could make no sense of it. I think they were waiting for something... I believed I could take her before they would move. I almost did, but you... you destroyed everything! God, you're working for them now are you, I swear, if I knew you were I would have never!"
"Shut up."
"I thought you were done Alexander. That you were dead! That's what we all thought. Maubery killed you. T..This is about Gottschalk isn't it!? I swear to you, Alexander... we're not all that different! He was a bastard, a vicious, insane little bastard. I'm not like him, this doesn't have to be personal."
"When's the last time you killed, Ulnor?
He hesitated. "...Lady... Lady Attenborough. Italy. Some years ago."
"I heard about the death. Terrible sort. Rumored to have an affair, was supposedly killed in the heat of passion. Jealous lover. Messy death too. You always were messy, Rat-face."
"I... I know what you're thinking. I swear to you, I didn't..."
"Don't... lie to me Ulnor. I'm well aware of your tactics. Every one of Gottschalk's students, their deeds, their monstrosities, each one is burned into my eye. You're the most pathetic one of them all rat-face... and I'm well aware of the fates of the ones you ultimately kill. and I'm well aware of what happened to her, you disgusting little animal."
"No... No! " Alexander began to twist the knife, his voice cracking an octave, before a strange anger mingled with the unbridled terror. "And what of you, Alexander, Huh!? Who will hunt for you when this is over, hmm!? What... atrocities has Alexander Sorschal committed!? What did Gottschalk see in him!?"
To that, Alexander said nothing. He wrenched the blade sharply beneath the ribs of him, twisted violently, and thrusted upward. Ulnor's beady eyes bulged, his body tensed and shuddered violently, and finally pain overwhelmed him. He died, on the spot. The wold became as silent as the grave. There was a faint shuffling, and a shape dumped into the oceanside.
Alendral Sorschal stared at the murky water peering from over the edge of the docks, pulling the hood of his cloak down as he saw to the end of Ulnor. It had been a frustrating night, with no answers. Only one less path to walk. His hand, the same hand that had gripped the knife that ended his life refused to still, he flexed it tightly to try and keep it from shivering. He tried to tell himself that it was because of the frigid night air. Slipping away again, he told himself that it was all for a good cause. Ulnor was slime, and many families, had they known what Rat-face had done to them, would have felt a grand relief.
He tried to tell himself that it was a good and noble thing he did. His hand continued to shudder.
It was Gottschalk who first saw the potential in Ulnor, the many layered mind, the insight into the human mind that seemed to penetrate even the most guarded man, and the sheer, unadulterated viciousness that permeated it. He recognized that, by nature, Ulnor himself would not excel in the craft he had so perfected, for no matter how sincere the words. It was simply a design. but Ulnor's destiny was not to be the master of his craft. Ulnor was a facilitator. Ulnor could arrange the fates. He found talent where none was to be found, crafted elaborate traps, and preyed on people--their fear, their desire. He was brilliant, and nearly every single one of his contracts met their end with little a hitch, as he accounted for every angle.
Until the Lady Aramoire. Until Gottschalk's first. The bastard. It was supposed to be simple. He knew the Lady Aramoire was clever. Knew of her history, of her skill set. It was planned. He had evaluated her and chose just the man to take her eye, arranged for just a meeting. Of course she would be suspicious--but she would fancy herself in control of the situation, too wonderful in the game. The bytch. She was the kind he delighted in failing. The kind that would never look his way. Entertaining the likes of fair nobility, playing her coy little games, all on the surface. He had prepared for every variable. The bastard guard, her own guile, anyone else. Then he showed up.
In hindsight he should have known. He'd heard rumors, of course, but when he saw him... He was certain. They had only met once, briefly, and it was long after Gottschalk's death. There was no recognition there--they met as simple associates and departed on neutral terms. He knew, of course, of his own distaste for his former masters art, but he cared little for it. His master's legacy, in the long run, meant nothing to Ulnor. But apparently it mattered to him. Alexander. Funny that they share the same name.
Soon after, Ulnor's plans fell apart. His accomplice lie dead, and he was forced to hide. He knew of Alexander--knew that him a match in any his facilitations. Knew that he was aware of Ulnor's operation--and more importantly knew his limits. Ulnor could never be direct, it was a weakness he could never address... but under the scrutiny of a man like Alexander, his usual tactics wouldn't work. To make matters worse, while this all happened... Aramoire disappeared! Another operative! How had he missed that? The bastard!
It had taken him a long time to decide to retreat, but retreat he must. It wasn't worth it. Not this. Let his record be tarnished. At least he would live to enjoy it. He had arranged passaged and now, swaddled in robes, hunched and at the height of paranoia, he waited. He was almost free, almost rid of this planet. His employer could go to hell. Whatever was happening in Skye wasn't worth the reward. A few hours, and he'd be gone. He ducked down alley, glad to finally be behind him, before Alexander--
"Hello Ulnor." The voice trickled along his spine, like ice-water. His entire body froze, paralyzed, before training took over. He spun, withdrew a hidden blade and lunged out against the source of the voice, but found only empty air. A flicker of cloth passed through the corner of his vision, and suddenly the world exploded around him. There was pain, sharp, in his abdomen, so sharp in its clarity he cried out, lifted bodily up and slammed against the wall. Panic seized his heart, his eyes flung wide, and he thought, deliriously. I'm going to die!
"I need answers Ulnor. I need answers and I'm going to get them. I'm going to get them with a minimum of fuss and without the usual games between spies. If I don't, then you are going to suffer, Rat-face. And believe me, I can ensure you take a very, very long time to die" Some strange part of Ulnor's training kicked in, and he dimly took aware of where the pain radiated from--no vital organs were pierced, it was an exact strike--a mere twist in either direction would find his heart or lung. Oh god, it would to take a mere twitch. Suddenly he felt the knife twist inside him, pain suddenly exploding around the damaged nerves. He groaned painfully, his body lifted again, so close...!
"Where is she Ulnor? Where is she!?" He asked, hooded in darkness. God, he looked so much like his old master. The eyes...
"I... I don't know!" Ulnor stammered, practically gibbered. The knife twisted again. He screamed and added, frantically. "I said I don't know! You... you killed my bait! I was forced to go into hiding, to facilitate another scenario, to account for you!"
"Who took her, Ulnor?" the voice asked, cold and merciless. He began to force Ulnor's body back downward--the only thing that was saving Ulnor's life.
"It's not one of mine! I swear it!" His plea went unanswered. He felt a sudden pressure and a blossom of pain, his frenzied bodies' warning of imminent danger. "Wait... wait wait! There was another. Another factor, another working agent! I recognized the signs in my initial assessment!" He drew back to the most clinical terms of his plot.
"Who?" he demanded, a shadow of his old master.
"I don't know, Alexander!"
"Don't. Don't ever call me that. Don't ever use that name. "
"They're not someone from my employers. Not even from the Church--you know there are agents of the Church here, right! I was in contact with them, but I was the only one set after the Whore..! Whoever was watching her. They were clever. They covered it well... I don't think... I don't think she even knew she was being watched! But they're deranged. Kept waiting. Opportunities presented themselves. I almost acted myself but I had my plan, so much work in my plan! I could make no sense of it. I think they were waiting for something... I believed I could take her before they would move. I almost did, but you... you destroyed everything! God, you're working for them now are you, I swear, if I knew you were I would have never!"
"Shut up."
"I thought you were done Alexander. That you were dead! That's what we all thought. Maubery killed you. T..This is about Gottschalk isn't it!? I swear to you, Alexander... we're not all that different! He was a bastard, a vicious, insane little bastard. I'm not like him, this doesn't have to be personal."
"When's the last time you killed, Ulnor?
He hesitated. "...Lady... Lady Attenborough. Italy. Some years ago."
"I heard about the death. Terrible sort. Rumored to have an affair, was supposedly killed in the heat of passion. Jealous lover. Messy death too. You always were messy, Rat-face."
"I... I know what you're thinking. I swear to you, I didn't..."
"Don't... lie to me Ulnor. I'm well aware of your tactics. Every one of Gottschalk's students, their deeds, their monstrosities, each one is burned into my eye. You're the most pathetic one of them all rat-face... and I'm well aware of the fates of the ones you ultimately kill. and I'm well aware of what happened to her, you disgusting little animal."
"No... No! " Alexander began to twist the knife, his voice cracking an octave, before a strange anger mingled with the unbridled terror. "And what of you, Alexander, Huh!? Who will hunt for you when this is over, hmm!? What... atrocities has Alexander Sorschal committed!? What did Gottschalk see in him!?"
To that, Alexander said nothing. He wrenched the blade sharply beneath the ribs of him, twisted violently, and thrusted upward. Ulnor's beady eyes bulged, his body tensed and shuddered violently, and finally pain overwhelmed him. He died, on the spot. The wold became as silent as the grave. There was a faint shuffling, and a shape dumped into the oceanside.
Alendral Sorschal stared at the murky water peering from over the edge of the docks, pulling the hood of his cloak down as he saw to the end of Ulnor. It had been a frustrating night, with no answers. Only one less path to walk. His hand, the same hand that had gripped the knife that ended his life refused to still, he flexed it tightly to try and keep it from shivering. He tried to tell himself that it was because of the frigid night air. Slipping away again, he told himself that it was all for a good cause. Ulnor was slime, and many families, had they known what Rat-face had done to them, would have felt a grand relief.
He tried to tell himself that it was a good and noble thing he did. His hand continued to shudder.