I
The Rogue
* * * *
Were you to look up the definition of the word scoundrel, I'm sure you'd come across an image of one Sarah Kettar. As beautiful as she is devious-- and rest assured, she
is
quite beautiful-- I'm convinced Isira herself blushed when she made this half-elven harbinger of chaos and lust.
Some of the other members of the temple have taken to sending their teenage children to Glowlight on the other end of the continent. There is talk of her being a succubus but whatever the case, beware her charms, brother, she is not all she appears.
-Byson Tyrel
* * * *
S
arah had first gotten a glimpse of the man following her when she strolled past one of the reagent shops in the old quarter. He was taller than her half-elven frame, distinctly human with broad shoulders and a cut jaw scarred from too many knife fights. He carried himself with purpose and a certain kind of swagger that told her he probably wasn't alone.
At first she'd been willing to dismiss it, but the closer she got to the Primrose, the more she was beginning to wonder about him. Was he one of the dragon's agents? Had they finally found her? No, that was silly, she had been careful.
She stopped at a man's flower stand and purchased a carnation for her date, paying for it with one of the gold coins she still hadn't had a chance to smelt down. It was minted in the shape of a roaring dragon's body coiled around a screaming elven maiden. Even though she only carried a hand full on her, she had a lot more. Stored in various caches around the city.
Sarah made a show of smelling the carnation, drinking in its scent, all the while glancing towards the man out of the corner of her vision. He was watching her from between two carts parked outside of a small mausoleum. How horribly appropriate.
She tucked the carnation into her form fitting silk vest and continued down the street towards her destination. The sun was going to be setting soon and already the upper crust of the city were preparing for night with their usual flair for the dramatic and, occasionally, ridiculous evening wear. All of them wonderfully oblivious to one another and certainly, Sarah hoped, her as well.
As a priest of the Great Inventor, she had access to her patron's blessings to make her pursuer's life a living hell, but doing so would have raised all kinds of alarms and more likely than not, end with her on charges of magical assault. But that didn't mean she didn't have other capacities. Discretely, she slid her hand down her belt to the flintlock tucked under her belt line. If it came to it, she'd be able to get away at least.
Besides, an illegal weapons charge was easier to get out of than a 'wild magic' sentence.
Felicia wouldn't be happy if Sarah missed their date, though, and that would be most unbecoming. After all the work Sarah had put into getting it in the first place, she couldn't disappoint the poor girl by not showing up, could she? No, not hardly.
Sarah sauntered into an alley, waiting until she cleared the mouth and got out of sight before she took up a sprint towards the back of it. Her hard soled boots pounded against the cobbles as she fished her lockpicks from under her belt. She clenched them between her teeth and pumped her arms for more speed, turned down between a baker's shop and an apothecary. She nearly tripped over several burlap bags of refuse but the cellar door to the apothecary was was exactly where she had expected it to be. She slipped her picks in.
There were benefits to being born of elven and human blood; she had gotten the best of both worlds in terms appearance; a voice that flowed over words like fine wine; and appreciable curves that caught the eye. But what she had in physical and mental gifts, she lacked in quick manual dexterity. It would take her minutes to get the lock open.
Her pursuer's footfalls echoed through the alley telling her that she didn't have minutes.
Bollocks.
Sarah stood and stepped away from the door, looking around. It was a tight cubby wrapped in cobblestone that emptied into the alley with two windows on the second floor of the apothecary. Her green eyes flit back and forth behind her thin rimmed glasses as she tried to work out her escape. The man was closer, no doubt only seconds away and she had trapped herself.
The garbage
. She glanced at the pile of trash and instantly her stomach dropped.
Gods, really?
Sarah took another look around. The windows were too high. The wall too steep. She'd never make it. She sighed, picked at the trash for a moment. It didn't
smell
bad, but could she really do it?
"Oi!" The man shouted somewhere up the alley. "You see a knife 'ars come through 'ere?"
She could, she decided.
With great reluctance and as much care as she could manage, she pulled two of the larger bags off the pile and took a deep breath before tucking herself into the hole made by the vacancy. She pulled the bags on top of her and tried to think invisible thoughts. It was a silly thing, she knew it, but it was one of those little prayers that she could recite by memory like the chanting of an Isiran choir.
The thought of the pleasure goddess warmed her slightly. Isira wasn't her patron goddess, but Sarah had a very special relationship with both Her and Her followers. Maybe she'd try to convert Felicia if she survived this. Yes, Felicia would be a beautiful pleasure seeker. Sarah smiled to herself in the dark.
Heavy, unmistakable foot falls clapped by her section of the alley and Sarah flinched inwardly.
Deep breath. You've done this before. Just relax.
The footfalls slowed. Stopped.
Sarah reached for her flintlock and clenched her teeth.
Nothing happened for a moment.
Then the lock on the cellar door rattled.
Sarah's hand tightened on the oak handle of her pistol. She only needed one shot.
"Sonovabitch." The man grumbled, paused for a moment and then started towards the mouth of the cubby. It would have been so easy for Sarah to pop up and shoot him in the back.
She could do it. . . It'd buy her some time to get away. To find a new city and start over again--
But she wasn't a killer. She hated violence and as long as he was alive, his friends wouldn't have reason to go looking for him or his killer. As the opportunity, perhaps the only one she'd ever get, slipped away, Sarah resigned herself to another move. She had just started enjoying Woltrof, but if the dragon's agents had caught up to her it was time to leave.
The man's boots squelched against the cobblestones as he turned down the alley and after a few moments, became silent. Sarah risked a glance after a few more moments and saw the alley was empty. She disentangled herself from the bags of powders and other detritus, patted herself down and straightened out her blouse and vest into their most flattering configuration . Only after she'd checked the alley both ways and made sure there were no other unexpected problems did she tuck her pistol away and start towards the Primrose again.
After all, she had a date to keep.
Ten minutes later the bell above the door jangled as she entered the Primrose. When she saw the scar faced man sitting in one of the booths across from the one Felicia was sitting in, she flinched. For the second time in an hour, Sarah felt her stomach flip-flop. She wasn't usually given to uncertainty and doubt, but this man had done his homework and now. . .
Sarah squared her shoulders and entered the bar with her head held high, flashing a winning smile to the barmaid who blushed. She was Sarah-Gods-Loving-Kettar, dammit. No one threw her off-guard, much less twice in one day. And especially not
here.
In the isle between the booths was a waist high mahogany divider with silver accents and etched glass about head level designed to protect the identity of the bar's patrons. Propriety was a commodity in a place like this and the two burly guards at the end of the isle made sure no one broke that sacred rite. The red satin curtains in most of the booths were closed but not at the two booths she had noticed first.
The man with the scars moved to rise but Sarah juked quickly and slid into the right row of booths. She slid effortlessly into Felicia's booth and pulled the curtain's closed. The guards would stop him from entering unless he was specifically invited which meant she had time to think.
What were the chances he had someone hiding out back or even in front? Someone she hadn't seen and didn't know. Someone innocuous amidst the crowd of up and coming nobles and society's affluent, hidden like a blade waiting to strike from the darkness and strike her while she was vulnerable.
Sarah parted the curtains a tiny bit. The guard was standing in front of him-- towering over him, more accurately. The man was gesticulating something and whispering harshly.
It was that moment that Felicia chose to speak up in her middle eastern lit. "Ah, miss Kettar--. . . What are you doing?"
"That is the question of the hour, isn't it." Sarah watched as the man was escorted back to his booth. When he was, she flung the curtains open, locked eyes with him and pulled her pistol out enough to show it. To him she mouthed, "Shh. . . Enjoy the show."
That got his attention. He arched a brow, nodded subtly.
