Scoundrel's Answer

The procession would not have seemed out of place in the old days, even in the darkest hours of night. The warrior Vick Varonne, in gleaming plate mail, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hand and a half sword hung at his hip, very nearly dragging to the ground. A cloak was slung about his shoulders, then pinned close to his back by his lion's head shield. The metal was worked to resemble a snarling lion, with the mane flared out to cover most of the surface of the metal. Always first to battle, always leading the way, Vick stood proud in front.

Behind him, Daphne was as devastating as ever. Her long, lustrous hair hung unbound, a cascade of night about her slender form. Her tanned flesh was squeezed into the tight embrace of black leathers. More supple than the ones Alan Tinsley wore, they were fitted to her body. Flashes of smooth, tanned flesh were visible here and there: at her shoulders, a thin strip across her midriff, and just the slightest glimpse of her thighs between where the fall of her pleated leather skirt didn't quite cover the tops of her thigh high, stiletto heeled, black leather boots. Long black gloves covered her dextrous hands, and a pair of viciously curved daggers crisscrossed one another in sheaths at the small of her back. Within one hand a short hunting bow of black lacquered wood and layered sinew was held, already strung, and slung over one shoulder was a quiver with perhaps a dozen black fletched arrows.

Then came Alan Tinsley. Perhaps the least obtrusive of the bunch by design, his own lean frame was draped about with his worn travel cloak. It concealed the dark leathers beneath, patches of strange tanned hide that seemed to shift with the shadows, when the material was visible from time to time it could hardly be told from the darkness of night itself. Beneath that cloak, a gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his short bladed sword, as if he expected ambush at any moment.

It was like something out of the old days, the night air still fresh from the earlier rain, the moon glimmered down from above, and there Alan was looking at a perfectly peaceful stroll down to the old haunt as a potential spot to get his ass kicked. He thought he left these days far behind. Nervous glances into the shadows of each alley and side-street they passed revealed nothing threatening.

Of course, it wasn't all like the old days. He was much grayer, Vick was much fatter, and Daphne? Well she hadn't aged a day. Even an elf should have earned an extra strand or two of gray. But then, they all knew the reason why she was as fresh as ever. Then there was the matter of their tail. Two guards from the Count's estate followed like eager dogs. Fresh faced and just out of training, from the looks of them, Alan wasn't certain what the two boys would do if they encountered any real resistance.

"Are they really necessary?" Alan near hissed the question, which was met only with a laugh.

"It would look more suspicious if I went out after dark without an escort. Don't you agree? Just relax old friend, this city isn't like it was under the Usurper."

"Both of you should spend more time paying attention to your surroundings," Daphne's words had an unexpected edge, "We've had a tail for almost three blocks now."

Alan cast his gaze about without moving his head, trying to catch some sign of their so called pursuer. "I don't see anyone," He finally admitted.

"Behind you and to your left, about a hundred feet back."

That was disturbingly and unnecessarily close for a night with no crowds to hide amongst. Alan lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, and took the opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. There was no one he could see, but, "A rat."

"Yeah. It's been following us purposefully." The elf maid did not seem amused. "And it's not one of mine."

"Still hanging out with vermin, Daph?" Vick's merry voice rose with more volume than either Daphne or Alan were comfortable with. Both winced as he continued in that same tone, "I guess it takes a parasite to know a parasite."

Daphne frowned, but thought better of voicing her rejoinder.

Ahead, there was the familiar sight of the old tavern the company had purchased long ago. Even before they were an official group, the founding members of the Reavers had always taken their drinks there. When the old man who owned the place retired, it seemed only natural that they pool their money and purchase it. Ever since, it had been the headquarters of the Reavers, providing a place to stay and rest between adventures, a steady source of income for the operations of the adventuring company during hard times, and a ready source of rumors from travelers passing through. 'Reavers' Rest -- Food, Drink, Lodging', the sign outside proclaimed, and outside there were stone statues of the seven members that had been current during the usurpation crisis. A low stone wall surrounded the inn yard, separating it from the city streets by some distance.

A lone figure in a long, hooded cloak plucked the strings of a lute as he sat upon the wall. Dressed in forest greens, neither Vick nor Alan had seen the man before. His head was covered, but the dark goatee upon his smiling features was definitely not something either was familiar with. As the group came into view, the hooded man slipped from the wall and sauntered over, still plucking a mournful tune from that instrument. Soft soled boots creaked lightly under each step, and a single, elegant broad sword with a basket hilt swing against his thigh with each step. Tall and lean, the purpose of his approach was unclear to any of them.

Vick slowed his own pace, then stopped, while Alan and Daphne stepped in to either side. All three let hands rest upon their own weapons. The curious minstrel approached to within a dozen yards, before he called forth in a voice as clear as the tones which he drew from the strings of his instrument. "Alan Tinsley, I presume?"

The gray haired thief nodded cautiously, "I take it we're expected then?" His hard eyes looked the fellow over. Dark hair, hidden features, but yet he didn't look that old. Alan got the feeling he was missing something, though. "You don't look like any of the Reavers I know."

A smile lit the stranger's face, "That's because I'm not. I've been sent to delay your task tonight."

At the admission, Vick's sword was instantly in his hands, the gleaming length of his enchanted blade flew from its scabbard. The shining metal glowed with an infernal heat, and the mystic writing along its length shone with a baleful red light. Daphne's own daggers were draw, little razors held in delicate hands that somehow seemed far more threatening than either the woman's stature or their own relatively modest side would suggest. Alan alone left his sword in its sheathe, even when other figures began to come forth from alleys about them.

Alan counted eight of them. Four from behind, two from the cross street between them and the Reaver's Rest, and there upon the rooftops of buildings adjacent, one on each side of the street, drawing up bows to hand. Their forms were silhouetted against the night sky, but at least the ones at street level could be seen more clearly. There was a single lamp stuck on a high post by the roadside, and its soft yellow light shone down on rough fellows garbed in thick black cloaks, forms clad in thicker leather hauberks sewn with rough iron rings. Crude armor for crude men, but cheap at that. They held long, jagged swords in two hands, and Alan could only guess the ones approaching from behind wielded the same. The rat that had been spotted earlier walked a few paces behind the men circling their rear, definitely not a normal animal.

"What's your name, stranger?" Vick's growl finally broke the silence, and his focus was fixed upon the minstrel.

"Stranger. I like that. You may certainly call me that if you wish." It was exactly the sort of answer that got under Vick's skin, as if it had been rehearsed.

"Lord Varonne, the inn is right there. If we make enough effort, we can push right through to it," Daphne's plan was sensible as ever, but it seemed to make little difference to the increasingly agitated warrior.

Alan wasn't convinced. Three before them, four plus whatever that rat was behind them, it felt like they were being shepherded toward the Reaver's Rest, rather than away from it. There could be any number of reasons, but one immediately sprang to mind. "Take out the damned minstrel."

"On it," Vick and Daphne spoke in unison, and then all hell broke loose.

The two archers loosed their readied shots just as Vick raised his helm up to place on his head. Mere inches before his eyes, the arrow impacted Vick's helm as he raised it, glancing off with a spark. It was enough to give the old warrior pause, and he pointed his sword up to that archer. "I'm coming after you next, bitch!" He bellowed out, just as he stuffed his helm down on his balding head.

"How do you know it's a bitch?" Daphne quipped, even as she began her forward dash. "Maybe it's a bastard?" Her voice rose even with the steady clack of her heels on the cobblestone as she charged forth.

The second arrow whistled down toward Alan as he whirled on the ones approaching from behind. His right hand drew his short bladed sword, and there was a resounding clink as he slashed it upward toward the arrow bound toward him, striking it out of the air with the same fluid motion of blade leaving scabbard. The fact that the deflected arrow very nearly struck him anyway was not lost on him, just as it swished through the air behind his head. He was indeed getting too old for this. As the four thugs that had circled behind them approached with sword's drawn, Alan dived for the one on the far left. Sliding low as he passed to the very left of the blade wielding thug, his leather boots skidded on the cobblestone street. The old thief gave an upward thrust with that short sword as he dropped to one knee, driving the point of his own blade up into the man's side, just below the ribs. A quick thrust and twist sent the man staggering sideways into his companions.

With dual daggers drawn, the elf maid Daphne moved faster than either the ruffians before them or the stranger in green seemed to be ready for. With a dagger in each hand, she slashed at the man on the right, which the fellow easily dodged. Her left hand swung upward, only to lay a scratch across the ruffian's forearm. The fellow she'd cut laughed in her face, "That all you got, sweet-" His face fell in mid sentence, as the burning fire of whatever venom had coated Daphne's blade spread upward along his limb. He began to scream.

Vick, in his lumbering armor, was less quick than his companions, yet the steady tramp of his boots and jingle of his mail picked up speed. Daphne had opened the way toward the minstrel, but Vick wasn't too keen on receiving a blade in the back, so as he began his charge, he shifted his sword to a firm two handed grip. Swinging the blade upward from a point down arc, Vick Varonne's slash was intercepted in mid swing by the thug's own sword. And then after the cheap steel shattered, by the thug's arm. Then his torso. Cleaving through the thug entirely, the corpulent Count shoulder checked the man's body, and a manic grin crossed his features. It had been ages since he'd felt that.

The two guards who had accompanied the trio spun in place, then braced their own weapons, long halberds. They visibly trembled as they looked to their oncoming enemies. It was only their devotion to their Count which kept them from breaking away.

In but a few seconds, they'd lost three men, but some sort of fervor was driving the thugs. Perhaps it was fear of failing whomever had sent them, or perhaps it was the music that until that point had still been rising from the minstrel's instrument. Regardless, they pressed the attack. The two that Vick and Alan had struck fell to the ground, while the man Daphne had poisoned stumbled back. He clutched his now limp arm and screamed as the venom coursed through his system.

The three thugs still facing Alan moved to surround him, swords still drawn against the old thief. One slashed in an arc that betrayed his own inexperience, easily allowing the gray haired rogue to roll to the right, while the second one's slash landed. The impact cut through Alan's cloak, and into the midnight hue leathers he wore beneath. There was no blood from the slash, however, for it seemed the stiff leather was enough to spare the old thief the worst of the wound. The third man had better luck, and cut a narrow and shallow slash across Alan's bicep, sending searing pain along that taut muscle.

In the background, the rat that had been watching the chaos began to shift and squeak. Squeaks turned to screeches as the rat's bones cracked. Muscles shifted under dark fur, and the rat began to grow larger. It was enough to draw Alan's attention from his own battle. He watched in horror as the rat's limbs grew longer, its body sleeker. Soon paws turned to clawed hands and feet that had more in common with a human, and the furry monstrosity was easily five feet tall.

"Shifter!" Alan called off to his friends, though they had their own trouble at that moment.

The minstrel stepped back a few paces as he watched his fellows cut down, closer to the wall of the tavern beyond. He stopped his playing, swinging his lute to rest over one shoulder by its strap. He didn't look frightened, in fact a dark grin crossed his features. His eyes gleamed in the little reflected lamplight that managed to penetrate the shadows of his hood, and a dextrous hand slipped to a pouch tethered at his waist. Clutching a fist full of holly leaves and mistletoe, the minstrel fixed his gaze on the oncoming Varonne, and began to speak in the Old Tongue. Varonne's charge slowed, but there was little he could do. His armor and his sword flashed brightly, and began to heat up.

The archers, still with a fair view of the battle below, both took aim. This time, two arrows streaked down toward Daphne. The first missed by a hair's breadth, snapping her attention away from Varonne's gruesome charge. As the elf maid turned her eyes up to the first archer, the second archer's arrow struck her right in the head. She stumbled forward from the impact, and then, with an arrow still stuck out of the back of her head, Daphne whipped around to face the second archer. Those eyes that so many had thought beautiful fixed upon that archer with a feral intensity.

A soft gasp rose from the rooftop archer that Daphne's gaze transfixed, and the figure rose. Slender and willowy, her form was outlined against the sky fully. She threw down her bow, as her eyes remain fixed on the elf's. Daphne sheathed one dagger, then reached up and yanked the arrow out of her own skull, before she dropped it to the floor. The wound rapidly began to close itself up, until it appeared as though it had never happened. Only the faint stain of blood along her luxurious hair would tell the tale. Daphne raised that hand back up, and crooked her finger, beckoning the archer. As if in a daze, the woman on the rooftop began to walk toward the elf, and right off of the rooftop. She hit the ground with a meaty thud, and lay still.

His charge broken, Vick cursed and wheezed as he approached the minstrel. His armor began to steam, as did the sword in his hands. Perhaps it was the growing discomfort from the heating metal, but his next swing was a bit slow. The stranger in green danced backward out of reach, and then again as Vick took a lurching step froward, bringing his sword in a two handed over-head hack. The tip of the blade bit into the pavement mere inches from the stranger's feet.

Alan raised his short sword to parry another sword blade, then turned toward the rat shifter. He threw his shoulder into one of the thugs surrounding him, bowling the man over, and then looked over to the two guards who had accompanied them. They had leveled their halberds at the rat monstrosity, and began to give clumsy thrusts toward it, poking at the beast with the pointy tips. The old rogue paused long enough to thrust his blade down into the chest of the man he'd knocked over, then shouted at the guards, "Run!"

It was to no avail, the next poke brought a sudden lash out of the rat creature's paw, which wrapped about one of those halberds. When his weapon was tugged forward, the inexperienced guard stumbled forth. It was to be his doom. The rat-man lunged forward in that moment, and brutally closed its jaws about the young guard's throat. With a crack and a gurgle, the young man's body went limp.

The thugs, down to just three, blinked their eyes in confusion. The music was gone, their companions lay dead or dying, and more importantly, one of their targets had just taken an arrow to her head and remained standing. The two remaining near Alan backed carefully away at first, then turned tail to begin to run into the darkness. The remaining archer crept back along the rooftop perch, into the shadows.

"Well well, you are more capable than I was told," the stranger in green spoke with a smile. "I only hope that when I am as old and fat as you are, I will be half as effective." Stepping back from Varonne's repeated sword strokes, the minstrel seemed intent on egging the Count on. He still hadn't drawn his own sword, as if he were playing with them. "We shall meet again, I promise," His voice rang with laughter, just as he lowered his hand to retrieve a finely decorated horn hanging from his belt. The stranger lifted it to his lips, and blew.

A long, low tone was produced from the horn, and a thick fog billowed forth, blinding Vick and surrounding him and the minstrel in the mists. Daphne cursed, calling forth, "Vick! Get out of there!"

"I know, woman!" the old Count stumbled back out of the fog. He threw his smoldering sword to the ground as he reappeared, and tugged at the straps to his armor hurriedly. "Help me get this off, damn it, the little bastard enchanted my steel somehow."

Alan looked back to where his companions struggled at Vick's armor, then frowned. The second guard began to retreat from the were-rat, and Alan didn't need more prompting. He stepped forth between the beast and the youth, bringing his short sword to bear. "A single scratch and these things can infect you, be careful." He warned the boy more to get him out of the way than for any real fear of the beast's bite.

Facing off against the rat, Alan expected another attack, but none came. Rather a confused look crossed the beast's features. The snarl that had seemed so fixed upon its jaws dropped to a sleepy pout, and its eyes half closed. And then, then Alan heard her voice. Soft, sweet, lazy, it was almost enough to make him drowsy as well.

"There there, your friends are gone, it's useless to fight," Her voice drifted from the shadowed alley nearby, "Why don't you just run away? Turn and head back home. It's useless to die here."

"Useless to die here," the ratman droned in response to the slightly high pitched voice and its droning tone. Slowly, the monster turned and began to step away from Alan.

For a moment, Alan was tempted to end the creature with a quick thrust, but he knew enough to realize it likely wouldn't be so simple. Likewise, if he failed, it would break the spell the creature appeared to be under. Instead, he turned his gaze to where Daphne was quickly helping Vick strip out of his armor. The Count was burned by the contact with that armor, and was already red in the face from his exertions. But it looked like he would live.

A tiny hand brushed Alan's knee, drawing his gaze in that direction, and then down. Further down still, until finally that shock of unkempt fiery red hair came into view. She was maybe waist high to him, with pale skin and a broad face. Her nose was large, her eyes a piercing green, and her lips were dusted with a glistening red. She wore her multicolored robes loose, tied at the waist and with the front only barely closed over her ample chest, giving anyone with a height advantage a clear view down the creamy swells of her cleavage, which was just about anybody. As the gnome gazed up to him, she seemed so earnest, so worried. She was actually quite a pretty little thing for one of her stature.