Rimeholt

[Renrik]

As you sail through the cold and misty waters of the North Sea, a dark shape can be made out in the grey fog ahead. The burning light of a great pyre shines through the darkness, revealing the cliffs of a great, rocky island, the frothy waves lashing violently about it's base. As you come closer, you can more clearly make out the source of this light- a great tower overlooking a harbor. This is Rimeholt, the City of the Crown.

Rimeholt is the capitol of the Northlands, set on a rocky island in the North Sea. It is a grim and uninviting place, of cold air and colder people. The squallid homes of the docks are a strange complement to the towering granite walls of the barracks and castles of the King. It is a city of grim, dark folk, who trust few and offer few reasons to be trusted.

The military presence is strong in this city. The icey waters around it are actively patrolled by the finely made, fast and powerful warships of the Royal Navy. The city contains a large garrison of well-trained soldiers. The city watch makes regular patrols of every part of the city. But in reality, although these guards do their part to protect the elite of the Rimeholt, crime still runs rampant, and the city has a thriving economy of smuggling and black marketeering, despite the harsh punishments for such acts (of course, the fact that roughly a third to half of all the public officials are corrupt doesn't help much).

The people of the city live in the constant shadow of the King. The current king is King Raust, an aging but tough and clever monarch who keeps control of his domain with an iron fist. His laws are enforced by his copious and powerful army and naval forces, as well as by his Sentinels, a group of incredibly devoted, ruthless, elite agents who work as operatives to ensure his rule on every level of society. The people of the Northlands, for their part, are loyal to their king. Indeed, much of the Northland's culture seems to be based on duty and obedience to the Crown.

The crowning peice of Rimeholt, a huge, forboding castle set upon a jagged sliver of barren rock overlooking the harbor, is the Castle, the home of the King, keeping watch over the whole of the city.


People of Interest:
King Raust- The totalitarian King of the Northlands. A cunning and ruthless monarch.

Captain Derzhiskir, - Captain of the Sentinels, right hand man of King Raust. Ambitious and ruthless, but kept in check by the King.

Captain Vladovik- Captain of the Rimeholt city guard

Patriarch Novankir- Leader of the Order of the Wolf, a branch of the Church of the King that aids the Sentinels in hunting down fugitives outside the Northlands.

Modrivas, the Watcher- Information broker and black marketeer

[Renrik]

It is a cold and stormy night. Spring still carries with it the squalls of a long winter, and the sun has yet to return from it's long absence
*
In the castle of King Raust, a cold and forboding place overlooking the city upon a high and jagged peninsula of rock, a messenger comes. His royal black tabard is wet with the cold rain, and he kneels before the throne.

My lord.

The king looks at the messenger with his cold, grey eyes
Speak.

My lord, it is zhe Sea's Vengance. She has been lost.
The king's features turn harder than before, his anger showing through his icey demeanor
Explain zhis.
The messenger trembles
My lord, a sailor of zhe Sea's Vengance came to zhe port last night, aboard a merchantman from zhe southern seas. He said zhat zhe ship is lost. Zhat its vas defeated.
Bring him to me.

A pair of black-cloaked sentinels enter, bringing with them a disheveled-looking sailor of the Royal Navy, his uniform tattered and stained by many months of hardship, and bring him before the King.

Speak

The man, his black beard growing heavily over his dirty face, looks up through the one eye left in his face at his King.

My lord, ve vere chasink zhe fugitive, as vas our mission. Ve had followed him out of zhe North Sea many years ago, as I am sure you know, you greatness. He had since taken to zhe land, vorkink as an assassin in zhe cities zhat he came to.

Ve had finally tracked zhe fugitive to a single destination. Vhen ve arrived zhere, however, zhe people defended him and fought us. Zhe assassin appeared himself, my lord, and he cut through our men like a scythe. Vhen at last he found Rennir... my lord, zhe two of zhem... zhe assassin called Sir Rennir his brother. Zhe two of zhem fought, and zhe fugitive von. He killed Sir Rennir. And vhen he had done zhat, zhere vere no people left to ma zhe ship.

No people?
My... my lord... zhe assassin... he... he vas...
Your orders were not to return to zhis land vithout zhe fugitive, under pain of death. You have failed zhose orders.
But... my lord... I...
But you have a chance to redeem yourself. Come vith me.

The King stands, leading the sailor with him. They exit the throneroom and go up a tower, to a balcony overlooking the raging sea below, the wind and rain lashing the stones. The king stands by the edge of the balcony, and beckons the man to him. He puts his arm around the man;s shoulders.

In death are all traitors redeemed.

The king's hand pushes the man, sending him over the balcony, screaming and falling from the high balcony into the icey seas many hundreds of feet below, to crash on the wave-lashed rocks.

The messenger appears in the doorway, awaiting orders. The old king turns around, the black blade on his belt glowing faintly.

Vhat vas zhe name of zhis city?

The messenger replies uneasily:
Zhe Town, my lord.

The king smiles coldly, and he regards the messenger.

Send vord to zhe admiral. I villnot tolerate insubordination from zhe lands vhere my ships travel. Tell him to assemble zhe fleets, and to put extra parols in our vaters...
... zhis Town vill be taught a lesson.

[Renrik]

In the early morning hours, before the rising of the sun, a figure slips off of a ship on Dock 17 of the East Harbor. He slips past a group of guards and off of the pier, going ito the squallid streets of the docks.

The figure, a town-dweller by the look of things, wearing a dark tunic and a black cloak that hides his face, moves along the dark streets. He navigates them with the ease of one who has walked them countless times before, for indeed he has. The man makes his way past a series of hovels and small shops and enters the deeper partsof the city's slums.

From an alleyway, another man watches the figure. By the look of things, this one is an easy mark. He was unarmored, and had no visible weapons. The man in the alleyway grabs the hilt of the shortsword that hangs by his side and casts a glance around. Perhaps tonight he will dine well.

The muggers grey cloak swirls back as he lunges out of the alleyway, his sword coming out and pointed at the other man's chest.

Your silver or your life!

The other man stares at the mugger with a strange intensity, and then, in a blur, dives forward, grabs the criminal's wrist, and wrenches it, then pulls the arm behind his back and forces him into a submissive position, pulling him into the alleyway as he does so. The mugger cries out in pain and in fear, and, thinking the stranger to be a Sentinel, begins to make a hasty explanation:
I am sorry, sir! Very sorry! I did not mean to! Aaagh! Please, sir, I did not know you vere von of zhe King's men! I'll tell you anyzhing you vant! I pay my dues!

To whom do you pay zhem?

Lietenant Brankir, of zhe City Guard.

The man laughs and pushes the mugger down, putting his knee into his back.

I am not a Sentinel.

The mugger gasps for air, unable to reply.

Allow me to tell you somethink. You have made a very grave error. You have broken three of zhe rules.

The man twists the mugger's arm, causing a spasm of pain to go though the helpless man's body.

Rule von: Never pause your attack.

The man twists the arm harder, turning it so that the cartilage snaps.

Rule two: Never assume your mark is unarmed.

The man twists harder still harder, causing the bone to fracture. The mugger, unable to scream with the lack of air in his lungs, coughs and chokes out a garbled expression of pain.

Rule three: Never talk about your superiors.

The man lets go of the shattered arm and lifts the man's head by the hair, exposing the neck as he pulls out a knife and cuts the mugger's throat.

Renrik gets up, and cleans off his knife, making his way out of the alleyway.

[Renrik]

By that day's evening, Renrik has become reacquainted with the streets of his home city. He has not seen the darkened avenues of Rimeholt in many years, but yet he knows their ways well, and soon has no trouble once more finding his destination.

The assassin walks down a street in one of the poorer artisan districts, bordering on a slum. When last he walked this street, he was a man of twenty years. The street has not changed much since.

Renrik finds his way to analleyway branching off of the street, and there looks about, eventually spotting the faintly scribed sigil on the cobblestones. He grins slightly, and walks through the illusionary wall to his left.

H steps through the wall and into a small, smoke-filled room, with rough wooden tables set in it, surrounded by chairs, and several doorways in the back near the bar leading to private rooms. This is The Mask, a tavern for those who do not wish their buisiness to be seen. All divination magic is banned here, and those cought prying into the business of other patrons tend to end up in the harbor.

The assassin sis down at the bar, and orders an ale from the squat, ugly bartender.

His hand enclosed around the antivenon amuletin his cloak, the assassin sips the ale while discreetly scanning the tavern. At last he sees the man he has come here to meet, sitting at a table far in the back corner.

The man is a small, unasuming figure, with the kind of face that one would find hard to describe as nything special or identifying. Indeed, there seems absolutely nothing special about the man, save for the eyes that take in every movement and the ears that hear every word.

Renrik knows this man. He has spoken with Mordrivas before, on many occasions, though those occasions happened some decade and a half ago.

Mordrivas, for all of his average appearance, is anything but an average man. He is an opportunistic and skillful buisinessman, and a shrewd bargainer. He is cunning and calculating, with a professional take on all things. He is the kind of person who hordes all information he can find, who is willing to do any deed, tell any secret, or provide any good for the right price.
This, of course, makes him perfect for Renrik's purposes.

The assassin finishes his ale, gets up, and approaches the man, sitting down at the table. The two stare at eachother for a short time before the Renrik speaks.
Mordrivas.
The informant maintains his professional look, save for in his eyes, which greedily take in all thatthey can about this newcomer. Mordrivas replies, in his quiet, calm voice:
Vhat may I interest you in
You know vell your own trade. Zhat is vhat I have come for.
Five gold peices for every question.
Two
Four
Indeed.
Vhat is the question, zhen?
Questions.
The assassin lays down a bag of twenty gold coins on the table.
Go on.
Mordrivas takes the cash and casually slips it away into his coat.
My first question: Vhat time does Lieutenant Brankir of zhe City Guard patrol?
Fourth shift.
Good. Vhat is zhe purpose of zhe ship on zhe third peir?
It is a merchant ship from zhe south, or so it claims. Underneath zhe cotton, it is loaded vith untaxed spices.
I see. Vhen shall Lord Kilraven of Drakeport arrive for zhe Feast of Lords?
Tommorrow, most likely in zhe evenink.
Charming. Vhy is zhere a heavier presece of zhe Royal Navy here recently?
Zhe Admiralty have ordered a blockade of a port to Zhe south, known as Zhe Town. Zhe Town sheltered a fugitive. Zhe shipsare gatherink to sail soth vonce spring comes and zhe vinds change.
Vhich fugitive vere zhey sheltering, and vhere is zhat fugitive now?
Mordrivas's eyes gleam for a moment in the candlelight.
The fugitive vas Renrik Bersain, the Slayer. As far as the authorities and myself know, he remains in zhe Town.
Renrik nods, and speaks:
Zhat vill be all for zhe current questions. Thank you, Mordrivas.
As the assassin leaves the tavern, he does not hear the murmured whisper in Mordrivas's breath as he counts the money.
And zhank YOU, Renrik old friend.

[Reptilus]

((Is this city open for entry? It'd provide a great entry point for my hardy, mismatched pair of Ogres. They probably wouldn't interfere in a plot, just hang around here getting into minour local trouble until a ship leaves for the town, then they'll board it.))

[Renrik]

((That'd be fine. The people of the northland are fairly distrustful of ogres due to their recent border conflicts with some orcish tribes and their giant allies in the western provinces, but the ogres could definately live in the slums. Anything is welcome there. Or rather, everything is tolerated. Nothing is welcome.

Note, of course, that it's a very long boat ride to Town, of course.))

[Reptilus]

((I'd imagine it would be, but hopefully the sails would be sped up for invasion when/if it comes. If not, they may have to resort to drastic measure if they ever need to leave. Gorbak/bag are the same person. He just switches the pronunciation of his name pretty much every time he says it to decide which one sounds better.))

"Gorbak, why are we go into the city?" Gansukh asks, hitching the belt with his axe and club up so it sits below his gutplate.
"Gansukh, don't doubt Gorbag, Confectioner!" the heavier ogre bellows into the wind, segwaying into announcing his name more than replying.
"Gansukh doubts you plenty," the hunter says, "and so does Erden."
"Gorbag is open a confectioner shop here to sell cake and pie. Ogres ask for mincemeat pie and tell Gorblog it is wrong when Gorblog did it right."
"The name is mislead, who would call Raisin pie mincemeat. It is raisins, not meats. Raisins aren't even minced."
"Gorbak doesn't make up the names, Gansukh, only the pies."
"When you make your own pie, give it a better name, please" Gansukh says, before approaching the city guard.
"Hey, uh, can we come in?" he asks awkwardly.

[Renrik]

((the city guards are NPCs.So whether or not they let you in is entirely up to you and how you think the city guard of a strict and totalitarian city with a massive amount of corruption would react.))

Though the night outside is cold, it is more mild within the chambers of the Patriarch Novankir at the High Temple, a militaristic-looking compound with great high walls and well-designed fortifications.

The room is spacious, and with some comforts; a great rug of bearskin on the floor, an ornate fireplace, a table with chairs, a comfortable bed, and the one spacious window in the fortress-temple of the Order of the Wolf.

The Patriarch sits at the table, his old and corpulent body dressed in his black and grey robes, emblazoned with a silver wolf's head. Novankir was a warrior once, but that time has long since passed, and the many years of command over the Order has made him ruthless even as his body aged and weakened. The elderly Patriarch looks around the table at his companions.

To his right sits a strong-looking, impressive man, his black beard neatly trimmed and his features hard and cold as chiseled ice. He wears the same style of tabard as Novankir, albeit less ornamented, and at his side he keeps a fine longsword, kept in a well-used scabbard. This is Sir Boethir, a knight of the Order of the Wolf, one of the most prestigious and powerful of that brotherhood. He is a duty-bound and loyal subject of the King and of the Patriarchy.

On the Patriarch's left sits another man, this one dressed in a black tunic devoid of rank or insignia and a grey traveler's cloak. His eyes are a peircing blue, the type that peer into men's hearts and strike fear. His hands rest folded on the table, his bastard sword kept in its' sheath. There is a sinister, amoral quality about him, the unsettling aura of a man who is willing to do any act. This is Captain Derzhiskir of the Sentinels, a ruthless and ambitious man who rose through the ranks of the King's elite agents quickly, and by his current age of 32 has long been in his post, answerable only to the King.

The Patriarch looks at his two guests, and nods. He then speaks:
Ve haf received vord zhat Sir Rennir is dead.

Sir Beothir replies:
Dead? He vas a good knight. Von of our finest. How vent his mission?

It vas zhe fugitive zhat killed him.

Zhen he is still alive.

Zhe last place zhat he vas seen vas in a port called zhe Town. Ve must hunt him zhere.

The sentinel captain laughs
He left zhe Town long ago. He is closer zhan you think.

The Patriarch looks to the Sentinel sharply, but with a flicker of worry in his eyes
Vhat do you mean, Derzhiskir?

He is in Rimeholt, honored Patriarch. He arrived here zhis morning at zhe latest.

Sir Beothir jumps up from the table, clutching at it and fixing Derzhiskir with his gaze.
Vhat? How can zhis be? Did your men not intercept him on his vay? Did your spies not see zhis earlier?

The Sentinel commander's eyes grow hard and angry, but his voice remains low, a kind of a false calm that greates on the nerves and stabs at the heart.
Did your knights not see him? Did your men not track him down as zhey vere supposed to? I lost three of my men in zhat mission, and it vas not a Sentinel zhat commanded zhem. Perhaps if it had been, zhen ve vould not have zhe current problem ve have.

The two men stare at eachother across the table, Beothir standing and Derzhiskir sitting, both with a murderously intense anger in their eyes.

A second passes before the Patriarch speaks
Enough of your petty rivalries! Zhe assassin is in our city! How did you get zhis information, Derzhiskir?

The Sentinel gives a sick, upturned smile.
A little bird told me, honored Patriarch. It seems zhe fugitive is too lentient in who he trusts.

Vhere is zhis criminal? Vhat is he here for?

I can only assume zhat he has come to finish zhe job he started.

The Patriarch's fat face grows pale
Zhen...

Zhen unless ve kill zhis dog, every nobleman is zhis city vill find his throat cut in his sleep, yes.

Scheize...

He must be killed zhen. I vant all of zhe Order on zhis man! I vant every available Sentinel-

Vhen last I checked, you vere not zhe commander of zhe Sentinels, honored Patriarch.
Captain Derzhiskir rises from his seat.
And so far your men have proven vorthless against zhe fugitive.

Sir Beothir grows rigid, and tenses in anger
As have yours, Captain. It is our duty to hunt down zhose who threaten zhe King.

Derzhiskir is obviously angry, but knows that he cannot argue against this observation.
Very vell, zhen. If it is so important to you, Beothir, zhen you may accompany us in zhis mission. As for zhe others in your Order, I vould suggest zhey keep to zheir current duties. Zhe Sentinels can take care of zhis dog.

The two men once more glare at eachother with an intense hatred, before breaking it off.

The Sentinel gives a small bow to the Patriarch, and leaves the room, closely followed by Beothir.

Patriarch Novankir sighs, and takes a sip of his wine as e listens to the footsteps receding down the hallway.

Edit:
((more posts in a few hours or so. Had a busy few days. Homework.

V "No sir. It's a shame zhe vatchman turned bandit and vas slain by a boulder," this warranted more than a few chuckles.

VV We probably shall, though Rimeholt and the rest of the Northlands may well undergo a regime change in the near future.))

[Reptilus]

"Let me just ask zhe king if I can let an ogre, a murdering, monsterous beast as likely here to eat all of us as sit down on zhe street-corners unt give candies to little kinders."
"You have to ask the king himself?" the Confectioner asked.
"I vould need to ask novun for zhe authority to kill you, Ogre."
"You'd have to ask Gansukh," the ogrish hunter says, putting a hand on the gutplate of his wider companion.
"Tell me vere zhis Ganzook is unt I'll ask him mineself, vith mine crossbow."
"Right here," Gansukh explained, tapping his chest, "Gan-suh-k." As the guardsman raised his bow, the ogre's longer arm reached out and grabbed his head, lifting him off the ground then diving him backwards swiftly, smashing his head into the wall. A red stain was all that was left of it.
"Gansukh, you didn't let him finish his question. That was rude," the Confectioner said with a false, humorous tone of reproach.
"Gor," Gansukh said, using his nicname for the Confectioner (and the only part of his name which remained the same every time he said it, so far), "Gansukh got angry. It was a loaded quesiton." Both ogres laughed at the pun, large bellies shaking with mirth.

"Captain, zhose Ogres," a guardsman said, "zhey killed a vatchman. Aren't ve going to stop zhem."
"You saw zhat. Zhe ogre's actions vere clearly in self-defense. Unt zhey have just as much of a right to live here as you and I do."
"Since vhen have either of zhose zhings mattered?"
"I find mine conscience moved by seeing mine soldier's head crushed in von hande. Vrite it off as our vatchman turning bandit and being killed by a boulder."
"A boulder?"
"Look at zhe shape his body's in. You knoy anyzhing else zhat vould do zhat?"
"No sir," the guard shrugged. "It's a shame zhe vatchman turned bandit and vas slain by a boulder," he confirmed with a nod.

"Gansukh think they're let us in because they're afraid."
"Leaders' brutality is only exceeded by their cowardice," Gorbak chuckled, showing a wide intellect despite the strange grammar he used.

((Gorbak and Gansukh aren't stupid or illiterate, they just a different dialect than most people, similar to Rasta english. They always refer to themselves by name and never use the "ing" form of any verb," instead using either the first-person singular conjugation or the infinitive.))

[Fenric]

(( Hmm... We shall also have to work out how Rimeholt and WinterHearth interact, at some point. ))

[Renrik]

((I suppose we shall, in all likelihood. Of course, Rimeholt ((and, indeed, all of the Northlands) may soon undergo a bit of a regime change.))

((I have decided that, for the time being, I shall write Renrik's storyline in the past tense, so as to allow me to write it more easily.))

Renrik sat on the warehouse near dusk, bored. He had been in the city for two days now. Interrogating a certain city watchman had been fun, but the information had not proved as useful as the assassin desired. He had made sure to hide the body well.

Renrik watched the harbor as the ship came in. The ship bore Lord Kilraven. He, the assassin knew, was the key. Being a lord from the western borders, Kilraven was not well recognized in the city, for he spent little time here. Assuming his identity, and his place at the Feast, would be easy.

The assassin descended from the warehouse, making ready to steal away into the night. He made his way down the narrow and twisting streets, and was well on his way when something caught his eye, off to the right. A shape had been moving in the shadows. Renrik looked again, but saw nothing. Probably a pickpocket or a cat burglar.
-----
Derzhiskir was invigorated. The Sentinel always loved a good hunt. He grew impatient, though, waiting for the scout to return. He glanced at his two other men, and at Sir Beothir.

Vhere is zhis scout of yours, Captain?, asked the paladin, Or are zhe Sentinels too inept to find a criminal vithin zheir own city?

The Sentinel captain was about to give a rather venomous reply when the scout returned, slinking out of the shadows.

He is on Vharf Row, Captain, ant headink t'vards Gallow Street.

The Sentinel captain gave the paladin a smug look, and nodded to his men, motioning with his hand as he gave their orders.

Two to zhe left flank, to to zhe right. I vill take zhe right vhile our esteemed brother of the Volf accompanies you on zhe left.

The Sentinels nodded, and two of them move with Beothir towards the other side of the street. Derzhiskir stopped the second one before he crossed.

I vant you to keep an eye on our esteemed brother, agent. I vant you to keep a very close eye on him.

The agent nodded, and flitted across the shadows to join up with Beothir and the other agent.
-----
Renrik had made his way through the alleys away from the docks and into the slums when he saw another shape, this time flitting by to his left. The glint of steel had accompanied it. This was no pickpocket.

The assassin pretended not to notice, keeping his pace steady, but diverged from his planned course and took a winding side street instead. For a moment, the figure dissapeared, but then reappeared again, this time on the assassin's right flank.

Or was it- no. it was a different figure. There were two following him. Oneon each side. Perhaps more than two. Perhaps- three. At least three. Another had appeared on the assassin's left. This one was a full half foot at least taller than the one who had been there before. He did not look practiced in stealth.

The assassin's mind began to work, and he knew he would have to fight. He began to plot out a course in his head. He ducked into an alleyway that lead to a second street, and from the corner of his eye he saw three figures move across the street from the left.

Four then, and these were practiced ones.

Renrik began to formulate a plan. Four against one were not good odds if these were Sentinels. But Sentinels? How could they know he was in the city unless...

Stefan? No, he had too much to lose. A pardon would be granted for some, but for Stefan they would take the information and kill him anyway. He was not fool enough to go to the Sentinels, nor were his crew. But then....

Modrivas, The assassin cursed silently. He had been a fool to trust that one. And now he was sure there were at least four. He needed a battleground, and now.

The assassin went through another passageway and into a sqaure, they were getting closer. He looked around. The square was some twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet, and surrounded by residential houses. It would have to do. The assassin went to the dried-up fountain in the center of the square, and stopped. The footsteps behind him continued for a short time, then stopped as well.

I don't appreciate being followed

silence

The assassin turned. It was quiet, and still. Then he heard the footsteps. The Sentinels had flanked, as usual. Three were coming from the other side of the square. Sure enough, two more came from the side he faced. So it was five in all, then. The two he faced were dressed in the black tunics and cloaks of the Sentinels, the cowls hiding their faces. The footsteps behind stopped, and the two in front of him halted, and one stepped forward. He was slightly taller than the other, and though his face was obscured by the cowl of his cloak Renrik could see his sharp nose and the neatly trimmed beard that framed his thin mouth. A finely made bastard sword rested in his scabbard, emblazoned with the Sentinel insignia; an eye with a crown as the pupil, over a knife. One hand rested on the hilt of the sword; the other hung by the man's side.

Renrik Bersain.... you've been avhay for some time. I trust you haven't forgotten zhe reason you left?

The assassin grinned. Not at all, Sentinel. He heard the three behind him beginning to advance quietly.

You are, zhen, avare of zhe crimes you stand of accused of?

Accused and guilty. There is no need for a trial. The footsteps were getting closer. Very close now. Renrik grip tightened on the dagger in his cloak.

We didn't intend one. Even closer... a few more steps....

I know.

The assassin lept, throwing a small pellet at the ground that caused an exploson of light as he hurled the knife at one of the sentinels behind him, catching him in the gut.

The Sentinels reeled in the pain of the flash, but their vision was starting to come back. Renrik knew he had little time. Landing, jumped again, this time delivering a double-legged kick square to the Sentinel captain's chest, sending him tumbling back, and, landing behind him, ducked under the swinging sword of the captain's half-blind companion and grabbed his arm, flipping him over his back and sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones.

The assassin spun and assumed a defensive position, ready to take the four remaining assailants. The men he had sent to the pavement rose to the their feet quickly, as Sentinels were wont to do. As the man he had flipped rose, Renrik struck again, darting forward and launching into an attack routine, knocking the sword aside and stabbing forward with the dagger, then spinning low and attempting to trip. The stab hit the Sentinel iin the shoulder, but he managed to avoid the trip, and slashed down atthe assassin with his longsword.

Renrik rolled away, and came back up, ducking under the sword and slashed at his throat, cutting it and sending the man falling back, dead, to the cobblestones.

Renrik went back into a defesnive position as the Captain and one of the Sentinels approached. To his surprise, though. The remaining man was crouching over the Sentinel Renrik had hit with his throwing knife. When he saw the soft white light emenating from the man's hands, Renrik swore. This one was not a Sentinel; he was a Knight of the Wolf.

The assassin's attention was soon taken, however, by the two Sentinels currently facing him. He new he had to kill one before the other one and the knight arrived. The assassin dodged the left, feinting at the Captain, then jumped, landing behind the other one and slashing at his back. The Sentinel turned in time to avoid death, but instead received a rather painful laceration along his arm. He spun and attempted to strike at the assassin with his longsword, but Renrik dodged back and avoided the blow, then launched another attack routine. He lunged, attack both high and low with dagger, scoring several hits on the Sentinel's abdomen, then aimed a kick at his gut. He slammed his foot forward, and into the man;s gut, but as the man doubled over, he grabbed onto the assassin;s foot and pulled. knocking the assassin to the ground.

Renrik spun and got loose, but had to roll to avoid the man;s blow. He came up and stabbed his attacker in the side, and wrenched the knife, cutting into his lung. Now, however, the other Sentinel and the knight had arrived to reinforce the captain. The knight and the Sentinel attempted to get to Renrik's flanks while the Captain launched an attack with his bastard sword.

You die here, fugitive!

The blade darted in and out, weaving and flashing, but Renrik managed to deflect the blows. He then lunged to his right, stabbing towards the Sentinel, and ducked low, then straightened up and caught the man in the gut with his shoulder, sending him sprawling back.

However, the attacks of the knight soon came, and Renrik's daggers worked furiously to keep up with them. This man was fast. He first stabed low, then brought long sword up in a slash, the stabbed again at chest level. Renrik deflected ad dodged the striked, but soon found himself pressed by the Captain as well.

The assassin could not keep up witht he two. He worked desperately keep the blows away from his body, dodging about and working the knives in his hands into a flurry of deflective steel.

He abruptly switched went on the attack, stabbing forward at the Captain. His blows hit home, and the Capain's side was cut, but he attack cost him. The knight's blade came in from the flank and opened a wound in Renrik's side. The assassin spun and faced the knight, batting down his sword and striking at his face, only to be hit by the Sentinel Captain, who' fist came across and smashed into the assassin;s face.

Renrik stumbled back, bleary-eyed, and struck at what he thought to be the knight, only to feel the knght's sword hilt slam into the back of his head.

The assassin crumpled into a heap.
---------

Beothir approached the downed assassin.

So zhis is Renrik Bersain. I vill not deny his skill. He managed to kill two Sentinels zhis night. It is a pity a man of such talent vas a traitor. He vould have been useful to our King.

The Captain and the remaining Sentinel made no move towards the assassin.

It shall be a great relief to zhe King vhen he knows zhat zhis man has been slain.

Indeed it shall. We shall be in high favor vith his Highness for zhis act.

Yes, ve shall.
The Captain stepped closer to Beothir. The other Sentinel moved to the paladin's flank.

Vhat is zhe meaning of zhis? The Knight assumed a defensive stance.

You shall not claim zhe honor of zhis kill, knight. Zhe Order shall not claim our kill. Zhis vas zhe vork of Sentinels. It vas us who tracked down and killed the assassin. It vas us who brought him to zhe King's justice. It vas us who avenged zhe knight who had brought with us, who vas so cruely murdered by zhe fugitive before ve could come to his aid.

You vouldn;t dare.

Yes, knight, I vould.

The Captain lunged forward, his bastard sword seeking the soft spot of the paladin's armor, and the other Sentinel stabbed at him. The Knight deflected the Captain's blow, suffering a minor wound from the other attacker. He brought up his blade and pushed into the Sentinel who had struck him, knocking him back against the wall, then ran him through, then turned to face Derzhiskir's attack, which struck him in the leg, cutting a long gash along his calf.

You die now, paladin dog!

It is you who are zhe dog, traitor!

The paladin's sword darted forward, peircing Derzhiskir's side. The Sentinel cried out in anger and launched an attack routine with his bastard sword, slashing savagely at the paladin, who was hard pressed to keep up with his speed, battering down the sword repeatedly, each time a split second later, the blade getting closer and closer- and then he lunged forward, attacking Derzhiskir with a vengance all his own, stabbing into his shoulder, the his sacred power coursing through the blade to smite the Sentinel captain with a burning energies. The Captain stumbled back, then brought up his blade to face the next attack, pressing back against it and throwing the paladin back, then dropped his sword, drew a knife, and lunged forward, grabbing Beothir's wrist and wrenching it forward and his knife entered the paladin's gut. The Sentinel grabbed the Knight and stabbed him another time, and another, wrenching his knife free, slamming the paladin against the wall, and driving the knife into his chest.

Captain Derzhiskir looked down at the bloodied corpse at his feet, and smiled.

So dies Sir Beothir, cut down by an assassin and avenged by zhe Sentinels. And now for zhat fugitive.

The Captain heard a dull thud behind him, and then a voice.

It's not wise to start divying up loot before the enemy's dead, Sentinel.

He turned in time to see Renrik's bloodstained knife slash across his throat.

[Renrik]

The night was dark. In the shadows of the eves of the old building, the ratlike form of Renrik, in his hybrid form, crouched, peering across at the tall walls of the High Temple.

He had been right- Mordrivas had informed the Order of the Wolf. That much the man had told him before the assassin had ended his life.

So the Knights knew. But how much did they know? How much of the plot had they discovered? A bit, or all of it? The possibility of a trap was entirely possible- likely, even. Renrik cursed that thought as he watched the senty on the wall. It was likely an apprentice of the temple, but he could still cry out a warning before he died. A word of warning was not something to be desired in a temple full of the king's most loyal knights.

The sentry turned and walked away from Renrik's position. The assassin hoisted himself over the eves, and ran silently down the roof, getting to a point where a tree grew close to the temple's wall. Leaping from the roof to the tree, he landed softly on a large limb and moved from one branch to the next, making his way to the wall.

The wererat clutched his claws onto the cracked masonry of the wall, and began to ascend it, paw over paw, raching the top and hoisting hiomself over, ducking into the shadow of a battlement.

A sentry was approaching Renrik's position- the assassin drew himself more into the shdaows, covering himself in his cloak and remaining unseen as the sentry walked a mere three feet from him. Doing a quick scan for other sentries, he emerged quickly from the shadow and drew his knife across the sentry's throat, lowering him down and placing the corpse in the shadows.

The assassin scanned the temple interior. A courtyard of hard earth, crossed by a stone path lit with lanterns, lay before the massive keeplike structure of the Order of the Wolf.

The front doors were guarded, of course, and well-lit. That was not the entrance Renrik intended to use.

The assassin crouched in the shadows, and shuddered as his form underwent a shift, his bones shrinking and warping, returning him to their natural form. Now in a human form again, Renrik dropped quietly down the other side of the wall. He crouched in the shadows, flitting from point to point in the courtyard, until he had made his way to a small sidedoor.

((running late tonight. I wanted to fionish up this story arch tonight, but I'll get it finished tomorrow. Only about two posts to go.))

[Fenric]

(( Very well written. Thanks for the cliffhanger. :smallyuk: ))