[2006/03] Down Twisting Paths

[Ziv]

[turbine]

<a href="http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=450">Rollout Article at Turbine</a>

Adso stood guard, eyes alertly scanning the horizon, ready to react to anything that appeared in his peripheral vision. All around them, the ground was blackened and littered with debris. Behind him, his Master knelt over a human corpse.

"Just as I thought," said his Master, "this one has some of the markings of the Rossu Morta. He was not one of those soldiers we saw."

Adso knew better than to turn to look, or even respond. He knew that his Master was testing him to see if he would forget his discipline. He had been given the responsibility to watch his Master's back, and previous apprentices had met unfortunate fates simply from forgetting themselves for a brief moment during an assigned task. Such was the bargain made, in exchange for training that could be found nowhere else on Dereth...

Behind him, he could sense, but not see, that his Master had finished his inspection and stood up. Still, he did not turn or let down his guard. He only allowed himself to relax when the familiar voice of command spoke: "Very well, Adso, you can come off guard. I am pleased."

Adso grinned with fierce, hot pride, then quickly erased the expression from his face before turning to his Master.

His Master watched him carefully, and Adso suddenly knew that it had been a futile effort to conceal his proud reaction. A thought came unbidden to his mind, that he should not have to suffer for being proud of his abilities. This, too, his Master seemed to read in his expression, or his posture. He did not believe the whispered stories that the man could read minds.

"You are right to be proud of yourself, Adso. Your only flaw was in how you masked the set of your shoulders and the tension in your arms. We haven't gone over those techniques in formal training yet. I am not angry, but remember that every second spent congratulating yourself is a second in which you are not focused on the task at hand. Now, my precocious student... what's on your mind?"

Ridiculously relieved, the young scout allowed himself a glance at the corpse.

"Who killed him, Master? Was it the Living Shadow?"

"Not in the sense you might be thinking, Adso. This one had made his pilgrimage to the Hopeslayer's altar, and even more strangely, his armor had some splatters on it, which... smelled like the vapors of the Black Breath. But the wounds did not come from the hands of the Shadow's monsters. It was a more ordinary death – killed by another Isparian. I recognize the wounds made by Weeping Weapons."

His Master paused for a moment of thought, then went on. "His killer, however, did not stay to loot the victim. I suppose there were others fighting here, and the killer did not have the luxury of time to enjoy his killing rights. That was lucky for us... this one didn't fight with a Weeping Weapon. His weapon is much more interesting than that. The weapon had been carefully and lovingly constructed by the owner himself."

Adso did not have to ask to realize that his Master would already have taken the weapon and put it away, to be analyzed later by some of their associates. He had other questions.

"Was it a struggle between the Rossu Morta and these Whispering Blade warriors?"

At that, his Master shrugged. "Who knows why people fight now? It may well have been some kind of assassins' fight, but I don't see enough evidence of traps to really think that. Maybe it was personal. Just belonging to the Rossu Morta marks the victim as someone more likely to find himself in deadly combat."

"I don't know much about the Rossu Morta, Master."

"It's enough to know that they had a bloody reputation on Ispar, and that the reputation was well earned. Still, they're not mindless brutes. Some of them can still be useful. Especially for their access to certain archives..." His Master's smile was sharp and amused. Adso had come to know that, from time to time, the man could not help but congratulate himself on his own cunning, and he had to believe that this was just such a situation.

His Master went on: "The thing to remember about them is that they are a lot more independent than they have ever let on to the Kings they've served. I doubt that Varicci, in his unhealthy obsession, realizes just how much trouble he's bought himself by reconstituting the Ordina." Adso knew that hearing this kind of sensitive information was a sign of great trust. He could also tell that he'd been told as much as he would be told... For now.

Master and student both looked north, their attention captured by a blinking light on the horizon. It was a signal from one of Adso's fellow students, a less accomplished scout. The pattern of light flashes indicated that the other acolyte had found something of urgent interest.

"Well, your lesser brother thinks we ought to hurry." Adso nodded, and the both of them shouldered their packs.

Adso glanced at his Master's pack and noticed something extremely odd. The thick leather of the pack and its various flaps and covers could not conceal the bulbous head of a strange figurine, or the red glow projecting from its eyes.

"Master, forgive my indiscretion, but what is that thing with the glowing eyes?"

His Master stopped and let out a soft sigh, then turned and opened the pack. Inside, on top of the rest of his Master's meticulously organized belongings, Adso saw a small doll, shaped like the magically animated Mosswart idols of the coastal jungles, with a glowing sigil on its chest. It was stuffed like a child's toy. Despite the glowing red eyes, it looked... cute. Like a child's toy. Adso would have been less shocked if he'd seen Asheron's severed head peeking out from his Master's pack.

"The victim also carried this," his Master explained, almost sheepishly. "It is unusual enough that I took it for examination. Who knows what strange secrets it holds? And it reminds me of the stuffed cloth bears that were a common toy among Aluvian children. You probably don't even know what a bear looks like, Adso. Come on, now. We have a summons to answer."

Adso followed after his Master in a run, covering blasted ground with silent, efficient strides. Try as he might, he had just learned that there was something of a sentimental spirit in his ruthless and efficient Master, after all. It made him admire the man more... and made him wary that this knowledge, this unexpected encounter with his Master's softer side, had probably reduced the chances that he would survive this apprenticeship.

[Ziv]

[turbine]

<a href="http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=452">Rollout Article at Turbine</a>

A dusty, travel-stained man with the brawny build of a smith stopped, sighing, in front of the Smoking Axe tavern of Ayan Baqur. He wiped a thick layer of sweat from the flushed blue skin of his brow. He turned and noticed an old man, standing quietly in the shade of the tavern and nursing a cool mug of beer.

"Pardon me, sir," the smith said, stepping over to introduce himself. The old man turned, looked around, then turned back to the smith with a vaguely confused look.

"Sir? Who? What? You mean me?"

"Uh, well, yes. It is a common form of address here, is it not?"

"Polite, yes. Common, no." The old man took a sip from his mug, wiped some foam from his lips, and gave a short, if wobbly, bow. "I'm Ulgrim. I'm the man to know around these parts."

The smith bowed back. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. Ulgrim. Sir. I do seek knowledgeable locals. My name is Iian di Alduressa, and I am newly arrived to this realm."

"Well, welcome to Ayan Baqur then, Iian. Viamontian, are you? We don't get many Viamontians in these parts."

Iian nodded slowly. "I understand that there is a war going on between my King and the Queen of the people of the mainland... Is it unsafe for me here?"

"Unsafe? No... Well, no more unsafe for you than it is for anyone else around here. No, we just don't get many Viamontians in Ayan Baqur because the desert sun turns your skin a most unfashionable shade of purple. Makes you look like Tumeroks, especially if you're not in the habit of shaving."

"I see... That is useful information..." Iian shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "I was wondering if you could tell me how to find some people..."

"Well, I can tell you about some people you shouldn't be looking for! There are these people, you see, who have sworn their souls to a dark power, and get their jollies from killing other people for fun and profit. You can tell by the faint reddish aura around them, and all the jewelry and expensive things they like to carry around with them. Like they're looking to leave behind a fancy-looking corpse. Those folks have been going Mite-squeak crazy lately. It's like mating season for murderers!" Ulgrim waved his mug around for emphasis, sloshing dark, foamy stout on Iian's dusty boots.

"Ah, yes, I see. That, too, is a valuable insight. But you see, on Ispar I was a royal armorsmith, and I am looking for some armorsmiths of some renown in this realm, who have mastered the art of fusing crystals to metal..."

Ulgrim interrupted again, to point at a woman lounging near the tavern entrance, on the other side of the door. "Speaking of people... You see her? Lydda? She tells people she's a plumber, but I know she's not. The reason I know is that some of Berkholt's taps have broken, and she hasn't done a thing to help fix them. She's up to something shady, I can tell. But does anyone believe old Ulgrim, no matter how many times I've been proven right? No ho ho! And then the Virindi take over and their brains get turned to applesauce! Applesauce, I tell you!" More stout sloshed from the wildly swung mug, this time splattering on Ulgrim's robe. The old man had a wild look in his eyes, and this time the foam around his mouth was not from his beer.

The woman Ulgrim had identified as Lydda turned, looked at them, and rolled her eyes. She was obviously used to these accusatory outbursts from Ulgrim.

Iian retreated, bowing repeatedly as he stepped backwards. "Thank you for your time, sir. I shall take your wise words to heart." Once he'd gotten a few steps away, he turned and walked quickly, headed for the nearest portal. "I may as well just head back home," he muttered. "These mainland Isparians have gone crazy." He had intended to step into the tavern for a cool drink, but was beginning to think that the beer here was tainted with some kind of mind-warping solution. He didn't want to end up like the infamous Duke Raoul of Viamont.

Ulgrim watched the smith scurrying away and shook a fist at him. "Hey! You could at least buy an old man a mug of stout for all the help I gave you!" He shook his head. "What a rude and snooty young man. Just like his King. I wouldn't have wanted to introduce him to the Shadow Armor smiths anyway."

[Ziv]

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