Hard Choices
The sounds of a street brawl below his window woke him from slumber. It seemed not even the constant rain could dissuade the inhabitants of Old Towns poor quarter from airing their grievances in public. Raised voices turned to shrieks and shouts and even quicker turned to the sounds of violence. Meaty thuds, grunts and the impact of flesh on wood and stone. Such was his dawn chorus.
He grunted and pulled himself to his feet. His immense frame filled the tiny room, almost dwarfing the ramshackle dresser in the corner, his leather trews and linen vest seemingly struggling to keep heavily muscled limbs and torso covered. Yatagan sighed deeply, ran a hand over stubbled cheeks and scratched vigorously at the fleas that had been caught from the straw filled sacking the landlord had jokingly called a mattress. The dresser held a sliver of mirror and Yatagan couldn't help but catch his reflections eye. Dark skinned, thick boned and scarred, his face was not one that could be called handsome but it was one that well suited his large bear-like frame. Yatagan had never chosen the easy path through life and his body showed the ravages of such choices. Scars criss-crossed his limbs and fresher red weals showed where recent wounds had been subjected to forced healing. He was tired. Tired and aching and above all weary, in both body and spirit. The consequences of hard choices laid heavily on his mind, the stark reality of his current position clashing with the savoured memories of happier easier times. The memories rose up almost unbidden..the Cathedral, his Brothers, the purity of it all....
Yatagan growled and spat to his left, the old tribal gesture dispelling the memories quickly and comforting him. No point dwelling in the past. There was likely no way to return to those days now, no way to reclaim the glories of days gone by. He stalked over to the rag curtained window and stared out across the rooftops and alleys of Stormwinds Old Town. The ripe smell of civilisation rose up to assault his nose, the rain doing little to dilute its strength. This truly was a shit-hole, but one his enemies would not think to find him in. Still, for all its dubious safety he couldn't stay here long. The Fraternity doubtless had its agents scouring every town and city from here to Southshore for him, either to confirm his death or to make sure of it. and Stormwind held even greater risks. One of the Order may recognise him and that was something he could not allow to happen. Not yet.
'Time to move on' he whispered to himself, 'hard choices ahead'.
A tattered cloak pulled around his broad shoulders and his pack hefted in one meaty fist Yatagan left the hovel he had called home for the last three weeks and stepped into the rain soaked alley the run-down tenement building opened into. He squinted to the north and could barely make out the spires of Stormwind Keep through the rain. Already he was soaked to the skin and his boots had accrued a thick layer of filth and mud. One end of the alley was blocked by a sagging brick wall and the other wound on past similar buildings. Some distance ahead a man lay beaten and bloody in the gutter, another victim of daily life in Old Town. Spitting again to ward off bad luck Yatagan started to trudge through the filth, eyes downcast and head bowed.
It was still hard to believe how quickly things had gone wrong. How quickly months of careful planning and preparation had exploded into violence, bloodshed and now this enforced hiding. They had been sold out. There was no question about it. The Divine Fraternity had known what they were and had come prepared. Someone had betrayed them. Yatagan felt his choler rise and growled again. Someone would pay for this. Thoughts of revenge and bloodshed filling his mind Yatagan continued down the alley, hemmed in on all sides by rotting wood and crumbling brickwork. For the first time in weeks, his wariness dropped and his attention wandered before he was interupted by a gentle mocking laugh. His head snapped up and a hand reached unconsiously for the mouth of his pack. Yatagan snarled as his searching gaze landed on the lithe slim figure leaning nonchalantly against the wall ahead. It was an Elf, clad in charcoal leathers and grey and crimson patterned cloth, a mask covering its lower face. Pale green eyes seemed to mock him. He could have the alley ahead had been empty, even the rain wouldnt hide another person from him. Yatagan tensed and felt the Power rise inside him. Steam curled from him as the Power rose and heat radiated out in waves. The Elf spoke, its voice low and whispering.
'You're a hard man to find Samaritan.'
Yatagan started in shock. He had not heard that name for some time, not since the betrayal. Before he could speak though the Elf rasied one slender finger.
'Before you ask, I'm not going to tell. I have a message for you.'
Quicker than Yatagan could follow the Elf dropped his finger and flung his other hand forward. There was a blur of metal and a knife quivered in the wood next to his head. He cursed and turned back to the Elf but the damn thing was already on the rooftops, moving gracefully and quickly away. Its low mocking voice carried back to Yatagan as he lost sight of it in the rain.
'Its from a friend...you do remember those, dont you human?'
He cursed. Damn Elves. Never liked them and never trusted them. He spat again to avert the ill luck of meeting one and felt the Power damp down. In seconds he was soaked again. He looked at the knife again and noticed that there was a piece of parchment wrapped around the hilt. He deftly unwrapped and opened it. He read the message again and again, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes saw.
Edge undulled, wishes Samaritan. Moons waxing, the hanged mans thirst.
****
The inn of the Hanged Man was always busy at night. Darkshire bred a dour alcoholism into its people and there was always someone ready to slake their thirst. A full moon hung fat and heavy in the night sky and superstition had driven most people into the comfort of the inn and the glow of its fires. Yatagan sat at a table in the darkest corner, a jug of warm rum his only companion. He had waited here three nights now, each night his mind racing and turning over the same few details, trying to make sense of it. He remembered the fight in the warehouse well, the suprise as cultists had boiled out of every crack like rats. There had been so much blood in the air they could taste it. It had been close, desperate and they had been driven into the catacombs below the warehouse. He remembered seeing Quillion surrounded by a mist of blood as his sword wove great killing arcs. He remembered the feel of the hammer blows on his shield as he heaved the mass of cultists back and threw them aside like ragdolls. He and Quillion had killed countless numbers but still they came. And as fearsome warriors as they were, there were but the two of them. Yatagan flinched as he remembered the sword cutting into his shoulder and into the bone. He saw again Quillion reeling back, one hand clenched to his face as blood gouted between his fingers. They had both been wounded gravely, taken many blows that would have felled lesser men. Dark Magiks had coursed through the tunnels and charnel rooms, indiscriminate in its victims. Twisted corpses of cultists had fallen like leaves but he and Quillion had been wracked with pure agony, barely able to defend themselves. And that was the most damning thing of all. He remembered seeing Quillion fall. They had been driven back to the warehouse, wounded, barely alive and exhausted. Topper had been waiting for them. The rakishly thin rifleman was the Fraternities executioner and took a perverse joy in his role. Yatagan rubbed his chest, remembering the impact of the shot and the feeling of flesh tearing and rupturing. The wound still ached and had almost finished him. It had taken all his remaining stamina to remain on his feet and hurl himself through the window and into the waters below. Every time he replayed this in his mind he saw the same thing. Glancing back as he crashed through wood and glass he saw it happen. Saw Topper take the shot. Saw Quillion twist and fall, blood spraying from his throat. No matter how many times he looked at it, no matter the coded messgae only he could have written, there was no doubt. Quillion was dead. He had made a mistake to come to Darkshire. Light alone knew what sort of trap he had walked into. Anger clouded his mind and his thoughts.
Yatagan felt a presence at his side. Someones shadow fell over him, interrupting his reverie. He growled and clenched his fist.
'Move on stranger. You've no business here with me'
And then everything crashed to a halt. Shock drew his breath in sharply and his eyes widened as the stranger spoke with a voice that Yatagan recognised and had not thought he would hear again.
'It's good to see you again Samaritan. I've missed you Brother'
Yatagan raised his eyes........
Subject: Hard Choices 
))