“Immortality? You think I want to be immortal? The only beings that properly fit that description are the Six Archons, and I suspect even they can eventually be usurped or killed, if not by age, then by the hand of Man. But why would I want to live forever? Having a deadline gives life a certain zeal I just couldn’t live without. Now living a very long time, that I’m quite enamored by. After all, rule the first is write what you know, and I’ve simply carried that over into my historical accounts.”

Oreanen Vainen, remarking on the Question of Living Forever

Zara and Bim made their way back to the wagon and waited for twenty or so minutes-- after a little while, Greg emerged from the crowd, looking worn out. “I looked everywhere for this O’Brian fellow, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

Bim smiled. “Don’t worry, friend. Zara and I found him, and he’s pointed us to a trustworthy tavern within our price range. It’s called The Wailing Wight. We should go there immediately; we need somewhere private to discuss the plan.”

They wove their way through the narrow backstreets until they found a beaten up-looking tavern, its paint flecked, its sign illegible, worn down by wind and rain, bending and looking like it was about to snap off of its post.

“Well, it’s the best we can afford.” Bim said, with a kind of rueful cheer in his words, and led the four through the swinging door into a dim, grimy common area.

“Better than the barracks.” Zara muttered, “Though at least the barracks were clean.”

A fire burnt in an ashy hearth on the far right wall, its grate clogged with trash and cinders. A bar took up most of the space along the far wall, and a staircase sat next to it, leading up, presumably to rooms for rent.

Bim and the others went up to the bar, and Helena rapped her knuckles on the hard wood to get the bartender’s attention before pulling her fingers back and wiping them on her coat.

“Can’t handle a little grime, miss?” The bartender said, noticing the motion as he turned. His hair was long and unwashed, his eyes sunken and lit with some kind of flickering green spark in their depths, his clothes washed out of all color, his sallow flesh seeming to fade away at the edges into the shadows. “You’ll need to toughen up if you want to stay here.”

Bim moved to intercept, but Helena raised a hand. “I don’t think you understand who I am or where I come from, barkeep. I’m not averse to getting my hands dirty; I just don’t like doing it unnecessarily.”

The man chuckled. “I understand completely. I jus’ don’t know if the Wight is the tavern for a lady like yourself.”

Helena laughed, eyes dangerous. “I know what you’re trying to do, barkeep. Do you want to lose our business?”

“I don’t care for folk who think themselves better than me, is all.” The bartender said, smirking. “Now, do you want rooms or not?”

“Yes, just two, please.” Bim said.

The barkeep looked at him for a long couple of moments. “Ain’t you a little young to be renting rooms at a back alley pub?”

“You could say that. But I’m not the one renting. We all are.”

🟌

They set up shop in the larger of the two rooms they had gotten, though that wasn’t saying much; it was still cramped, and the window was still so coated in dust that it looked like it was night outside, even though it was in the early afternoon. By the light of a pair of dripping candles, Bim sat on the floor, and outlined his thoughts.

“First, we need to do some reconnaissance-- find out how things are in the court currently, what Andrium’s movements and routines are, what he’s working on and where he most often can be found. Step two is infiltration-- finding a covert way to get inside the Palace, or simply to get near the . Third is method-- how we plan to kill him, how we’ll cover it up, how we’ll get away, the works. Fourth-- or second and a half, rather-- is means. What we use to kill him.”

Bim grinned a devil’s grin. “The only surefire way is to use a Spellbreaker Blade.”

Zara seemed to grow more determined at the words, Greg just raised an eyebrow in astonishment, and Helena, looking around at them, threw up her hands in irritation. “Fine, since I’m the only one here out of the loop, can you tell me what a ‘Spellbreaker Blade’ is?”

Bim steepled his fingers. “The term refers to a whole type of weapon, though they primarily take the form of blades of various sorts, that is capable of destroying any spell on contact, up to and including the defensive spells Andrium sure to have put on himself at all times. They’re exceedingly rare though, and the secret of how to make them was lost long ago, which means there’s a shrinking number of them left. Just a small Spellbreaker Knife would be worth tens of thousands of Rooks. And that’s if you can actually find one; all the ones I’ve ever even heard rumor of are locked up in some ultra wealthy nobleman’s collection behind glass, or in an unreachable vault, protected by a gauntlet of traps. That is, with one exception.” Bim grinned. “Fool’s Bane, the prized sword. He carries it with him when he’s up and about, and places it in a sealed container under guard each night. I don’t know what specific security measures it has on it, or where it can be located precisely within the Palace, but if we can get ahold of it, Andrium is a dead man walking.

To clear up the holes in our knowledge, we need to execute step one: reconnaissance. Helena and Greg, you two should go out and scout around, trying to find some menial job or other way to get into the palace. Zara said she used to be stationed here on active duty years ago before heading west; she has to have some kind of rapport with the Watch here. We’ll keep a low profile while we pursue that lead. Remember, everyone: not giving ourselves away early is key. If we lose the element of surprise, we’ll be doomed.”

🟌

“Who are you really?” Helena asked the next day, as she and Greg were out in the streets, searching for a covert path they could take to get a job at the Palace or gain an in there.

Greg looked at her, appraising. “What do you mean? I’m Greg. Former Desolate, and a . I’ve traveled around a lot, know my way around a bouquet just as well as a brawl, and have excellent taste in restaurants. What more is there to know?”

Helena chuckled a little at that, but persisted. “I mean, I’ve known you for weeks, traveled with you for almost as long. What are you hiding? I know there’s more to your past then you let on.”

He seemed to be distant, remembering a distant time, before refocusing on the . “I haven’t mentioned much about my training because it was… harsh. Mikhael-- Master Rivenstead-- wasn’t some two-bit con artist kind of guru. He was the real deal. He raised me up, showed me there was a better life for me. But to do, he had to break me down to nothing, to tear up the very roots of my identity and reforge me into something stronger, more resilient, more knowledgeable about the harsh truths of this world. It wasn’t painless, it wasn’t easy, and in the end… I couldn’t remain. He said my training was only half-finished, that if I left prematurely I would be forever fractured at my core, but I just didn’t have the fortitude to endure it.” His face was a mix of so many emotions, and then it sharply settled into a neutral mask. “I shouldn’t push my burdens on to you. There’s nothing you can do to change that now.”

After a few moments of silence, Helena said suddenly: “Teach me.”

“What.”

She repeated herself. “Teach me. I mean it. Teach me some, or as much as you can, of what your mentor taught you. I want to know how to move, think, react like a .

Greg chuckled. “He wasn’t a , and neither am I, but if you’re certain, we can start immediately.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ll teach me a ?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “No, not a . We have to start much more fundamentally. You must hone both your mind and body, to be sharp enough to know of everything that occurs in your surroundings, noticing even the tiniest or most well-concealed detail. For instance.” He pointed off to her left. “You just got your coin purse nabbed by that cutpurse in the button-up.”

Without another word, Helena took off at a run.

🟌

Antonius Andrium sat, in his casual gray robes, in his study, looking over a set of papers, a ball of silver lightning the size of an orange crackling over his shoulder, illuminating the room and making it easier to read the narrow, spindly handwriting of the report.

After skimming the document, he rose suddenly, snapped his fingers, and murmured two words. “.” His casual gray robes were replaced instantaneously by his royal blue formal attire. Grabbing a set of folders and flicking his wrist, he murmured “, and the folder disappeared into the impossibly voluminous folds of his sleeves. Grabbing his staff from its place against the wall, he flicked two fingers, murmured two words, and his study door swung open. He strode out, his arrogance seeming to almost spark and fizzle around him like an electric charge, as he headed, glaring, deeper into his tower.

🟌

Level 6!

Talent Variants unlocked!

🠊 !

🠊 !

🠊 !

Talent Advancement earned!

🠊 !

Level 12!

Talent Advancements earned!

🠊 !

🠊 !

Bim awoke to a flurry of notifications, which emboldened him. After all, if his Talents were varying and advancing, obviously he was doing something right in the eyes of the Archons.

Level 13!

Talent — gained!

Helena rose from her bed, muscles aching, her whole body feeling worked to the bone. “Is this what every day with Rivenstead was like?” She asked, her voice a croak.

Greg, sleeping in a pile of blankets on the floor next to the bed, got up slowly, rubbing his eyes and proffering her a glass of water from the bedside table. “Yes. But it’s worth it. Pushing yourself so hard, actually learning the techniques instead of relying on Talents to do the work for you, will get you stronger levels and Talents, yes, because there’ll be more to improve on, but it’ll also mean that levels won’t be the be all and end all of your capabilities. Knowing what you’re actually doing when you throw a punch is surprisingly rare these days.”

Level 19!

Talent Suite unlocked!

+ + + + + + + …

On and on it went, after , until finally he heard what he knew was coming.

=

Talent Advancement earned!

🠊

Greg, for one, was feeling more and more like he could understand and even master the profound competency displayed by his former mentor, like he could see the shore of the island that was his master’s capacities. It took teaching the techniques, he supposed, to truly understand them.

Zara rose last, her mind unencumbered with ringing notifications from the Heavens. She dressed, brushed her teeth, and otherwise went about her morning routine like normal, except for a twenty minute diversion to scrub away the mold in the bathroom.

The four of them congregated in the common room at a corner table. The room was empty except for the creepy and a wild-eyed old man in a dark cloak. They ordered a potato soup for the table, and began their day as they had the day before that, and the day before that. They were on reconnaissance-- making acquaintances, learning the patterns of guard shifts and the movements of servants, gathering intel on the various nobles that frequented the palace, etcetera. It was slow, sometimes repetitive work, but they were building up a slow but inexorably extensive stock of useful tidbits and pieces of information.

They had been plying their trades now and again, though they hadn’t been very successful in making money; they had a handful of Rooks to their names, and that number was swiftly dwindling. They’d been planning to downsize to two rooms, but they didn’t know how they’d all fit, even in the larger one.

“What we need is a breakthrough.” Bim said, stating what everyone had been thinking for the past couple of days. “My Talent is barely able to keep up with how long we’ve been here, and there’s been long stretches where it hasn’t been in effect. Why Andrium hasn’t tracked us down during those times I don’t know, but we need to focus up, or we’ll end up burned to a cinder by that self-important fop of a . I think I have just the thing to move our reconnaissance efforts a big step forward.” He dramatically pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and unfolded it carefully.

“This,” He said seriously, “is an invitation from the Resistance movement in the city. We’ve been humbly invited to a meeting at a small legal office in the Halton District to discuss the assassination of one Antonius Andrim, of Cardona.” A dangerous glint settled in his eye.