The maelstrom churns.

Waves crash upon the rocks at Drasnia, the Jewel of the North in the Empire’s crown. The sprawling metropolis is a defiant stronghold of civilization in the untamed north – if one wishes to travel through the Northern Colonies, visit the Imperial-controlled Elvin states to trade in slaves, or sail north, towards Kalvur, one must go through Drasnia, the last port and ‘civilized’ settlement in the region. But that night, a storm was brewing. Tyrrian, the god of the sea, was angry that night, it seemed. The tide was unpredictable and all the ships were staying in. On the docks, a few ancient sailors stared into the churning brine, spitting into the waters and puffing on their pipes. In the city, civilians hurried to get indoors as the rains began to fall.

On the outskirts of town, the livestock of the many peasants neighed and whined with every thunderbolt that sounded in the distance. As the wind howled through the streets of the old, populous city, a deep sense of foreboding filled the more perceptive citizens. For it is said that those who are attuned to the art of magic, or those with keen wits about them can sense when dark times are ahead. And though the Empire was never a bastion of light, at least it kept order. But it was growing old; its people were restless, greedy, and divided. Something…some change was bound to develop sooner or later…

A Shadow Over Drasnia
The room was cold and dark, darker and colder still than the city outside: soaked in ice-cold brine and rain, and chilled to the bone by the cutting winds. But this room felt like a tomb; the walls were plain, stone bricks, and the only light emanated from the two, white candles on the altar in its center. It was so deep in the earth that those inside could not even hear the wind and rain. Occasionally, the thunder was loud enough for its rumbles to carry all the way down into that dark catacomb. But for the most part, their peace was undisturbed.

Two figures in gray robes stood on either side of the altar, and a figure in red robes behind it. Three figures in black robes approached the altar, and the one in the center removed his hood, revealing his face. He was a man of medium height and build, with dirty-blonde hair and what one in Drasnia might call a ‘pink’ face. In other words, he was not of pure Braudian blood – Braudians had copper-toned skin and black hair, for the most part. But this man, despite his dark eyes, had the features of a man with mixed blood. He could have been nothing other than a lower-caste.

He bowed to the man in red robes, then stretched his arms outward. In a deep, confident voice, he spoke the words,

“I come here on this night,” he began, “To swear my oath of loyalty to you. I will follow your every order. I will obey your every command. I will not defy you. I will go to my death, if need be, to fulfill this oath.”

“Swear it,” the crimson-robed figure replied, with a wave of his hand. The voice was ancient, raspy and somehow…dangerous; though the man seem unconcerned, as if the life, the oath or anything about the man before him meant little.

The man in dark robes nodded, withdrawing a dagger from within his cloak. He raised it up, holding it high in the air, then raised his left hand as well, the palm facing outward. Slowly, deliberately, he sliced through the skin on his left palm with the knife, the blood oozing out of him as he pressed the sharpened steel against his flesh. Droplets of blood began dripping, hitting the floor audibly. A smile was forming on the concealed face of the man in red robes.

“You have sworn an oath to our cause,” the man in crimson responded. “Your rewards for this oath will be rich, both in this world and the next.”

The lower-caste fell to his knees before the man in red, uttering a single phrase, “Thank you, my master.”

The two other black-robed men flanking him, picked the kneeling man up, raising him to his feet. The man in crimson gestured with his hands and they escorted him out, through a door on the other side of the room. The sound of the door opening and then slamming again echoed throughout the room, and more thunder could be heard from above. The man in crimson smirked, glancing at the two men in gray, and all three removed their hoods.

“Another member,” said one. “Our plans proceed with haste.”

“I’m troubled about this new development, however,” said another. “If your spies are correct…”

“My spies are always correct,” the man in crimson said definitively.

“…then,” the gray-robed man continued, “We had best take care of that situation before it spirals out of control.”

“We are in a position to gain a great deal of power and wealth here,” said the first man who spoke. “I am determined not to let anything get in the way.”

“Agreed,” spoke the man in crimson. “Now, let’s get out of these dreary robes. It may be storming, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of my dinner party.”

“In an hour then?” the man in gray asked.

“Yes, yes,” the man in crimson said, removing the robes to reveal the garb of a very rich noblemen; the other men did the same. “I expect to see the both of you there.”

The two subordinates nodded, heading for the exit.

Their leader snuffed the candles out.

Two days later…
It has been raining for nearly two days, and now it had finally stopped. The sky was dull white, the way it looks when there’s nothing but clouds in the sky. It was still damp almost everywhere outside, and beyond the walls of the city there was so much mud that travel was virtually impossible. Still, life went on in the city. Merchants pandered their wares, their spices, their weapons, their slaves. Imperial soldiers marched through the city, maintaining their harsh brand of order. And four members of the Hellkite Syndicate had been called to their headquarters for a new assignment.

The four filed into the seedy tavern, the Hydra’s Breath. Outside of the tavern, leaning against the walls, were the usual patrons – adventurers stopping for a quick draught of ale, as well as the mariners, merchants and whores who were the regulars at the Hydra’s Breath.

As soon as the four opened the door to enter the tavern, smoke billowed out, wafting into their faces. Despite the storm, and the fact that it was a weekday afternoon, the tavern was full of patrons, puffing away at their pipes, singing drinking songs, fighting, slogging down ale and, of course, climbing the stairs to one of the rooms with the female ‘escorts’. At the bar, the bartender Gularin Ruun shouts a greeting to the incoming Hellkites.

“Hey!” he shouts, whilst sliding a round of pints down the bar to a group of aggressive looking warrior-types. “Welcome to the Hydra’s Breath. You-know-who needs to see the four o’ yah…now!”

The ancient bartender was well-liked among the patrons and Hellkites alike. While the Hydra’s Breath was, in a way, a front for the local chapter of the Hellkite Syndicate, Ruun managed to turn a tidy profit. The four made their way down the stairs, into the cellar, passing by a particularly rowdy group of dwarves at one table, and half-elf getting his head beaten in by some off-duty Imperial soldier near another table. All normal sights at the Hydra’s Breath.

The four descended into the cellar, and making their way past the wines and cheeses, they reached the tapestry at the end of the small room. They pulled back the tapestry to reveal an unassuming wooden door. After knocking, there was a brief silence, followed by:

“Password!”

“Orange tree,” one of them said. After another brief silence, the door swung open.

Inside the room sat a few known Hellkites (most of them thieves and assassins). The room felt like a lounge of sorts, as most were simply puffing on their pipes or flirting with the slave girls that had been procured for the Syndicate, all the while reclining on the Elvin-woven cushions that were all about the room. And at the other end of the room, against the wall, was the desk of the Syndicate Captain of this chapter. He turned around as the four approached him, revealing a middle-aged man with raven-black hair, five-o-clock shadow, and numerous scars about his face.

His name was Vadim Dmitrova, and it was a name well-known about the city. He had a constant look of irritation and stress on his face, the sign of a busy man. As the four approached him, he nodded.

“I see the lot of you finally made it,” he spat. “Took yer sweet time, eh?” He didn’t wait for them to answer. “Nevermind, doesn’t matter now.”

He turned back around facing his desk, stacking some papers as he spoke.

“Alright, you’ve all worked for me in the past, at one time or another, mostly freelance. You all have your own reasons for working with the Hellkite Syndicate, I’m sure,” he turns back around to face the group, his arms folded. “Now, as my messengers undoubtedly told you when they called you here, I’d like to invite you all to become permanent members of the Hellkite Syndicate. I don’t think that the four of you have worked together before, but you’ll all be working together for this next assignment. And if all goes well, yer all going to be rich, important members of the Syndicate.

“Now, at one time or another, you’ve all displayed an aptitude for the kind of work that we’ll be doing. I think with your particular talents, you should do fine. The mission we’ve been paid for is a simple assassination and retrieval. In other words, kill the mark, return the head and all the goods on him.

“An untitled nobleman has come to the city today from Port Corycia to the south. His name is Gracchus Thanald, and apparently he is a man of some import. He has come, apparently, to survey the ports and conduct an annual investigation of trade practices. Guess the Emperor wants to know that he’s getting all his rightful coin from his taxes. No matter – someone wants this Gracchus Thanald character dead. Now, of course, I can’t reveal any information about a contract, even to my own Syndicate members, so I can’t tell you who wants him dead and why. It doesn’t really matter, in my book anyhow. But they want Gracchus dead and his head returned, as well as all his possessions. And it’s especially important that you retrieve a letter that he is carrying on him. Our benefactor was very clear on that – it’s a letter bearing seal of the Emperor, and it should have no ink on it, no writing at all. Sounds damn peculiar to me, but I don’t give a damn what a man wants me to kill or bring to him, so long as he pays me, right?

“Now then, I’m furnishing you all with 50 gold pieces,” he begins tossing satchels full of gold pieces to each of the four members of the team, “for expenses. Use it however you see fit. Should you succeed, you will be given a significant cut of the profits, and be made full-time Hellkites.”

Dmitrova has finished, and he walks lazily over to the other end of his desk, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass. He raises it to the light, smells it, then drains half the glass in one gulp. He doesn’t bother to offer any to any of the would-be assassins before him.

“Well,” he says, smirking. “That’s it then. Thanald is staying at the Grinning Goblin Inn on the north side of the bay, which is in Sea Snake territory. Obviously, the Sea Snakes are no threat to us, but it’d be best if you didn’t let ‘em know you were there, savvy? Be quick and silent as death and you’ll have no trouble. I expect nothing less from Hellkites.”

Night found the Mith’ganni crouched on the roof of a weather-beaten inn near Drasnia’s docks, his pale face turned towards the sky and yellow eyes reflecting the waning moon’s sickly light as he watched the tempest brew and boil on the horizon. The churning of the seas, driven by a chilling, prophetic wind that smelled of brine and ozone and rot, preceded the roiling bank of the storm front as it stretched forth hateful, black tendrils that sought to soon blot out the moon and stars over the port city.

Death was coming.

Good.

Nyx smiled a mirthless but expectant smile and drank deeply of the rot-saturated air as his narrowed eyes sought out Prien’s sigil amongst the stars. And so from the maelstrom the Executioner doth call, an inner voice hissed as the Twilight Elf’s eyes found the constellation that he had come to know as Threadcutters Axe, Dark nights herald dark days in which the chosen must fall. Death for each one hath Prien ordained, thus, with their blood shall my own blade be stained. The unspoken prayer to Prien the Executioner whispered into silence and Nyx basked in crypt-cold sensation that the macabre oath evoked. He remained crouched and unmoving on the rooftop, his yellow-eyed gaze fixed on the skies until, at last, even the dull, red winking stars of the Threadcutters Axe were veiled by the tumultuous death shroud of thunderheads. There would soon be work to do, he was sure, and there were preparations to be made before the business could begin.

As the clouds opened and spit the first icy drops of rain down upon Port Drasnia, Nyx slithered from the roof of the weather-beaten Inn and melted into the shadows of the city’s streets. He moved through the metropolis like a wraith, slipping unobserved through the stench and squalor of the slums and the tight shuttered, well maintained neighborhoods of the well-to-do breeders alike before finally arriving at the decrepit little cemetery that had, of late, been one of his favored places to wile away the hours. Originally, he had chosen the place because of the small mausoleum at its western edge. A tree - planted as a memorial many years ago by some insipid round-ear, most likely - had stretched its roots beneath thing and, in its growth, had begun to buckle the foundation, facilitating the easy removal of some stones in the tiny crypt’s back wall, and providing him with access to a hidey-hole where most death-fearing round-ears wouldn’t even think to search.

Even if they did, Nyx sneered, their vision is as dull as their ears and, seeing the lock rusted to the door, would think the place sealed… as intelligent as short-lived those breeders…
Yes, the mausoleum had served as a very effective safe house when needed. He had looted the corpse, of course, and set the bones to light in a fire one evening in order to cook his dinner and, now, the place was little more than that… a place to hide or recover when necessary. What kept him coming back, though, was the music that came from the small cottage nearby. The symphony had begun just a week ago, when the cemetery’s caretaker had fallen ill. A poorly handled corpse – felled by some horrid, breeder disease no doubt – had infected the man with it’s not as dead malady and, oblivious to the putrescence that now ate away at the thread of his life, returned to the small cottage and shared it with his wife and their newborn child. The song was beautifully composed, from its rumbling beginnings in the deep, hacking coughs of the caretaker all the way through the swelling, worried notes of the wife’s concerned weeping. It had reached its crescendo just days ago, though, when the wheezing had begun in the babe’s chest followed by the coughing and anguished cries of the infant had driven the woman’s wailing to heights he hadn’t believed possible. For so many nights, now, Nyx had sat in the mausoleum (or sometimes just outside the cottage itself) and listened to the music play, reveling in its complex melding of anguish and misery, astounded by its virtual testament to the end that awaited all things. Tonight, though, as foretold by the storm, it was time for the song to end… There would soon be work to do, he was sure, and there were preparations to be made before the business could begin.

The sounds of the storm, accompanied by the crouping of the child and the weeping of the woman, muffled his entry into the dwelling. The caretaker, very near his final moments in this life, stared blankly at the Mith’ganni padded past where he lay on the sick-stained bedclothes - Already claimed, that one Nyx mused, certain that the man’s gawking eyes did not see him – and the woman… the woman was too lost in her own grief, too caught up in the keening music of her own death, that she wasn’t aware of its arrival until a bit of rain water dripped from the cowl of his cloak to land on her shoulder.

“The child is sick,” a strangely accented voice whispered as she began to turn.

“Y… Yes,” the woman croaked, her voice tainted by the rawness of despair… She stopped turning when a pale, slim fingered hand reached around her to slither up the infant’s fevered form and came to rest on a crimson tinged cheek.

“And,” the voice continued, closer now to her ear, “you are so very tired…”

“Yes,” she sobbed, hanging her head.

“Shhhh,” that pale hand slid softly from the baby’s cheek and moved to cover the squalling mouth and tiny nose, “I can help…”

It hadn’t taken more than a moment for the infant to become quiet and still… and, though the woman may have wished to when her fevered mind was struck with the realization of what was happening, she didn’t have time to scream.

The song had ended, the orchestra silenced as the threads that tied it’s musicians to their instruments were severed, and the conductor – not the same one that had begun the sonata – stood for a moment, regarding the now muted ensemble. There would be work to done soon, he was sure, and now, the preparations had been made.

((OOC: This got a little more lengthy than I had intended, actually, but it did help me 'find the character', I think... Anyway, rather than have Lou think I've forgotten, I decided to go ahead and post this part.. I should have a bit for the actual meeting at the Inn for you soon... ))

Two night's past...


Once thin wisps of clouds streaked across the charcoal, star-speckled skies had fattened considerably. Sharp winds transformed from blunt intruments into piercing weapon, and the air itself thickened into an almost tangible force. As Sylla navigated the narrow, cobbled pathways of the gutterkind's slums, she counted beats and passers-by.

Behind her, by four paces, followed one of the unwashed masses, a thick-blooded dimwitted human whose intentions were dark, indeed; Sylla's mind was darker still. Amid the clicks and clacks of many feet, she could pull out the mirror of her own, the footfalls of her twin, the paces behind her pursuer.

She quickened her steps and smiled beneath her forward-fallen raven waves, listening. Her pursuer quickened also, as did her sister. With a deep breath, she turned hard right and plunged into a low-lit alley, and headed deep. When she saw the wall, she turned, feigning breathlessness, and shifted her left foot back till it met the wall, guaranteeing herself a bi of clearance room.

The human laughed mirthlessly, grinning in the dark.

"Please," Sylla breathed, trembling, shoulders shaking. "Please don't hurt me."

And then he spoke, detailing between laughter what he would do to her, how he would hurt her, when he suddenly stopped, realizing the sounds escaping from her were not symptomatic of fear. Sylla shook, her head bowed, and raised her eyes. Glittering emerald stared back at him. Her full red lips twisted into a rictrus grin of pleasure, and the promise of pain.

The sounds she made were no longer sobbing pleas for mercy but a low, ominous laugh that seemed to echo in the alley. Enraged, the man drew a dagger and shouted, and the thick, fat clouds above could take no more. When they burst, it seemed to rain oceans at once, and distracted him long enough.

"Mallys, now!" she cried.

The unseen sister laughed, light and musical, and a whip-crack accentuated the strike of lightning that lit the ground like daylight for a brief moment. Sylla continued to grin as Mallys' whip wrapped around the man's weapon and pulled it from his hand.

Pushing off from the wall, Sylla drew her own dagger and plunged it ti the hilf into the man's throat. Kicking his body from her, she withdrew her blade and nodded as Mallys knelt to search his body. The spray of blood fell against Sylla's black corset, against her flesh, and ran from her skin in the rain. She breathed deeply, relishing the cold sting of the harsh night and drove her heel into the cheek of her quarry with a satisfying crunch of bone.

Approaching Mallys, she extended her hand. "Come, sister. Let us retire for the night."

Mallys curled her legs beneath her in a corner booth. She turned a playing card over again and again in her hands and watched her sister, the proud and beautiful Sylla DeMoria, dancing with some dark-haired halfbreed. She scowled, face partly hidden by the hood of her oersized cloak. The halfbreed had his hands all over her sister, and this did not please Mallys. Not the slightest. She did not think it wise to submit to mindless assignations and trysts when there was business at hand. She pursed her full red lips and whistled, and watched her sister push the freak from her and came back to the table.



Mallys frowned. The look alone was enough to transmit her disappointment and frustration. I just cannot leave you alone, can I? The look seemed to say.



"Oh, hush Sister. You could have one too, I'm sure. I can get one in blonde, if you prefer?"



Mallys scoweled and reached for her drink, sipped quietly.



Not bloody likely, she smirked. Mallys looked about and motioned towards the door.



"Vesan astratua, cera Spite," Mallys whispered. Time to go, sister Spite.


It was a language of their own, developed in their childhood as a means to plot and plan with each other. They had never been good little girls, they had always been wrong. But it was a lifestyle to which Mallys had become accustomed, and with Sylla beside her, Mallys was comfortable enough that they could afford both playtime and ambition. There was a good possibility that this summons would mean upward momentum, a chance to break rise above the lowest of the low, where they lived now.

The DeMoria Demons were small fish in an enormous ocean. They were only minimally feared, she knew this, but they were known, and that was a start. But if they did not go now, they might miss what could be a very lucrative possibility.

Words, words words. Humans loved to speak,to fill the void with their endless cacaphony of prattling, mewling, whining hatred. The needed, with a sick, slick desperation, to hear themselves speak in endless monologue, to be heard by others and thought of as intelligent or important, when in reality, Sylla DeMoria felt they were all black, rotting vermin in desperate need of extermination.

As the Captain of the chapter spoke, part of her srifted, imagining a series of brutal, bloody, brilliant plagues of madness befalling humanity leaving Men clawing and scratching at themselves, cannibalising thier own kind til only bones were left. She, who was known among the gutterkind and lower-caste and halfbreeds like herself as Spite, fixed a stoic smile to her full red lips to hide her muderouss thoughts. This, she forced herself to remember, was a stepping stone to a greater destiny. It was only a means to an end.

The task sounded clearcut enough, clearly nothing that should have required more than a single decent assassin or at the most, an assassin/thief team. She felt a fleeting brush of conact, a familair gentle sweep to serve as a confirmation of her thoughts. She glanced at Mallys, the completeion of herself, the second half of herself, and nodded imperceptibly as Mallys toucher her hand lightly. Cay was, like herself, a halfbreed and Nyx fullblooded, both were not unknown to her, but she disliked this greatly. Other people were too much of a variable when added to a party. Her thoughts turned, darlky, to the mission. Perhaps, she thought, there was more to this than they were being fed.

It would not surprise her. Being only a half-step above the gutterkind, they did not, in the eyes of the almighty Empire, deserve full disclosure. It was even possible that this was nothing more than a mild form of amusement to the humans - toy with them, release them, repeat. But they were getting paid, and that was all she needed to care about at the moment.

"Understood, Sir," she accepted quietly, and her full red lips twisted into a spiteful grin.

The smell of decaying fish covered everything. It no longer bothered her as much as it used to, she'd grown used to it. The boy, however, was not used to it and was currently trying not to vomit down his shirt. Cayrimsa cocked her head and looked at him, her face clear of pity for him.
The boy was probably no more than seventeen years old, a scrawny tanned human boy with dark eyes and hair that hung around his shoulders in a very attractive mess. He had given her his name, but for the life of her she couldn't recall it now. Now all she could recall were the words he had whispered in her ear. They rang out over and over in her head, until it seemed like he was screaming them against the rooftops.
They had met in one of the slimy bars that lined the docks, the boy was much too well dressed to have actually come from there. Silly rich boy wandering out for a night of fun. Well one of them was having fun at least.
Cayrimsa walked over to him slowly. Between gags he looked up at her, the fear livid on his features. When she bent down toward him, he struggled against the rope that kept him bound to the chair.
"Don't struggle so... I don't intend to kill you." She whispered with a smile.
"I know the smell is awful... but breath through your mouth and it isn't as bad."
"Look... please..." he started to stammer again but had to stop to keep the bile in his stomach.
"Shhh..." putting her fingers to her lips she shook her head.
Across the room was a table with a lantern on it, she beckoned with her fingers and the lantern slid off the table and glided easily to her feet. Reaching into the bag on her side she pulled out a round metal disc and set it carefully on the metal top of the lantern.
The boy strained against the ropes to see what was happening with the lantern.
"Nothing for you to worry about, yet." She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, he looked at her and again his eyes widened and if it hadn't been for the smell probably would have screamed.
After a few more seconds the small metal disc, now glowing red, rose up to the boys eye level. Quickly she moved behind him, clasped one hand over his mouth and the other over his forehead to keep him still.
"Please, don't squirm..." She hissed in his ear as the disc swung toward his left cheek.
The boy did not listen and as she held him he writhered mercilessly against her and the chair and the bindings that held him fast. His voice cried out against her hand as the disc met with his skin, a sizzling noise filling Cay's senses. Then another smell, more nauseating than the fish rose into the damp air.
However he screamed and squirmed she held him tight as the disc burned itself into the soft skin of his cheek. But the moment did not last that long, she knew it did not take long to leave the scar she wanted. The disc fell off his face and hit the ground. Smoke rose off his cheek and she let go of him.
Immediatly he started screaming. However, she was not worried, screams in this part of town did not attract attention. Circling around him she took a look at her work. Burned into the flesh in black and pink was the Bedine symbol, the symbol they burned into the flesh of Elven slaves.
She sat down across from him and let him scream until his lung wore out.
There was no reason to kill him, in fact Cay did not particularly enjoy killing, she did not see the point. If she had to wake up every morning in this hell, and look at her face and see a face the world despised every morning they would have to as well. Death was mercy, and she was far beyond mercy. The boy would now live like she did, ashamed of his features, hating himself as much as he hated the world. That would be her satisfaction, that would be her revenge.
When he stopped screaming finally, his body sagging in the chair, sweat dripping from every inch of sweat and the fresh Bedine mark flaming off his skin as an angry reminder, she walked over to him.
"So... you've never been with an elf before huh?" She whispered to him, echoing his words from before.
"Well you still haven't been. I'm not an elf, and I suppose you'll remember that now won't you?"
The boy simply stared at her in disbelief. Was this all truely because he had called her an elf? But he never got the chance to find out for certain.
The chair slid toward the doorway, nothing more than a curtain held over the landing to the stairs, was titled forward and in a swift motion of her dagger the ropes were slit and he went tumbling down the stairs. She did not even wait to see him hit the bottom before draggin the chair back in and letting the curtain fall behind her. Depositing of her nights entertainment as she desposited the garbage.
"Someday..." She thought to herself as she went to pick up the medallion off the floor, "someday they will all remember that."

Now she stood in Hydra's Breath listening to Dmitrova. Hydra's Breath was the only thing that actually made her enjoy this experience. The smoke, and the noise, and the smell of greasy food and cheap beer made her feel at home and at peace.
Dmitrova did none of that for her. He was an arrogant, badly dressed human, who thought he had some right bossing her around like this. Someday she would show him, but not today. Not that she was afraid of him directly, she simply knew that she was too low on the totem pole currently. And that any damage she inflicted on him would be returned to her ten fold, so she bit her tongue and listened to him.
She prefered to work alone, and he knew that, and yet here he was offereing her services to these other two as if it were completly normal. And the task, assasinations were not usually her thing, she prefered torture, but if it meant gold, and it meant power... she was in of course, unfortunatly.
Nyx stood next to her, this was his kind of work from what she knew of him. Assasination Prince right there. Assasination -Elven- Prince, just look at those ears. Full blooded, and proud of it, it made her want to puke on his shoes.
Then there were the twins, or twin, as she liked to think of them. They were not two people, they were one, that much she knew of them. And they too did not hesitate to kill, and to kill messily. To be honest they kind of creeped her out.
But perhaps with these other two she wouldn't have to do the actual killing, she could keep to getting them in and collecting the loot. And even if not... like she had said, she was in...

“Not even the gods know why he’d want to see you, Shyndyn, but, for whatever reason, he does.”

“Of course he does,” Nyx had sneered in reply, “Why toss a round-ear to the wolves when there is a filthy little elf handy, yes? What is it this time, breeder? Bloodletting at Granwythe’s manse, perhaps? Fouling Naxir’s temple with the spilled guts of his priest before stripping it of its wealth?”
The messenger had recoiled as Nyx continued with his imaginings, the things the elf suggested disgusted even one of Dmitrova’s dogs, it seemed. And so it should be… how else would one of Nyx’s bloodlines even be considered to freelance for the Hellkites were he not reputed for being capable of even the foulest, most reprehensible of tasks. “It means full membership,” the man had gulped, “If that says anything…”
It had. And, now, Nyx stood in the backroom at the Hydra’s Breath, his yellow eyes slithering curiously from face to face as he listened to Vadim’s pompous prattle. Other than the fact that Dmitrova had never been loathe to offer work to ‘a point-eared piece of gutter trash’ like himself, Nyx had very little use and even less respect for the swaggering bastard. The Hellkite Captain, as far as the mith’ganni was concerned, was little more than a cobble in the path and it would not be much longer before Prien called for this one’s thread to be severed as well. The others whom had been invited, though, were quite a different story. The job, of course, was presented as a simple assassination and retrieval but, the presence of these three belied the implied simplicity of it all…and the fact that none of them were human spoke volumes more.

The DeMoria Demons – wickedly lovely, half-blooded daughters of Prien whether they knew it or not – were in attendance…

An interesting addition, he mused as his moonlight gaze slid over the dark-haired beauties, recalling a time when he had stalked them through Drasnia’s streets simply to watch them work.

…The twins had a penchant for spilling blood and taking life, he was well aware, but he wondered if their inclination towards cruel and twisted cat-and-mouse games as a prelude to their killings wouldn’t be counter-productive to the ‘quick and silent as death’ requirements that Vadim had indicated. Not that he would personally mind if the Corycian noble (or any other breeder that might chance into their path) should fall prey to the sisters’ malicious machinations – in fact, he rather looked forward to watching them play their games up close for a change – but Nyx was concerned that the pair might snatch the severing of Thanald’s thread from its rightful place at the edge of Prien’s axe.

And then there was Cayrimsa…

Spell twisting little witch, was Nyx’s first thought, as his eyes darted to the other half-breed, torturer, mutilator…
His gaze fixed, for a long moment, on the brim of that floppy-brimmed, leather hat that covered the fact that the woman had trimmed away the points of her own ears. Like the DeMoria sisters, Nyx had also found the opportunity to watch this one from time to time, as well, and, from the very first, he had been curious as to why she might be inclined to embrace the taint of her human blood as opposed that of her elven kin… hadn’t the humans taken enough from their kind without her taking from herself?

…but not the killing sort. he offered the sorceress a bit of a leering smile when her own eyes met his. Indeed, evidence that there is much more to this task of Vadim’s than the man might be sharing.
“Now then, I’m furnishing you all with 50 gold pieces,” Vadim, as he absently tossed pouches of gold to each of them, was finally nearing the end of his rambling “for expenses. Use it however you see fit. Should you succeed, you will be given a significant cut of the profits, and be made full-time Hellkites.”

One of Nyx’s alabaster-skinned hands – the one that hadn’t held a punching dagger at the ready beneath his cloak since he’d entered the Hydra’s Breath – lashed out and plucked the purse intended for him from the air and tested it’s weight before disappearing back under the shadowy garment. His eyes hadn’t wandered from Cay in that time but his head had cocked curiously to one side and the leering smile had screwed itself into an almost knowing grin.

“I disgust you, my curious little cousin,” he whispered past a smirk, “is that it?...”

He cast a quick, sidelong glance at the Hellkite Captain as he trudged towards the wine bottle, then to the sisters DeMoria, before returning to the witch; “…You seek to fit into the breeder’s world when even your blood would have you stay in ours? Tsk,” there was something decidedly devilish but, at the same time, not at all unfriendly in his smile as he reached to draw the cowl of his cloak over his head and winked one moon-colored eye at her from the deeper shadows that now enveloped his features, “Perhaps we will change your mind about that before it’s all over, yes?”

“Well,” Vadim smirked after swallowing half a glass of wine in a single, greedy gulp, “That’s it then. Thanald is staying at the Grinning Goblin Inn on the north side of the bay, which is in Sea Snake territory. Obviously, the Sea Snakes are no threat to us, but it’d be best if you didn’t let ‘em know you were there, savvy? Be quick and silent as death and you’ll have no trouble. I expect nothing less from Hellkites.”

“Understood, sir,” Sylla – or ‘Spite,’ as he knew the woman – replied, smiling that lusciously wicked smile.

Nyx, for his part, simply cast a look in the Captain’s direction and snorted derisively as if the suggestion that he would be anything other that quick and silent was a great offense. “You’ll have your head,” he hissed, offering a fractional nod, before his gaze slinked across the DeMoria’s and Cay once more, “paltry advances aside.”

((OOC: room throughout for any ‘conversations’ or backposts… Nyx will likely suggest a get together to plan the mission, of course… Shall we, ladies? ))

((OOC: I just copied Eol's post and then added my own bits in blue (hopefully the blue works) ))

“Now then, I’m furnishing you all with 50 gold pieces,” Vadim, as he absently tossed pouches of gold to each of them, was finally nearing the end of his rambling “for expenses. Use it however you see fit. Should you succeed, you will be given a significant cut of the profits, and be made full-time Hellkites.”

One of Nyx’s alabaster-skinned hands – the one that hadn’t held a punching dagger at the ready beneath his cloak since he’d entered the Hydra’s Breath – lashed out and plucked the purse intended for him from the air and tested it’s weight before disappearing back under the shadowy garment. His eyes hadn’t wandered from Cay in that time but his head had cocked curiously to one side and the leering smile had screwed itself into an almost knowing grin.

Cay caught the bag when it was slung her direction. She did not weigh it in her hand, or peek inside to check if he was telling the truth about the amount, she was certain he was not, but again any unpleasantries she visited upon the human scum would be brought back ten-fold. The bag disappeared into a pocket inside her cloak in an instant. –The task must be harder than it seems, or more important, for him to offer 50 gold before and the promise of more, and membership after wards. I shall have to keep my eyes open on this one…- she thought to herself.
“I disgust you, my curious little cousin,” he whispered past a smirk, “is that it?...”

So the look she had shot back to him when he met her eyes earlier conveyed her hatred for his kind, good, she was glad they would not have to tread carefully around each other. Better that he know his pointy ears made her sick. To drive the point in even further she spit at the floor in front of his feet, and hardened her glance at him.
He cast a quick, sidelong glance at the Hellkite Captain as he trudged towards the wine bottle, then to the sisters DeMoria, before returning to the witch; “…You seek to fit into the breeder’s world when even your blood would have you stay in ours? Tsk,” there was something decidedly devilish but, at the same time, not at all unfriendly in his smile as he reached to draw the cowl of his cloak over his head and winked one moon-colored eye at her from the deeper shadows that now enveloped his features, “Perhaps we will change your mind about that before it’s all over, yes?”

“I did not ask for this blood…” she hissed at him under her breath, then turned her eyes back to the humans in charge, how she hated them even more than ever for putting her with this elven bastard.
“Well,” Vadim smirked after swallowing half a glass of wine in a single, greedy gulp, “That’s it then. Thanald is staying at the Grinning Goblin Inn on the north side of the bay, which is in Sea Snake territory. Obviously, the Sea Snakes are no threat to us, but it’d be best if you didn’t let ‘em know you were there, savvy? Be quick and silent as death and you’ll have no trouble. I expect nothing less from Hellkites.”

“Understood, sir,” Sylla – or ‘Spite,’ as he knew the woman – replied, smiling that lusciously wicked smile.

Nyx, for his part, simply cast a look in the Captain’s direction and snorted derisively as if the suggestion that he would be anything other that quick and silent was a great offense. “You’ll have your head,” he hissed, offering a fractional nod, before his gaze slinked across the DeMoria’s and Cay once more, “paltry advances aside.”

For her part she simply grunted something that sounded like an agreement to Vadim, her blood simply boiling at this point. Seeing that the summons was now over she did not wait to be excused, but simply spun on her heel, cloak flying out around her and headed for the door. They would of course need to come up with some plans for this little adventure, but she wasn’t going to do anything before she got herself a drink. Nyx would probably try to run this whole thing, the Assassin Elven Prince, and she would need some liquor to chock down whatever it was he had to say.

The exploitable masses, that is who they represented, at least in the eyes of the Wmpire, that wicked gleaming gem of destruction and death. Ah, but she was not, in their eyes fit enough to lick their bootheels, but good enough to kell for them. The power behind the Empire was not the Empire itself or the human puppests who defiled worlds in her name, but the many broken backs and bodies upon which the Empire was built. They may have been filth and the dregs of "society," but they were the wheels that turned the machine. Theywere the hands that got ditry for the Empire.

Paid and lingering in the great common hall of the tavern, a sigh, the briefest of breath, escaped her lips as she considered the interplay between the halfblood and the Assassin Pince. "Elven blood, human heart, this we're made of," Spite sang, her low dark voice a whispered carress, "there is none in The Empire we're afraid of. And i shall die with both of my hands untied." As she sang she stared at Cay and smiled wickedly, all the while wondering how one could hate her own blood as deeply as Cay seemed to hate hers. No matter, Sylla, reasoned. She had seen enough of Cay to respect the half-breed's style, even if she did let them live when she was done. But Nyx...

Under Mallys' disproving scowl, Sylla softened the sinister smile and stepped around the Assassin Prince, twirling lighty on her feet. She began to dance, to shimmy her lithe frame, and bend as a reed to the cacaphonous din of th room. "Tell me," she called to them, "wouldn't our discussion taste much better to the tongue with a bit of ale?"

((assuming agreement from all))

Leading her companions to a darkened table in the back, Syllla slid into the booth, trapping Nyx between her and her beloved other half. In hushed tones, she addressed Cay, inviting her to sit, if she did not mind sitting so close to one of fouled elven blood.

"But you, dearest, darkest, Cay, my sweet pretender, tell me what you believe to be your strengths, and we sisters shall tell you ours. Nyx's own, we know by rote and reason, don't we, dearest Mallys?"

((assuming "positive" response))

"Good and well, and such a nice fit within our little puzzle, don't you think, so, dearest Mallys?"

Her sister merely scowled, displeasure evident upon pursed red lips, in darkened emerald eyes. "Oh don't pout so, sister. IF we are to function as a signle sword, a singular enity, the one strike of an expert hand, would it not be of our mutual benefits to understand one another?"

When she had spit at his feet, Nyx smiled all the more and, with the toe of one soft, leather boot, ground the glob of spittle into the floorboards. He couldn’t help but wonder, at that moment, what her screams might sound like… and when the last time might have been that such music spilled past her lips.

“I didn’t ask for this blood…” Cayrimsa exuded hatred in more than just the tone of her whispered words or her burning glares. It seeped from every part of her and spread out in palpable waves much like the scent of dead and rotting fish that the witch seemed to wear as perfume.

The assassin basked in it… absorbed it… His razor-edged smile widening with each dark, pulsing shock.

No, little cousin, Nyx thought as he watched her storm from the backroom and towards the tavern proper, but you were blessed with it, yes? From the depths of the cowl, his unblinking, pale yellow eyes shadowed the sorceress’ steps and, from the depths of his chest, a low, iniquitous chuckle followed.

The laughter faded to nothing as the door clapped shut but the insidious grin remained as his gaze slid over those who remained in Dmitrova’s sanctum. “She loves me already,” Nyx smirked, directing the comment to no one in particular.

The mith’ganni’s eyes, at last, came to rest… no… consumed the Sisters DeMoria. The fingertips of one hand went to the symbol of Prien that was embroidered on the breast of his odd, padded coat before he sketched an eerily accommodating bow and said; “Should you ladies see fit to pleasure me with but a snippet of your time, I think we can find a more… how is it said?... appropriate environment for a chat, yes?”

Something predatory crept into the elf’s smile as his gaze flicked from Spite and Malice to Dmitrova. “By your leave,” Nyx hissed, offering an almost mockingly servile bow to the man as he backed, whisper quiet, towards the door, “Captain.” When he reached the door, the would be assassin spun about with the flourish of his cloak, threw the portal wide and, laughing aloud, slithered into the tavern in search of a table.

((OOC: Continued next to address Glory's latest... ))

"Elven blood, human heart, this we're made of," Spite’s voice carried to his ears as he padded through the doorway, "there is none in The Empire we're afraid of. And I shall die with both of my hands untied."
A bemused expression snaked across Nyx’s features as his gaze found Cay amongst the throng, then, Sylla’s nubile form danced a tight circle about him before she pirouetted past, and his expression transformed into something more than amusement. Tempting, my lovely, he leered, stopping briefly to watch her as she writhed along with the tavern’s din, but I’ve seen your game before and I’m not fool enough to touch you with your sister at my back, invited or not.
"Tell me," Spite’s black-honeyed voice called as she gyrated deeper into the common room’s shadows, "wouldn't our discussion taste much better to the tongue with a bit of ale?"

“Ale,” Nyx repeated past a wolfish smile, “yes.” He tore his gaze away from Sylla and he cast a shrewd glance over his shoulder at the silent sister behind him before following in the more vocal one’s wake. “Or wine,” he mused, almost absently, as his nimble fingers plucked a half-full glass of spirits from where someone had abandoned it on the corner of a table, “or this…” He shot the liquor down his throat as he moved towards the dimly lit booth selected by the black bardess – noting that she had selected one quite near to where the skulking Cay already sat - and carelessly discarded the now empty glass on some random table as he passed.

The assassin soon found himself somewhat pleasantly pinned between the Sisters DeMoria and, as Spite cooed an invitation to Cay, his hunter’s gaze swept a slow, discerning circuit around the tavern…

"But you, dearest, darkest, Cay, my sweet pretender,” Spite purred to the witch, “tell me what you believe to be your strengths, and we sisters shall tell you ours. Nyx's own, we know by rote and reason, don't we, dearest Mallys?"

((assuming "positive" response))

…His gaze was drawn back to the sisters at the mention of his name and the profession of knowing his strengths and the ghost of a smile flickered on his thin lips but he said nothing. Instead, he fixed Sylla’s eyes with his own for a long moment, his smile sharpening, then allowed the moonlight gaze to drift from her, to Cay, and then to Mallys at his other side whilst the sorceress made her reply…

"Good and well, and such a nice fit within our little puzzle,” Spite proclaimed, “don't you think, so, dearest Mallys?"

The silent sister merely scowled, displeasure evident upon pursed red lips and in darkened emerald eyes.

"Oh don't pout so, sister. If we are to function as a single sword, a singular entity, the one strike of an expert hand, would it not be of our mutual benefits to understand one another?"

“Quite,” Nyx agreed as he summoned a serving wench with a demanding wave of a hand, “as it would be to understand our mark before we move to sever the thread attaching him to his life, yes?” His mind was already working on the job, skittering through the lists of contacts that might be employed to serve the cause, noting those items that might be required for an operation of this sort to be run on the Sea Snakes’ turf, and recalling the more secretive paths in and out of the affluent district in which nobles and their ilk felt at their safest.

When she spun out of the door she headed immediately for the bar. Tossing an appropriate coin on the bar off handedly she shouted out to Ruun,
“Keep… ale. And don’t you water it down this time, I’ve got the money right here.”
Ruun grumbled under his breath at the impudent little witch, and then slammed down a mug in front of her, full of head.
“Thanks…” she muttered in return and took her glass, turning to face the room and see if her compatriots had come down as well. Catching Spite’s little tune her eyes narrowed. Not so much for the words, she had heard them enough, but for the fact that she knew it was directed at her. These two are just going to rub it in every chance they get aren’t they?
"Elven blood, human heart, this we're made of," Spite’s voice carried to his ears as he padded through the doorway, "there is none in The Empire we're afraid of. And I shall die with both of my hands untied."

A bemused expression snaked across Nyx’s features as his gaze found Cay amongst the throng, then, Sylla’s nubile form danced a tight circle about him before she pirouetted past, and his expression transformed into something more than amusement. Tempting, my lovely, he leered, stopping briefly to watch her as she writhed along with the tavern’s din, but I’ve seen your game before and I’m not fool enough to touch you with your sister at my back, invited or not.

"Tell me," Spite’s black-honeyed voice called as she gyrated deeper into the common room’s shadows, "wouldn't our discussion taste much better to the tongue with a bit of ale?"

“Ale,” Nyx repeated past a wolfish smile, “yes.” He tore his gaze away from Sylla and he cast a shrewd glance over his shoulder at the silent sister behind him before following in the more vocal one’s wake. “Or wine,” he mused, almost absently, as his nimble fingers plucked a half-full glass of spirits from where someone had abandoned it on the corner of a table, “or this…” He shot the liquor down his throat as he moved towards the dimly lit booth selected by the black bardess – noting that she had selected one quite near to where the skulking Cay already sat - and carelessly discarded the now empty glass on some random table as he passed.

The assassin soon found himself somewhat pleasantly pinned between the Sisters DeMoria and, as Spite cooed an invitation to Cay, his hunter’s gaze swept a slow, discerning circuit around the tavern…

She had followed the twin and Nyx toward the table from the bar. Making a slight face at Spite flirting with him so openly. If they started up some kind of tryst it would only complicate things, romance always did, and this task was much too important to let their raging lust get in the way. Then again, she would have a good time punishing them if they did, this brought a small smile to her lips as she continued to walk to the table. Ignoring the sweet cooed invitation from Spite she slid into one of the chairs opposite Nyx and grunted some kind of greeting to them all. Lowering her head so that the floppy brim of her hat covered her eyes she went to trying to drink as much of the ale as possible without lifting her head too far.
"But you, dearest, darkest, Cay, my sweet pretender,” Spite purred to the witch, “tell me what you believe to be your strengths, and we sisters shall tell you ours. Nyx's own, we know by rote and reason, don't we, dearest Mallys?"

((assuming "positive" response))

“From what I hear you and Nyx are not so different in strengths, only it takes two of you to accomplish what one of him does…” speaking directly into her cup, through bubbles of ale head. It was a thin line she just treaded there, knocking the sisters of course was dangerous in itself, but then she also just complimented the elf, which could prove to be more dangerous in the end, but the fact did remain. And truly she felt it was time the sisters know that they were not going to be best friends either just because they were both half breed girls.
“Not that I would be one to judge, my strengths are quite different. In this case I happen to know a lot about the area we will be in, I stay a couple of blocks down from that inn. He must not be that important if he’s staying there. I also know how to make people talk, so if he isn’t carrying that letter on his person, I’ll find out where it is. I also dabble in certain arts that may prove to be of value.” And just to show off the candle melting away in a waxy glass jar in the center of the table suddenly went out, darkening the groups faces for a second. Then with a poof it lit back up with a red flare, casting devilish light on everyone at the table, making them appear to be soaked in blood for a second, then it dimmed down to its normal flicker.
…His gaze was drawn back to the sisters at the mention of his name and the profession of knowing his strengths and the ghost of a smile flickered on his thin lips but he said nothing. Instead, he fixed Sylla’s eyes with his own for a long moment, his smile sharpening, then allowed the moonlight gaze to drift from her, to Cay, and then to Mallys at his other side whilst the sorceress made her reply…

"Good and well, and such a nice fit within our little puzzle,” Spite proclaimed, “don't you think, so, dearest Mallys?"

The silent sister merely scowled, displeasure evident upon pursed red lips and in darkened emerald eyes.

"Oh don't pout so, sister. If we are to function as a single sword, a singular entity, the one strike of an expert hand, would it not be of our mutual benefits to understand one another?"

“Quite,” Nyx agreed as he summoned a serving wench with a demanding wave of a hand, “as it would be to understand our mark before we move to sever the thread attaching him to his life, yes?” His mind was already working on the job, skittering through the lists of contacts that might be employed to serve the cause, noting those items that might be required for an operation of this sort to be run on the Sea Snakes’ turf, and recalling the more secretive paths in and out of the affluent district in which nobles and their ilk felt at their safest.

“Thought up that one all by yourself huh?” Smirking at Nyx, and actually raising her head just enough to let her dark little piercing eyes glance over at him, then continued with his train of thought. “Yes… we need to know his plans while in town, how many he has in his entourage and who they might be. Then of course where will we do it? If in the hotel, what room is he in, and how will we get in, and get back out later. Or if somewhere else… where and how to secure it and get him there. I usually prefer to work in my own space, where I have more control over the situation. Perhaps we should look into setting up some kind of base down there. I’d imagine you,” glancing at the twin, “could lure him just about anywhere we wanted him.”

As the group exited Dmitrova’s lounge and entered the Hydra’s Breath proper, they were met with the hustle and bustle of the tavern once more; shouts and arguments, smoking pipes and spilled ales were everywhere. The same half-elf that was getting his head beaten in by some off-duty Imperials was now sulking in the corner. The Imperials had gone – had their fun, it seemed – and left him with two black eyes and a bleeding face. One of the serving wenches had tossed him a steak and he was holding it to his head, blood oozing down his face.

Cay approached the bar, off-handedly tossing a coin towards him and demanding ale.

“…And don’t you water it down this time, I’ve got the money right here.”

Ruun grumbled, slamming down a full mug of ale on the bar in front of her. As she turned to leave, he held the coin up to the light, then bit into it. It was real, no doubt. Ruun shrugged and returned to cleaning mugs, but was soon called over by a rowdy group of merchants demanding libations.

Meanwhile, Nyx had called over a serving wench, and she nodded – she moved towards the table after having finished serving up ales to a table of dwarves. As she walked towards the group, she received a pinch on the behind by a passing human patron.

“Hey!” she shouted, and without even hesitating, she grabbed a half-full mug of ale out of the hands of one of the patrons at a table near her and hurled it full-speed at the back of the man’s head. He let out an “oof” as the heavy mug struck him and he tumbled forward, ale spilling all over him. Ruun merely shook his head and shrugged; the wench then spun on her heel and returned to serving Nyx and the rest of the party (the man whose ale she had grabbed was probably too drunk to notice).

“Hello, there,” she began, “And welcome to the Hydra’s Breath. The kitchen is making a fine soup and there’s always mutton. Now…can I interest you in some food…or some drink?”

The Hydra’s Breath was a jovial place, to be sure…most of those who frequented it were proud of their debauchery. They rolled around in their filth like pigs; and like pigs, they grew fat, and wouldn’t shy away from eating one of their own.

“From what I hear you and Nyx are not so different in strengths, only it takes two of you to accomplish what one of him does…”

Nyx spiked a brow at the witch’s observation but said nothing. Bold, this one, he thought as his gaze traveled around the room, placing her own throat to the blade and defying the hand that holds the knife to slide it into the flesh. Cay went on to perform her parlor trick with the candle by way of demonstrating her skill and, as simple a thing as he was sure it must be for spell-twisters, the bit with the candle-flame had brought a bit of a grin to the assassin’s face…A nice effect if nothing else…
Her quip in response to his recommendation that they not forget the basics of planning any job, though, dug at Nyx… Thought that one up all by yourself, huh?
“No, my precocious little round-ear,” he sneered, his yellow eyes reflecting the still red light of the candle, “I did not. I simply thought it appropriate to remind you that this business is much different from bending candle-flames to your will or luring stupid little noble boys back to your shanty for a branding, yes?” Suddenly, he had great interest goading her into giving him cause to open her belly and, had Prien seen fit to suggest that the pretending little slitch was due, he might have done so then and there. The approach of the serving wench, though, reminded him that his god had already offered up the mark and, for some reason, required him to take it with this one in tow.

“Hello, there,” the girl smiled, drawing the mith’ganni’s gaze from Cay, “And welcome to the Hydra’s Breath. The kitchen is making a fine soup and there’s always mutton. Now…can I interest you in some food…or some drink?”

“Wine,” Nyx demanded, “something with a bit of spice, perhaps. None of that piss that you serve the round-eared sots that upholster this hole.”

((OOC: Just a little something to keep the interaction going... More later, I promise. ))