[M] Blind Hope [Zangamarth & Ashen]

[Zangamarth]

[The following roleplay is rated mature for reasons that may include, but are not limited to, violence, blood, coarse language, sensual situations and drug use. Reader discretion is advised.]


“Remember, my son, only use this amulet when you know you need more power. When you are worthy, you will know it.”

Well, this definitely didn’t feel worthy. Not in the slightest. “Gods, no, please, I didn-” One final whack of his holy blade and he’d felled the last of them. They’d made off with his coin purse, and now he was stuck in the middle of Elimine-knows-where, and he was on his own again. Some fifteen men by his count had fallen to Holy Joyeuse, whether by blade or the holy magic lost to this land suddenly back in... but that wasn’t going to help him now. Another reason to curst that blue-haired assassin-bastard. He’d add that to the already long list.

Mercifully, there was a river close by, he could hear the gentle babbling. The Blind Wolf had insisted on traveling close to one was often as he could. It gave him enough sound to navigate by. Unfortunately, the rest of the landscape appeared to be some sort of... plains? Grassland? He couldn’t distinguish much. If nothing else, it was soft under his feet when he pulled his boots off to get some sort of idea, and it didn’t make enough noise to be anything crunchy. The ground was soft and didn’t come up easily. Maybe it had rained not too long ago? That meant the sound would be deadened further, restricting his range of vision to a rather small little area around himself.

It was... daytime. That was true. He could feel the sun’s warmth through his navy coat. If he turned, it was on his back. Unfortunately, that didn’t tell him a damn thing. The river might’ve helped if he knew which river it was and what direction it flowed. He didn’t. He was supposed to be headed home. Trusting Plegians was a bad move, yes, but his options were either go go from Valm to Ferox, down through Ylisse, and finally back home... or trust some Plegians. He had hoped to get this over with quickly. Generally, coin spoke truer than any slimy promise they could offer, and if nothing else he’d had plenty of that. More than a few sparring matches, contracts, and nights guarding people had supplied the prince with funds for a boat and crew.

Now, however, they were all dead. Perhaps he ought have left the last one alive, honestly... Too many of them had run off, and the only ones left had succumbed to the whirlwind of flashing, holy death. His first priority was to wash the blood off himself. He wouldn’t really be able to wash his clothes, not to any meaningful degree, but at least getting it out of his hair and face would be nice. Not terribly useful, but one had to take the small joys. Cold, absolutely, but especially refreshing after bathing in lukewarm ocean water. The rushing river also did wonders for his perception. For a little while, he was able to actually get a good look at things. As far as he could tell, he was on some kind of wide open plain. A few hills here and there, one of which he decided he would station himself atop. If nothing else, a bit of elevation would help anyone potentially around see him.

After washing off in the river as best he could, the Blind prince set about making some use out of himself. The cart was still there, meaning plenty of rations, he hoped. He would be fine if he had to wander for a while, it seemed. That was a start. Being that he was now broke, he decided to start identifying the deceased men’s weapons the only way he really could. Setting them in roughly similar piles and... licking them to figure out what metals they were. Not the most dignified approach, but he was alone out here. No one around to judge him, no one around to tell him how strange it was. If he were lucky, some would be valuable enough to sell and get a start on funding his trip again.

Perhaps this was better. Lost? Absolutely. Beyond question, he was tremendously lost with no real way to discern or divine his facing. He would have to wait until either a sundown or sunup to actually get any information on that. Which was useless since he had only a vague understanding of where he was. Somewhere in Plegia was about the best he really had. If he followed a river, he’d find civilization eventually, friendly or no. On the other hand, he was alone! Plenty of time to consider things, gather his thoughts, wonder, ponder, and meditate. No annoying chatter, no concerns about keeping appearances up, no “Yes, milord” or “Sire” or “My Prince” or anything like that. Just a Blind Wolf, his hunt, and the soft sound of a babbling brook.

That, and several dozen weapons he was attempting to sort by... well, by taste, frankly. He had little other option, honestly. Swords, all the same shape basically. Axes? Throwing or hand-held, but otherwise indistinct. If he could see, it would be a joke to make out what was what. Bronze, Iron, Steel, it all looked different, he assumed. They all tasted different too, but that meant licking blade after blade, sorting them into approximate piles by value and condition. Which meant hours running his fingers over every single weapon that had been readied against him to determine the condition, quality, and material. Peaceful, certainly, but also absolutely goddamn intermable.

And thus sat a blind, strange man, licking swords and putting them in piles, occasionally putting one on a small cart to be drawn by a single person. Most of them were absolute garbage, near as he could tell. Not that he really cared too much; he only had room for a few when he took into account the cart being mostly full of rations and other ill-gotten gains the brigands had stolen while the blind prince had slept. From far off, he must've looked a truly bizarre sight. A navy coat, a thick head of auburn hair, gear a mix of patchwork and royal-quality, a shield with a wolf's head emblazoned on it, and... well, licking swords.

[Ashen]

One, two, three, four...

It certainly wasn't much, four bullions wrapped in a fragile box, but it was enough worth saving. Altogether they would fetch around four thousand gold, enough to feed a family of two for a long while but not nearly enough to make up for the third member's absence. With dainty hands, a young woman sealed the box and ensured the package was safely contained. Satisfied, she sought someone to deliver to a land, a kingdom weeks away by wyvern, to a couple perhaps still missing their daughter. It was nearly all she'd saved up since her last package, save for the couple hundred gold she was keeping for food and shelter, if she were lucky. With her current mission, she didn't know if there would be any gold to send home ever again.

A castle. Spyrrha had stolen from a castle before, sure, but only once, and she had only gotten away by the skin of her teeth. She was a petty thief, accustomed to pilfering coinpurses from mindless nobles in crowded squares, but she had decided now was a time for a bit of excitement. With her valuables sent off, she looked down at her map, at her destination. If she didn't make it out of the castle alive, at least she would only leave behind a bow, a sword, and a dagger, her closest allies. From the looks of things, that would hardly be a concern. Edatol Castle was surrounded by water features, fountains and streams loud enough to cover a thief's footsteps. It would be a test of skill: break into the castle, find the treasury, grab whatever she could hold, and get out of there before anyone noticed anything missing. If she failed, she'd be thrown to the dungeons, put to death even, but if she succeeded, the petty thief would be living like a princess, if only for another day.

She rolled up her map and stuck it into a satchel behind her. Her fingers explored its contents, resting on a small bottle of poison. She didn't want to take any lives, but she knew better than to assume she wouldn't have to. Together with the poison and her precise aim with her bow, she was confident she'd be able to deal with any threats to her safety and her goals. So, taking inventory of her weapons hidden under her deep scarlet cloak, she set off for the nearby castle, watching the clouds congregate around its distant spires.

As she walked, she heard the sounds of a human nearby. Her pace slowed until she spotted him, a lone man in blue. He seemed lost, or perhaps mad. Was he... licking... swords? Spyrrha hesitated, wondering just what she was witnessing. She lost several minutes to watching him, trying to make sense of his actions, when she reminded herself that she had things to do. She started back towards the castle, albeit this time more distracted. What a curious fellow. If he were still there by the time she finished with her mission, maybe he would be an easy target too. His weapons might sell for a decent price, as long as no one knew they had been tasted. What a strange man, she thought, shaking her head, before dashing off towards the capitol.

She went unnoticed in the big city, a peasant girl traversing the streets like any other. This city reminded her of her hometown, though she adamantly swallowed such memories. She could spy pegasi in the air, and for a moment she stopped to watch them. She'd never seen a pegasus in person before, had only heard stories, and she was suddenly captivated by their powerful wings, their elegant movements through the air. Shaking her head, she refocused on her mission. She pulled her hood over her head, hiding a long, bronze braid that easily reached her hips and long bangs that framed her thin face. While approaching the castle, she spotted several guards, their axes and spears more intimidating than her rusting blades. She surveyed the castle, its exterior layout, from afar. She'd wait until it was later, wait for people to clear off the streets. The guards had impressive weapons, but like any man with hiding behind his steel, they would be powerless to a surprise, poison-tinted arrow to the throat.

While waiting, she decided to explore the city, keeping herself a part of the crowd. She was excited about her plans for the night, excited enough to walk with a girlish bounce in her boots, but she was also incredibly nervous. There was so much on the line, but fueled her excitement. Besides, there was never a point in doing anything that didn't present a risk. Absently, she wondered about the inhabitants of the castle. She knew little about the king and the queen, nor the possible princes and princesses within. If all went well, she would never have to think of them. What it would be like to be one of them, she thought, but she dismissed the idea. She'd rather be out exploring the world than confined to a castle, she told herself, with freedom a noble could never dream of. Finding a spot to sit under a tree near the city square, the thief plopped down and removed the small dagger from her belt. Patience, Spyrrha, she told herself. The fun starts later.​

[Zangamarth]

To know so little would perhaps be her undoing. The plegians were good for their word, somehow. They had perhaps hoped to ransom the prince back to his homeland... on the other hand, trying to ransom a prince was difficult enough, never mind to a kingdom that played host to 1,000 people, one whose citizenship test included facing off against 10 common guardsmen, then surviving for a minute against one of their most talented. Never mind the fell reputation of their Queen, nor their King's fearsome status...

Desmond somehow arrived at his own castle after some significant bumbing and the aid of some of the friendly tribesmen of the plains outside the castle, he was greeted as he had expected... some confusion about the cart of blades, general happiness that he was back... and the immediate question he was given every time: Was he staying long or just passing through. A difficult question for the Blind Wolf, and one he hated answering. His frown always deepened. It wasn't right that a Prince would be "passing through" his own land, but more than once it was the accurate answer. Sometimes, he barely even had time to see his kith and kin. He had missed seven of his siblings' nine birthdays, he had missed his own coming of age, he had missed his parents' 30 year anniversary.

This time, however, he was staying for quite some time. The guard weren't terribly bothered at his present state. More than once had he shown up bloody, disheveled, and grumpy. Actually, the last one was more or less his constant state of being. The life of a mercenary was not a terribly kind one, and Desmond had never been the sunniest of men even before going blind. He took well after his Mother, and it was said their faces nearly matched quite frequently. Certainly he'd inherited her hair, though she took pains to straighten hers. Under a Trickster's hat, it had been well hidden. These days, the Sage didn't give her such opportunities.

As soon as he was within his walls, Desmond relaxed visibly. All the water features would've ordinarily masked anyone's footsteps... and they did! Footsteps weren't what mattered to him, though. All the running water gave him perfect visibilty of his home and set his nerves far more easy than anywhere else. Amongst all the guardsmen and townsfolk, he was... kind of short. He had never been very tall, and the bland, non-nutritious diet of a Mercenary hadn't exactly done wonders for his growth spurt back in the day. His reddish curls made him easy to spot, though, especially contrasted to what he wore. A navy jacket emblazoned in black with a wolf's head, his personal mark as the Blind Wolf. That was a name he'd taken when he'd chosen to hunt his sight's thief until the end of his days. It was also a badass name for a Pit Fighter, a fact he had very much enjoyed when he was 14.

Once settled in, Desmond had decided to go about training. Shirtless, naturally; the armor he wore was light, but he had no need for it here in his own home. He was built like a man who fought for a living. Muscular yet lithe and with more functional muscle than any kind of showy, body-builder muscle. He was relatively unscarred for someone in his line of work. Very little on the back, a few on the sword arm here and there... and across his chest, one very nasty one. A line from right shoulder to the middle of his left side. All around it, about an inch on either side, the flesh was purple and throbbed visibly if one looked at it closely. Whatever had wounded him like that was some sort of horrible, fell blade.

Taking his time, Desmond enjoyed a spot of training in the practice room. It connected with several different hallways, a nice open room with training dummies, practice weapons, and plenty of other lovely amenities. Running water in all four corners too, more than enough to mask any sort of footsteps. He was running through drills and maneuvers, demonstrating a remarkably acrobatic sort of fighting style, one that befit a man of shorter stature. Jumps and leaps were a large part of his repertoire, as well as rolls, spins, and dodges. He had avoided injuries through his career by combining some dancing, parkour, and generally trying to avoid incoming blows instead of blocking them, and it showed! If nothing else, it was excellent to show a crowd, and kept his downtime minimal.

[Ashen]

In only a few hours, she would find herself within the castle walls. Spyrrha was silently as she walked through the halls, taking inventory of everything she saw that could fetch a pretty penny in the next town over. The castle was quiet, but not silent. The fountains all about the place were more than a fashion choice, she figured, but she couldn't quite understand what purpose they served. Right now, they were only making her job easier, concealing the sounds of her leather boots searching for all the gold she could pilfer.

This castle was shaped differently from the one she knew. These ceilings were taller, or the halls were wider; something about it was off. She found amusement in studying the place's architecture, as if this were all just a game anyway. From the smirk on her face, it may as well have been. She didn't have to know where the treasury was to know exactly where she was going. The way she moved about the castle, hiding behind statues, quickly scurrying away from wide open places; it was as if she had grown up within these very walls. Adrenaline was pumping through her, giving her a bounce in her careful steps. She was in a castle, a foreign castle, and pretty soon she'd have the riches of a princess.

She knew she wasn't alone. Some people were still awake, despite the moon peering through the windows. The water masked their footfalls too, and she cursed the currents. She'd have to be more careful, relying less on her ears. Absently, she fingered the dagger stored in her brassiere. She'd made quick work of anyone who caught her off guard--as if that would happen.

And then she found it, a room filled with treasures and trinkets passed through the family line. Spyrrha slipped into the shadows of the room, first observing all the shining objects. What would she take? She fingered an emerald brooch, admired the work that must have gone into crafting it. The aquamarine encased in silver stood out too, its gentle hues reminding the thief of beaches she'd never ventured. The topaz perhaps was most alluring, its size nearly bigger than the band it sat on. Any one of these items would make enough money to live comfortably for months--years even. Taking the emerald into her hands, Spyrrha wondered, briefly, what it would be like to wear such ornaments for fun. Holding the aquamarine to her chest, she wondered what kind of life she could have had.

So lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the clock ticking her night away. Still hidden from view, the castle thief figured she had time to stop and admire the merchandise.

[Zangamarth]

Hidden from all sight, absolutely. No one could see her. That wasn't as important as it ordinarily would've been. The strange sounds, the slight clink, it was inaudible to just about anyone. On any normal night, she'd have been in, done, and out without a single incident. To be certain, she was an absolute professional.

"I recommend you drop that." There was a sound behind her, a blade being unsheathed, and then the cold feeling of a sword tip at the back of her neck. Had he relied on eyes, he'd have never found this. But he didn't. The sound of the water only focused him. Distinguishing things out of the white-noise it provided was simply second nature. And the pitch dark she'd used to hide in this vault meant absolutely nothing. The moon's light lit her way just enough to hide from the guards. He didn't care about the moon, or even remember its embrace.

The blind man's strange schedule was known to most who understood his affliction. Without any clear definition between night and day, his sleeping habits bordered on esoteric. 4 2-hour naps a day, stretched here and there, rarely ever in much of a proper pattern. It was that very schedule that had put him up and pacing the corridors of his home that night. A mixture of anxiety, anger, memorization, and perhaps most importantly a foreboding sense of pain, had stayed him from his rest. Most people who'd heard of or worked with him knew about his bizarre habits. His title wasn't some joke. The Blind Wolf was sincere.

"Impressive indeed," a calm voice added. The swordpoint at her neck was not the only thing in his hand. If she attempted to throw something backward, he had a shield readied. He could practically hear her heartbeat racing, and definitely, albeit barely, make out the sound of her muscles starting to contract. "But I sincerely recommend you put that back." He did not sound demanding nor even particularly threatening. The sound of footfalls headed her way, on the other hand, were a bit more ominous. Heavy, armored, and rather quicker than she might've liked. She had outfoxed the entirety of a rather zealous, overprotective guard. He sounded genuinely impressed and tremendously focused.

Even a moment's lapse in concentration and he risked losing his track on her. He could nearly make out her heart rate and he didn't want to lose that. The vault itself was a simple room, no water-features in it whatsoever. One way in, one way out, and the man behind her stood in that particular door, his hand very slightly twitching. The point of his sword moved ever so slightly as he readied it to strike if she made any sudden moves. He really hoped she didn't. He'd had enough of killing for a while.

[Ashen]

Everything was going perfectly, and Spyrrha was just about ready to drop to her knees and thank Naga for her good luck, but before she could even think to move out of the way, there was steel at her throat. She stilled, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. She wasn't scared; not yet. This was simply a challenge she had to overcome, a way to earn the dazzling gold in her hands. She just didn't know how she'd been found out. She'd been silent, invisible; what kind of guard had her now?

Spyrrha bit her tongue. The man behind her was short but built. He'd come for battle from the sounds of his armor and the blade of his weapon, and Spyrrha was happy to oblige him. His shield would protect him from a dagger, or even her sword, not that she had the time to unsheathe it. How much time had this man had to prepare? It was almost as if he'd been expecting her. Slowly, she turned her head to look at her captor. The moonlight shone over the curve of his nose, the swell of his lips, but she couldn't make much of his face. Probably just another overpaid guard getting in her way, she figured. She had to figure out a way to slip past him and get out through the only door in the room--but how?

Feigning obedience, Spyrrha let the jewelry fall from her hands. It landed on a pedestal with a soft clink. The only way she was getting out of this mess was through homicide, but with his shield and armor, she'd have to be careful. Perhaps a poison-tipped edge through his eyes, or even through his throat? She'd have to make it quick, unelss he'd already alerted the others. She didn't have time to waste. Spyrrha wriggled from her captor and offered him a big grin. "Well this is awkward, isn't it?" she said cheerily, voice free of any sort of fear. "I guess I'll just be on my way, then. No harm done, yeah? It was nice getting to see you."

Some would say she was too carefree about the situation. Spyrrha did care--at any moment she feared a sword through her neck--but she wasn't one for panicking. If she could just get him to lower his guard, if even a bit, she'd have an opportunity to dispose of him quickly enough to take what she could and get the hell out of here.

[Zangamarth]

Her captor fixed her with what he really hoped was a somewhat more intimidating stare. He was listening not to her words, but to her heartbeat, focusing on her muscle contractions. He could damn near make it out by now, but it meant he had to be completely dialed in on that. Not focused on what she said nor focused on what those muscles were leading to. Just on the sound of their contractions and movements.

"The fact that you made it down here is rather impressive, I must admit," he conceded. Guards were rapidly making their way toward the blind prince, but he couldn't relax. He'd let her stand, but she wasn't going anywhere. No, she was going for something. He could hear her arm start to contract. Whatever she was going for, he had to stop her. "I wouldn't if I were you," He warned softly as his own arm tensed. His legs too. If she tried to jump it, he would give chase. If she tried to attack someone, he would strike her down... surely, surely he could manage that.

Footsteps were getting quite close now, guards rounding the corner. "Milord!" No, he still couldn't lose focus! For a moment, he stopped to acknowledge one of them. For a moment, he had to. "Watch her," He told his men. His sword didn't drop, but his head did move... not that that meant a whole lot, all things considered. In the pale moonlight, his eyes were hidden, thus obscuring his affliction. He looked like anyone else when one couldn't actually see his eyes. Still, it was an obvious lapse in concentration, one that would perhaps afford her some sort of chance at escape.

His men were closing into a circle around the door, forming a protective barrier. All of them were well armed and armored, a shield wall and spears positioned to prevent anyone from attempting to escape. They were regimented, well trained, and obviously professionals. Their helmets were matte to prevent any gleaming in the night, and despite how loud their footsteps had been, suddenly they were quieter than they had been arriving. Their armored, shuffling steps were either masked by the water or by greater caution.

[Ashen]

He was impressed with her, but just wait until he saw what she had up her sleeve. Spyrrha was amused by this man, by his praise. He warned her, as if that would stop her. She knew standing here was suicide, and if her only way out was through him, she wasn't about to take orders. She kept her eyes on his shield, on his legs, his stance. He wasn't going to let her through, not easily, but if she could just loosen him up some, make her opening...

But then she heard them, the echoing voices and scurrying down the hall. He'd alerted other guards, though the waterfalls made it impossible to tell how many. She glanced towards the fallen gold, silently swearing. So much for living like royalty, she thought. Now she just had to make it out alive. Spyrrha turned back to the man in front of her, and she watched as he addressed someone, perhaps another guard. He was trying not to focus on them, to keep all his concentration on the thief he'd caught, but there was a moment, that fleeting second, where his head was turned, his concentration wavering. Spyrrha took that to move.

She didn't have time to kill him now, not when she didn't know how many men were behind him. She drew only her dagger, its tip sharp and ravenous, and she went for the leg not behind a shield. She drove her dagger into the man's thigh, hoping it would hinder him enough to not give chase. Wary of his sword, she slipped past him, using her small frame and agility to her advantage. He was too big, too ready to take hits; he'd never keep up with someone trained to evade people like him.

Spyrrha didn't get far. She knew she had to keep moving, but there were guards lining the halls, coming at her with shields and spears. The guard she'd dazed would also be coming for her soon, thought she hadn't even waited to see how he'd reacted to his wound. She didn't have time; she needed to get by somehow. Tucking her dagger back where it had come from, Spyrrha drew her sword, a simple thing that had protected her better than anyone ever could. She chose a guard and lunged for him, knowing she would fail. A petty sword against his shield. she'd never get anywhere...

But she wasn't trying to. She raised her sword skyward and slammed down on his shield, loving the rumble it made through the halls. With his shield now angled, Spyrrha took her opportunity, leaping onto the shield and deflecting the spear. She stumbled on her dismount, jumping past the wall, using the hall wall to stabilize herself. She sheathed her sword as she sprinted, breaths uneven, smile glistening. Had she just jumped over a wall of guards trained on her? Spyrrha glanced behind her for only a moment, then took through the halls like a jackrabbit. She needed to get out of this cursed castle before she could breathe again. There was no doubt in her mind; she would make it. She'd come too far not to.

If nothing else, Edatol Castle would at least give her a great deal of excitement and a story to tell at whatever bar she'd choose to celebrate her life, later.