(OOC) Thu May 14 1998 04:19 PM by "Greywolf2" at "Holodeck 1" -->
A crash of thunder. A flash of red that splashes across all vision, and pain that overwhelms … and then subsides into numbness. Visions play across closed eyes. A beautiful feline face … a maiden … mouth opened and frozen in the middle of a cry for help, looking with longing eyes upon her rescuer … a vision blocked by a more sinister visage, another feline, but face hidden in shadow, showing only cold eyes whose only warmth is what is provided by burning hatred. A flash of sharp chitin. A howling wind. A great force striking, buffeting, knocking off balance. But the enemy is thrown back, overwhelmed. With a flick of a sharp chitin dagger, the maiden is freed from the embrace of cruelly-drawn cords of twine. She throws her arms out … Thunder crashes.
The moans of the wounded and dying fill the air, punctuated by crashes of thunder, and the creak of overly strained wood. A few broken pieces fall from the shattered ceiling, along with ceramic shingles that fragment as they smash against the hard tiled floor.
A dark feline lies sprawled amidst the rubble, numerous strong men of varied races strewn about him. A wickedly-barbed wooden pole protrudes from a richly-dressed form who could as easily be a prince or a pimp for all his trappings. The decor of the place suggests the latter. Although the rain invades the parlor by means of the wounded roof, the air is still heavy with perfumes and incense.
The feline, wrapped in a tattered cloak that is ravaged as if by countless battles, moves slightly, an equally ragged hood obscuring his black-furred face.
A few females (one would not dare call them 'ladies') whimper as they slip away from the scene of carnage. Only one rises to stand above the disaster, to survey it, to see the dark feline lying atop the many bodies.
The standing figure is adorned in dull black: a light cape, wide chitin pauldrons with barbed ridges, and a cowl which conceals … who knows what sort of face. While the humanoid form rules out some species, it still leaves so much about the wearer's identity unknown. And the unknown wearer now strides toward the slumped dark feline. Light from outside – from some distant flame, not the Procession – attempts to illuminate the hooded one's face.
The light fails. Underneath the hood is only a blurry, dark … vague spot that defies any definition. Nonetheless, the stranger looks upon the dark feline. A hiss emanates from somewhere, bearing the words, "Who are you?" The greeting does not sound friendly.
The slumped feline slowly and groggily comes to, his half shut eyes forced painfully open. His head aches badly, but he's used to this kind of pain, although he doesn't know why. For that matter, he doesn't know anything… where is he? What is his name? Nothing comes to mind… nothing that is, except… "Shi-… Shikouju… "
"YOU!" answers the voice. "You … you can't possibly be alive!" There's something disturbingly vague about the voice. How did it sound just a few seconds ago?
One of the scandalously-clad Kavi females at the edge of the parlor lets out a loud gasp at the sound of the name, and she echoes it in a soft whisper, then hides her face, unable to look at the dark feline.
A whisper … "… Shikouju! His name makes women and strong men alike weep in fear of the destruction that follows in his wake. Shikouju! How many have fallen to his simple but deadly blade? Shikouju the Sable Palm! Shikouju the Silver Knife! Better to end one's own life at one's own hands and maintain a trifle of destiny, than to meet a cruel end at his angry hands. Speak not that name easily … for he may hear you!" There is no echo in the room of the voice, no mouth open to have uttered it … but it rings with familiarity. So does this whole situation, as if the dark feline could have stepped out of one battle a few minutes ago and right into yet another. And it appears another may be forthcoming, as the hooded one with the barbed ridges readies a wicked-looking chitin blade that appears as if from nowhere.
"I do not fear you, legend or no," utters the vague one. "Know that you meet your end at the blade of Maestro Serrate, Bearer of Pain … the only one who shall leave the Still Pools of the Lotus Fan alive."
Shikouju painfully gets to his feet, a small wince crossing his face tinged with a solemn look of defiance. Much is starting to come back to him! He remembers that he is feared by many, but that he himself fears no one. The feline steadies himself and regards the vague one coolly. "Those words are spoken by either a brave tongue, or a foolish one." His hand down to the dagger at his side, made of black obsidian, the bane of many.
A weak moan comes from a part of the establishment, a little farther away. Another black-clad figure, much like the one standing over the dark Khatta, props himself, herself, itself up on one elbow. With the same strangely indistinct voice, the fallen individual says, "Wh-… what is… ?"
Maestro Serrate takes a step back, as the dark feline rises. "You have ruined my plans, Shikouju, but you are overconfident to leave yourself so vulnerable! I shall put an end to your miserable existence, in your weakened state … and then earn the respect I deserve among my comrades!" Those plans spelled out so clearly, a chitin dagger soon follows under cover of bluster.
No sooner does the vague one end it's words than the dark feline springs, flipping backwards twice and landing with dagger unsheathed. "Respect is earned through much more than killing, my dear Maestro." Although tired, the feline gets in a defensive posture, ready for all.
A hiss emits from the cowl of the attacker, and the dagger misses its mark, though it darts as if with a life of its own apart from the warrior that holds it, seeking out its intended target. But Shikouju, even in his weakened state, is no mere trifle.
The cloaked figure lying on the floor tries to struggle to its feet, but fails, sinking back down with a sharp exhaling breath. It just watches helplessly amid broken glass and splintered wood as the drama unfolds.
The ladies of ill repute retreat, keeping clear of the battle between the two very dangerous combatants, sometimes letting out a shriek or squeal – either at the scene before them, or upon stumbling across one of the dead thugs strewn amidst the remains of the broken roof.
Slowly Shikouju circles towards his opponent, dagger raised and ready. He stops, and just as he seems about to lunge, the black feline kicks a sizeable beam of broken pillar at Maestro, and follows with a slashing leap aimed at the throat!
Alas, the broken pillar – what a stroke of bad luck! – proves to be far heavier than it appeared. Maestro Serrate manages to avoid the thrust, almost catching a bystander with a swinging blade. A tabby feline in a silken gown falls backward, away from the attack, through an already-torn rice paper wall divider, destroying a scene of white flowers floating upon a placid pool, and of cloud-shrouded mountains rising up in the distance, and two lovers – Well, perhaps it wasn't high art after all.
All in all, it results in Maestro Serrate's dagger lunge missing Shikouju just as widely. "You insolent fool! How dare you toy with me by pretending to be so unskilled?"
Crouching, Shikouju looks up at his attacker. "Then I shall have to quit pretending!" Fast as he can, the cat makes a sweep at Maestro Serrate's legs, holding his dagger high in defense.
And quit pretending he does. Perhaps Maestro Serrate dared entertain the notion that this was a mere impostor, some incompetent pretending to a name of glory. But this dagger is not held by fumbling fingers, but rather by a knowing hand finds its way past the hooded one's defenses, making a crimson slash that does no real damage, but serves its purpose by distracting the opponent while not leaving oneself open for counter-attack. A cry of pain comes from Shikouju's opponent, who is thrown off-balance, falling against one of the pillars … this one relieved enough of the roof it once supported to topple over, causing a domino effect as it destroys a great deal of furniture.
Shikouju rolls forward to avoid the destructive chaos ensuing around him, but then quickly springs at Serrate, stabbing downwards at the fallen fiend's body.
The dagger of Shikouju does not err. It finds its mark exactly where the deadly warrior intended: right into the chest of the fallen foe. There is a gasp, mingled with both surprise and pain, and then the hooded one falls back to the floor, still and silent very quickly after the deadly blow.
Shikouju pulls his weapon from the fallen opponent, and stands back, cleaning the dagger with a scrap of cloth found on the floor. Even in death, the hood keeps the face of Maestro Serrate vague. The feline slowly walks forward, paws stretched to reveal the visage beneath.
The other hooded figure looks on from where he's propped himself up on the edge of an upset table. "Incredible… I had doubted it as impossible, but it is true… the Sable Palm lives… " He shudders, clutching his side, and wobbles a little.
Alas, the visage is not revealed, for in the brief moment spent to withdraw the dagger and clean it, something has begun to happen to the fallen fighter. A light mist drifts out from the hood and from the sleeves and cuffs … and then it becomes tendrils of curling smoke that rise as the body shrivels and dissolves.
In mere moments, nothing is left of the Maestro Serrate but a smoking pile of cloths … and even that, too, is dissolving, along with an outline being etched into the wooden floor.
The dark cat takes a step back, mouth open in a stunned expression. Sorcery! He watches as the remains of Maestro slowly disappear, eyes locked there for some time. Then… a voice? Shikouju turns to regard the other figure in the room, his pain returning as he does so. Calmly but agonizingly, the feline makes his way over to the other hooded figure.
Lightning flashes and thunder crashes almost immediately, filling the room with a deafening peal and a blinding light that limns the form of the triumphant Shikouju. The women of ill repute shrink away from him as he makes his progress through the remnants of the battle.
"I would have surely been slain if you hadn't arrived, Silver Knife," whispers the hooded person. "But even now, danger lingers… we must go now, back to our brothers in arms… "
Another rumble of thunder echoes, as if to underline the hooded person's warning.
Shikouju searches his memory, but he cannot remember the name of this person, nor that of his 'brothers in arms.' Nevertheless, a sense of urgency fills the feline, and he helps the hooded figure to his feet. "What is our direction, friend?"
The cowled figure nods briefly. Though he looks to be in pain, he seems to be recovering enough to where he can walk quickly, with a stumbling gait and Shikouju's aid. "To the back alley door… from there, we may return to my guild hall. For saving my life, I give you my name… Maestro Sizion, the Trackless Savant. Come, sanctuary awaits… "
Even with the name given, no recollection fills the cat's mind. Helping the hooded one walk, Shikouju makes his way as quickly as possible towards the alleyway exit, then hurrying down the path as dictated to him.
Outside, puddles where missing cobblestones should be dance as fat raindrops plunk into them. This charming little berg is familiar, somehow… Darkside! Though Sizion himself moves slowly, his surprisingly tall stature affords him a long stride. He lopes along, with the black Khatta bearing some of his weight. "Turn left here." "Through this alleyway." "Climb that ladder." "Tell him, 'The charnel house has new patrons'." "Pull that latch." "Knock thrice, and once with your ring finger." "Through this door."
Shikouju follows all the directions he receives as they are given, still puzzled at just what he is doing them for.
The directions lead the Sable Palm through a maze of confusing side-streets and checkpoints. As they go on, the streets and alleys become narrower, the houses they pass through more frequent, until finally, the last building the pair passes through is almost completely dark. Shikouju's low-light eyes catch the dim outline of a number of hatches on the floor. Maestro Sizion directs the Khatta to open a specific one, and the two of them drop through it, into a narrow underground chamber.
The dark Khatta, now down in the chamber, stops to look around, still puzzled at what is exactly taking place. "Excuse me Maestro Sizion, but might it be rude of me to ask where I am being led?"
Though it'd be hard to tell just looking at the individual, Sizion's frame relaxes as the hatch shuts above the two. The tunnel is composed of somewhat damp ceramic tile, smooth and with small droplets of condensation on it. It composes a long mural depicting row after row of hooded people engaged in different things, though most of them tend to be… violent. "We are in the guildhall of the Faceless Men."
Shikouju continues to survey his surroundings, taking in the sights that meet him on all sides. He then turns to his hooded companion, a puzzled expression upon his face. "Faceless Men? What do you mean?" He looks around a bit more, "this is all very strange. Why have you brought me here?"
"In saving one of our number, we are in your debt," replies Maestro Sizion, leading past a grisly portion of the mural with a scene of three the cowled figures, all sans face, standing over a body with a dagger sticking out of it. "The Faceless Men are part of Rephidim's underworld. I imagine that, in your travels, you may not have visited Rephidim as extensively as one of our kind might usually have."
The black cat follows along, his gaze momentarily given towards the morbid mural, "My business pertains more to the surface of Rephidim, so I have rarely delved beneath it." Shikouju thinks back to the fight, and a question comes to mind. "The one I fought, was he one of your kind?"
The cowl dips once. "Serrate was indeed. He was enticed into a deal with someone that would have been… unfavorable to our organization." The scene on the wall scrolls past into another, a gruesome depiction of a victim being dissected – presumably to fit in a ditch dug farther down the wall. "I refused it after Serrate had accepted, and he realized that I would report to the Point. He tried to silence me, and with the aid of his new employer's minions, almost certainly would have done so… "
"Organization?" Even Shikouju has to restrain a slight look of disgust at the contents of the walls. "What does your 'organization' do? And what was the deal that this Serrate made?" The cat shifts uneasily as he follows Sizion, the murals giving him an ill feeling.
An intersection in the tunnels is reached, and they grow higher and wider. The murals occupy different walls now, done with finer tiles and more skill, as if time had passed for the artisan, just while they travelled down the hall. Here, some sort of long-muzzled victim is garroted. There, a form of rodent is slumped over a table, an upset chalice lying by a partly open paw. Always, the Faceless Men are there. A few of the real thing are also around, gliding down the tunnels on their own tasks. They act as if they pay no attention to Shikouju, though their hoods occasionally shift in the Khatta's direction, when they think he's not looking. "Ignore them," says Maestro Sizion, as if the other Faceless Men were being so blatant as to gawk. "You are a surprising sight, down here. I will report to the Edge, and present you to them, that they may know what happened. You will be enlightened there."
Shikouju nods at his hooded companion, and continues to follow behind. His gaze strays to the other figures walking about, and he vainly searches for any trace of facial features. None can be seen. Although nothing has happened to him as of yet, the Khatta still feels uneasy in this deep, dark place.
A few twists and turns later, a tall pair of wooden doors is reached, behind which come the murmurs of conversation. Maestro Sizion, now able to hobble under his own power, pushes the door open, leading into a tall, rounded chamber of dark blue tiles. Six of the assassins sit around a C-shaped table, similar to Sizion, but with three small grooves in the right pauldrons. Their conversation stops. "Maestro Sizion, the Trackless Savant. What is your business with the Edge? … And who is this?"
The dark Khatta makes a bow to those at the table, "My name is Shikouju the Sable Palm, some also call me the Silver blade." He regains his posture and looks at the members of the Edge, without emotion and perfectly still.
This brings a collective murmur from the six assembled Faceless Men, who look at each other. "Impossible!" "Can it be?" "He's dead!" Sizion raises his hand. "It is so, my brothers. The treacherous Serrate, Bearer of Pain, sought to leave us… his discipline problems in the past come together in the present. Serrate attempted to kill me, and the Sable Palm intervened." Another of the Edge say, "But… why? What happened, 'Shikouju'? Why did you interfere?"
The Sable Palm's mind races at the talk of the hooded figures. Dead? Someone must be spreading rumors. "I intervened simply because… because… " The Khatta stops. Why did he interfere? Shikouju searches his mind, but nothing before the fight returns to him except for a few hazy images of thunder, figures, and- a maiden? The feline shakes his head, "I-… I don't know… "
Maestro Sizion says, "It is the nature of the wandering assassin. He goes where he faces when he wakes up, to hone his art. I saw how easily he slew Serrate, and a Faceless Man is anything but easy to slay… who else but the Sable Palm could do so?" The Edge shift in their places in a moment of uncomfortable silence. One of them ventures, "The word of our brethren is bonded… " "If Maestro Sizion bore witness to this feat… " "We can not be sure… " "The Point must arbitrate." Again, there is a brief silence, and finally one near the center says, "Until we know further, 'Shikouju' is due sanctuary within our halls. Whether or not he is who he says he is is irrelevant now, for we owe him a life, and give him his own. You may walk among us, Silver Blade, but we would respectfully ask that you consult the Point upon his return."
The Edge's words bring some bit of recollection to the feline – assassin, that does seem familiar, even if it 'feels' as though he is selective on who he practices his art upon. Shikouju turns his gaze back to the gathered Faceless ones, "Thank you, I am honored." Why is he honored? And who is the 'Point'?
Sizion shifts his weight a little. "We will speak with him. Shikouju, please accompany me, and we will find suitable quarters for you. Temporary, I assure you."
After giving a nod to Sizion, Shikouju gives a final bow to the members of the Edge, then follows his cowled companion out of the chamber. After they are clear of earshot, the Khatta gives an inquiry. "What did they mean by my being 'dead'?"
"You do not know? It was as I feared, then," The cloaked figure limps along. He seems to be as well as can be expected now, though he still doesn't compare at the moment to the other Faceless Men that sweep smoothly up and down the hallways. After a short distance, the Khatta is brought to a medium-sized room. It's surprisingly well-appointed, with exquisitely carved wooden furniture, a bed with clean linens, plush knitted rug, and various amenities. "By the time I recovered enough from my own beating, I saw you, wounded, standing before Serrate, with Serrate's minions dispatched around you. Against such odds, I suspect you may have suffered an injury that may have unsettled your memory, for the present." Though it's hard to pick out in the strange distortion, Sizion's voice bears some urgency. "I advise you to show no such weakness… you have enemies. We may be able to see a doctor, but perhaps some rest will help you."
Shikouju looks completely confused, but decides to ask no further questions. "I will do as you say." The Khatta enters the room and gives a look about. Quite homey.
Maestro Sizion nods, and performs a short, simple bow. "I hope your accommodations are adequate. If you require anything, do not hesitate to summon me. My own quarters are one door to the left, as you leave. Perhaps in the morning, we can unravel some of this mess, and take stock of what has happened."
The dark Khatta nods to the faceless one, concealing a look of confection. "Thank you for your help; I hope I may be of assistance while I'm here, and that you may be able to inform me as to my, er, current situation."
Sizion turns on his heel, and limps to the door. He pauses in the jamb, and says, "May you have a pleasant death." Oddly enough, it's toned as a genuine well-wishing. The Faceless Man adds nothing to it, and closes the door quietly behind him.
Shikouju just stares at the door, what did he mean by that? The Khatta gives a rare shudder of nervousness now that he is alone, and decides to put it out of mind for the time being. He heads over towards the bed and lies down, searching for a memory – any memory – as he drifts off to sleep.
