• Graded • III. [Foster's Landing] Legacy

[Kasoria]

Continued from here

19th Trial, Cylus, Arc 713
Foster's Landing, North Side
Just after midnight

"Stop panicking, or I'm going to hurt you some more."

It was difficult for Winslow to take that advice, when a muddy boot was forcing him to look at the severed head of his boss, oh, maybe two feet away. The last, stunned expression of Red Hand Reg was etched into those still muscles, unnatural and chilling now there was no movement to them, nor would be again. Blood oozed out of parted lips. Eyes were rolling upward, very slowly, but for now, still staring. Staring at his underling as if asking why, why he hadn't saved him?

Winslow didn't waste time feeling guilty. Fuck him. Pompous prick. Instead he was more concerned about-

"You're going to live. You're going to be a messenger."

Winslow would have pissed himself with relief but... no, no, the time for that had passed. Least of his problems, really, considering he was finding it hard to breath with a set of broken ribs, and his nose was broken and he was breathing in more blood than air. Both of which meant he felt like he was drowning on dry land, and couldn't move, or fight back.

Not that he was stupid enough to try. He was surrounded by dead bodies and the man who'd made them such was half-standing on his head. Instead he lay there, panting shallowly, staring at that fucking head, cold mud under his palms and a prayer running through his head. To whom was hardly relevant: he'd take help from anyone, at that point.

"I know what Reg and you did. I know you made a deal with my master. He gave you dates, and inventories, and guards. He expected the share you agreed on, and instead you raided the caravan and kept it all. That was-"

"P-Please, that was-"

Kasoria stomped on the back of his hand. Hard. Yet another bone broke in Winslow's body and before he could shout the boot was back on his head and pushing his face into the dirt. The scream became a bloody, bubbling froth in the mud and Kasoria's lips curled in disgust. Tears, now. Weeping. Crying. Too pitiful even to beg. What a sham, what a walking embarrassment he had to let loose and trust to spread his master's word.

"I didn't ask for your opinion. I know everything." He knelt down, worthless scum groaning as more pressure was put on his skull. Soon his words were almost a whisper. "You will take the word, boy. You will tell all the raiders, and reavers, and bandits, and renegades, all those who prey on the road from here to Etzos, that if you betray Bangun Vorund then this-"

His face was jerked closer. He could smell the blood in Reggie's mouth. He could see his own dripping face in those dead eyes.

"-is what awaits them. In a trial, or a season, or an arc, it doesn't matter. It will come for them. You will tell this story, all around where scum gathers in this town. Bangun Vorund is not to be cheated."

He was laying it on pretty fucking thick, but hell, if you had a severed head and a bunch of corpses to use when ramming home the point, why be subtle? Even if this fool chose to skip town and run across the ocean instead of spread the word, the corpses would tell a message just as pertinent. All those with the eyes for it would understand what had happened. Reggie and his miscreants were hardly the only bandit gang Vorund had used in the past; Kasoria was betting their allegiance, and betrayal, was known.

And so will be the punishment.

"Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes."

"Good."

Saying anything more would be to flog a dead horse already shredded to offal, so he didn't. He left Winslow on his stomach, urine soaking through his breeches, intent on doing fuck all until some guards finally got around to finding him and lifting him to his feet. For a trill Kasoria wondered if he might die. It was unlikely, but possible.

He didn't break his stride. Didn't even slow down. It was a chance worth taking. The message was important, but the carnage... that would be the legacy. The underworld had eyes and ears that straight folk could not ken. They would see this night, rumor and whisper and gossip would fill in the Who and Why. His master's will would be carried out, and the contract would be fulfilled.

Winslow blinked slowly, feeling that drunken grogginess take him again. The man was marching away from his, gladius sheathed, and in a flourish the smelly cloak came off. Blood and viscera caught the three moons' eyes, flashing crimson for a moment, and fuck, some of that was probably his. But before he could speak, or cough, or start to scream for him, the shadows swallowed the man, and all sign of his passing.

Well, some doggedly satirical part of him thought, as he glowered at the severed head next to him. Not quite all...

[Kasoria]

He slept on the wharf next to Slattery's barge, mixed in with the other transients and travelers prepared to spend a cold night in the open just to ensure a space on the boat headed back upriver. They filled up quickly, and the by the mid-morning the old grouch would cast off and not so much as glance backward. He swung by the Trout on the way back, passing Roy as he went up the stairs to collect his bag.

The man went from ruddy red to green to white in the time it took to traipse up the stairs. He was still on them when he went back down, staring at the floor and... praying, apparently.

Kasoria thought briefly about growling something about keeping his mouth shut, or remembering who he served, or what awaited him should he go blabbing. But that was hardly necessary. He'd seen what he could do, and by midday, Roy would have heard all about the mess he'd left behind. A man who could cut apart Red Hand Reg and his gang like meat hanging from a ceiling, wouldn't have an issue with some plump innkeeper.

He left him there and did not look back. The night was slowly easing into morning and not getting much warmer for the changing. Kasoria walked swiftly from the backdoor of the Happy Trout, then let his gait degrade into the scuttling shamble of the beggar he oft-pretended to be. His coat and boots and breeches were hardly the stinking disguise his cloak had been, but they sufficed. It was the bearing that mattered, he'd learned. Slumped and timid and shrunken.

People saw a man like that and felt powerful, superior, in control. Kasoria allowed them to. It made them easier to butcher.

There was a rank of still figures on the wharf. Some slumbered fitfully, wrapped in blankets or coats. Others were awake and staring, or talking, smoking, drinking. They watched him amble past them, nodding slavishly as he went like a good little vagabond, and ignored him moments later. Just another drifter. Kasoria found a space between a couple holding each other for warmth, and some piled crates of kipper. Smelly, yes, but it would add to his charade. He squatted down with his back to the boxes, his bag between his folded legs, and his head covered by his hat.

Just another bundle of rags waiting for the dawn... or as close to the dawn as Cylus gave a man.

"Up! Up, fer fuck's sake!"

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, it was all shuffling feet and packages and bags an produce being moved and loaded. He liked those night. No dreams, no memories, no visions plaguing him, making him question and contemplate. Just oblivion, sweet, featureless black that allowed his body to rest, until reality dragged him back to the fold. He looked up as a pair of steel-capped boots stopped in front of him, and found one of Slattery's minions glaring down at him.

"Youse wanna space onna' barge?"

"Yes, sir."

"Gedup an' movin', den!"

"Y-Yes, of course, forgive me..."

Slattery watched the little man whose face (well, beard and bag) he recognized from a couple of days before limp up the gangplank to his vessel. Fucking snake, that one. Told the world with his looks and manner that he was so helpless, so harmless, but he'd the eyes to know a killer when he was next to one for three damn trials. All that time on the way down the river, the little man had barely spoken ten words. That jolly sod Siggy had tried to strike up the solve conversation of the entire trip, and barely got a sentence out of him.

The bargeman's jaw torqued and twitched under a layer of stubble that no razor had ever managed to really tame. He didn't like it. Smuggled goods were one thing, even stolen ones. Drugs, well, that was dirtier but all just commerce of a different sort. But moving a killer around... that made him feel uneasy. A faint and ridiculous religious chill always followed him for trials after, even if Mister Vorund paid well, and in advance.

Eventually, he just consoled himself with a fatter purse and thought no more of it. But he'd been down the Hairy Duck when the kid crashed in, wild-eyed and jabbering about "some fuckin' havoc" down at the Donkey, on the north side. Slattery had listened with a stone face. He'd drunk his ale and muttered and grunted along with everyone else. He did all that, and all the while, he knew, he just knew.

Vorund was right, he thought darkly, watching his crew get everyone on-board and the line untied from the jetty. Fucker worked quickly.

"A'right, ya bastards... heave!"

Kasoria always thought they sounded like the giant apes from the jungles he'd heard about as a boy. Looked like them, too. Men made of nothing but sinew and muscle braced themselves against pole and did as they were ordered, grunting in a way more rhythmic than not. Every heave was in unison, every holler a chorus, giving them a pace and cadence and-

He felt the barge shift, then move... then start to float away. The men redeployed, movements as sure and seamless as any crew who'd been working the same ship for seasons or arcs. They lined the side and back of the barge, stuck their poles into the water and-

"Heave! Heave! Heave, you sods!"

It was a matter of momentum, Kasoria had heard. Once enough energy and muscle had been expended getting the boat moving upstream, it needed less to keep it moving. But less did not mean none at all: half the crew still had to keep up the pace, while the other half rested. Every break, positions were exchanged, and all the while, Slattery piloted the Esmeralda.

Cushy job, Kasoria thought, pulling out his book after finding a quiet spot. Then again, he does own the boat.

Dawn was not really dawn during Cylus, but the moonlight did seem to get stronger. Perhaps it was the suns trapped behind them, jostling to be freed and illuminate the world again. More likely it was just that there was no smear of clouds across the sky, like there'd been the first time he'd come down the river. Kasoria opened the book and realized with a pop of his eyebrows that he didn't need a candle. He could... yes, he could read just fine.

He found the page he'd been on what that fool... Sigmund, that was it, Sigmund decided to chat him up. As if a man deep in literature had any interest in fucking talking. None seemed so idiotic this time around. So he delved back into Leek and Onion Stew. He wondered if he could substitute some parsley or rosemary for-

"Say, what're you re-"

"Fuck off, mate."

"Oh, sorry."

Sometimes all you had to do was assert yourself. Kasoria let the man wander off, muttering words he cared not a jot for. Esmeralda slouched her way upriver to Etzos, a beacon, a blaze, an inferno he could already make out on the far horizon. Kasoria didn't look back. Why would he, after all? He had better things to see.

Hmm. Oregano. That might work...

[Zip]

Overview

I know you took some inspiration from the Raid movies where your FC came from, but I've watched the Equalizer fairly recently and Kas jumping back and forth between ultra violence/vicious threats before returning back to books and simple meals kinda resonates strongly with that. Good job, man. Had a blast reviewing your little string of, uh, reviews.

@Kas

Points

XP: 10/10

Loot/Injuries/Overstepping

Loot: N/A
Renown: Renown awarded in last grade

Knowledge

Intimidation: Don't Be Subtle When Savagery Suffices
Intimidation: Words of Warning
Intimidation: Leave a Survivor to Carry the Message
Rhetoric: Promising Vengeance for Vorund
Acting: Changing your Gait to Seem Harmless
Cooking: Leek and Onion Soup

Non-Skill Knowledge:
NPC Slattery: Bargeman and Smuggler
NPC Bangun Vorund: Not to be Crossed, Ever
NPC Bangun Vorund: Relationship with Foster's Landing Bandits

Please make sure your review request is marked as complete and put a review stamp on it!



Your review request is: here